All things must eventually come to an end. Eventually, the Green Pigeon has returned to the capitol of faerie empires, and disbursed its passengers; the High King has returned, along with his husband, whose stoic demeanor has for some days now been tinged with a pained sort of smugness, around the edges. Why, he isn't saying; neither is the High King. Every man-jack and woman-jill on the Pigeon know the answer, though, whether or not they pass it along.
     By now, Tiernan has been back long enough to unpack, to settle in - to feel every one of his years... and he is, though he's still a trifle pleased with himself. He's received reports, however - and with each report received, the trip recedes a little further into the past. By the time he's gone over three or four, he's fully in the present, turning his hand to the business that's in front of him. And it seems that at the moment, the business in front of him has to do with his middle son. He rises (gingerly) and shrugs out of his coat, tossing paperwork onto his desk as he goes for a stroll, in search of Balthazar.

     For a week or more, as time in the empire is kept, Balthazar had been in a constant state of Behind and constantly running. A band on the run, he fancied himself, slipping from realm to realm in between gigs and rehearsals, phone calls to a girl, thinking about the girl, and at some point trying to find time to eat and to sleep.
     On one hand, there was Balthazar Davies, lead vocalist and guitarist for Oxford Comma, thrusting himself out on stage, his energy no less thudding than the sound from the amps.
     On the other hand, there was Grand Duke Balthazar, middle son of the High King, the emperor, running from palace to piazza, from guildhall to ambassador quarters, constantly tardy and occasionally missed altogether.
     And the result?
     Too many 'oxford commas' lead to run-on sentences.
     At the end of the week -- only a day passing in the mortal realm -- he has been run on and run over. He has been counseled and even lectured. He has felt homesick for his passion, distracted by a girl, and felt the weight of a household's disappointment.
     Balthazar sits, out of sight (most purposefully) in a little used balcony. The apartments of Gwilym Gwyn Garu have been vacant for years. Close to the royal chambers of the King and to his Consort, it is in proximity the last place one might think to go if one were purposely trying not to be found. But sometimes the surest privacy is found underfoot.
     His red and gold guitar rests on his lap, his fingers moving over the frets and strings. Electrified acoustic sounds emanate without the need for electricity. It is one of Anierin's most beautiful creations. He is clothed not for this world but for the one he truly inhabits, wearing one of Iowerth's blazers (previously stolen from his grandfathered and altered), and charcoal grey trousers. Everything is modern, is London.
     On the small table beside him, a feathered quill is in motion, scripting out the beginnings of a song.

     The trouble with trying not to be found is when there is someone who has an entire army at his disposal. Mechanical and magical, of course; but there are few places Tiernan's mice, mosquitoes, crows, pigeons, rats, voles, cats, bats, and everything in between and external cannot go. A miniature giraffe lopes across the library floor, careful to stay in shadows; a tiny leopard prowls the savannas of the king's offices.
     You are spotted, king's son. Whether you wish to be, or no. The word is carried, from mouse's vibrating whisker's to fly's buzzing wings, until one way and another the message reaches the king's husband and lover, who bends to one knee in a hallway, ignoring the possible incredulous stares of guards as he lifts an enameled frog to let it croak to him its message. The frog is put down with a gesture of thanks, and the king's husband rises, with a quiet sigh, and turns...
     It is not the first time that he has been in the apartments of Gwilym Gwyn Garu, though he has been in them only rarely. Tiernan taps lightly on the door, but does not delay for an answer; the door is opened, and he enters, calmly and without haste but without delay, either. "Balthazar." He speaks quietly, as is his usual wont, and he looks for you with tired eyes. I am getting old. "Balthazar," he repeats, "are you in here?"

     The music stops and Balthazar sits up. The reverie of composition falls away and he rises. "On the balcony," he calls out. "I heard you were back," he offers as a start. He can imagine that Gruffydd's report was ...detailed. His brother and emperor-to-be never misses a beat. What a great conductor he would have been.
     Setting the guitar in its stand, he waves at the feather to take a rest. It does, upon the first dotted measures of a song. Balthazar turns and waits for you to join him.
     His expression is open and even. If he is troubled or wearied by the events of the past week, it does not show on his face. Instead, there is affection and curiosity. The shirt beneath the jacket is from the best of Bond Street, and the tie -- grey, silver and red, is loosened, its top knot tucked and relaxed some time ago. He slides his hands into his pockets.
     "How was your trip?"

     Blue eyes as deep and endless as the Aegean take you in - all of you, up, down and over. He joins you out on the balcony, and he smiles at you, features creased with affection. No matter how concerned he might be, no matter what is on his mind, there is still endless, boundless love for you, for his family. But he does not insult your intelligence (or his own) by pretending there is nothing to discuss.
     "The trip went well," Tiernan answers you, as quietly as he usually would. He moves to lean against the balcony, still ginger in motion, propping a forearm against the marble. "I think that your father is doing better for having had the time off. It is going to lead to some changes."
     He looks to you, watching you as he speaks, observing you with placid calm; the tiredness is showing, though. He has not gotten much sleep, on his vacation, and it has made returning more difficult. The weight of the kingdom is resting heavily and uneasily upon him, though he balances it with his usual good grace. "I understand that you ran into some difficulties, while we were gone."

     There is a small smile of sympathy for you. "You look like you need a vacation from your vacation," he notes. "You were very much missed. I guess you've heard that from Gruffydd, and Seneschal Witrin." Balthazar exhales as he leans back against the marble wall of the balcony. "My attendance was ...not as it should have been on some occasions. I missed three meetings. I was tardy to a handful of others. I'm not proud of it," he says quietly. It is soft contrition. He did try. "I know that I disappointed Gruffydd, and by extension you, father, and Ani -- and by further extension the entire empire." He glances out over the oceanscape. "I was running as fast as I could run." Balthazar smiles to you. "It's not as easy as you and father... and Gruffydd," he adds, "...make it look."
     He is disappointed -- in himself -- and he is harried... and he is distracted. No matter how smooth the reflection.

     "Gruffydd makes everything look easy," Tiernan answers quietly, with a hint of a smile. He settles himself in further, with no comment made on his own state. He is not here for that. He is here for you. "It is part of his charm, and part of why when he does fail, it is so difficult for him to overcome it. We don't expect you to be exactly alike; nor do we want that, Balthazar."
     He says what you need to hear, making himself at home in his corner of the balcony. It does occur to him - what a horrible time this would be for the king's brother to show up - but this is, thankfully, not one of those times when it is likely. It has nothing to do with Gwilym Gwyn Garu, and for all his talents, the King of Shadows is self-centered enough not to just pop up because someone is on the balcony of his room. Instead, he looks you again up and down, patience in his expression, as it so often is.
     "I know your schedule was busy, but it should have been manageable," Tiernan remarks, still without censure in his voice and expression. "So something else much have come up. Do you want to talk about it?"

     Your sons have inherited a double-helping of drive and even perfectionism. They demand much of themselves -- even more than you and Iowerth demand of them -- and that they have from their father and from you. Any amount of your disapproval stings. Balthazar exhales again and drags his hand through his bronze hair.
     "A lot is happening for me in London, papa," he says to you, looking at you squarely. "My band is on the cusp of a record deal. We have been recording, rehearsing, performing. I have been marketing and getting us into pretty large venues. It takes a lot of time, it takes a lot of nurturing. Between that, and then this, which takes an unbelievable amount of focus, I have just been pulled in two very different directions by two very insistent destinies," he smiles a little at that. He knows it is no excuse.
     "And because my eyes could fill ten plates more than my stomach can hold," wonder where I get that, "I've met someone recently. There, in London. And I... guess I have just been a little more distracted than usual. Or... focused just so intensely elsewhere. I know you needed me. I know Gruffydd needed and needs me. And Ani. And everyone else. I get that. I will... have to learn how to juggle, I guess. I'll start with knives -- it seems easier."

     He listens to you without haste, and without real concern; the minute you said London, it fell into place. Tiernan does not smile, but some of the gravity lifts; the air lightens, for him, at least. "It is something that we should have discussed," he tells you gently, "before now. But we are discussing it now."
     He dismisses your talk of juggling knives with a look, and a certain tolerance, then shakes his head. "Sit," Tiernan invites you, "and let's have some food and drink brought in. We have quite a lot to discuss, I think. This isn't going to be a short conversation."

     There is a part of him that is relieved to be talking about it. There is a part of him that truly dreads it. What if I will be forbidden to return to London? But he remains relaxed through it all, not jumping before there is really cause.
     Balthazar takes a seat, his guitar next to him like a co-conspirator. Suddenly, you are surrounded by an amazing tea service, with crystallized ginger scones, orange essence teas, candied apricots and clotted cream and honey. There is also a little salmon to go with and cream cheese.
     He takes a cup of the orange tea and one of the candied apricots. He looks at the orange color of it, feels the granulated sugar melting slightly at his touch. "I probably should have mentioned something last year," he admits. "I didn't want to risk it at the time. Music is very important to me, papa."

     "It runs in your family." There is something curiously resigned to Tiernan's voice. "You are not the first to feel that pull."
     You know him well enough to know that whatever the outcome, he is unlikely to simply forbid and walk out. Indeed, he does not even mention it, but there is something sad in his gaze as he looks at you; something of regret as well, as he helps himself to a scone and a cup of tea. "I take it," Tiernan says finally, "that you do not wish to take up your post."

     "I don't think I can do both. I think I pretty well displayed my inability this week." Balthazar sips at the tea, the candied apricot now floating upon the surface of it, slowly, steadily sweetening it. "I wish I had the focus to do both. To fulfill the duty I was born to serve and the talent I was given. They aren't aligning at the moment." He never can say an outright 'No' to you.
     He looks at you. He recognizes the sadness. And there is a cloud of guilt that descends, a low hanging fog that hovers around the downward turn of his mouth. "I could not turn my back on my family and would not, papa. I ... would just like a bit more time. To see how things go in London. It wouldn't be forever. And if I weren't the brother of the future emperor, perhaps I could balance both. I just ... do not know how to give Gruffydd and the kingdom the service they deserve while nurturing the thing I love. I could never rule anything and be perfectly content. I wish my brother many sons and daughters," he smiles a bit at that.
     But it doesn't last long. Balthazar exhales, looking into his cup of tea. "I know you have invested a lot of time and care in me, in my education, so that I could serve Gruffydd even as you have served father. And I am sorry for disappointing you."

     "It is possible to do both, actually." Tiernan answers quietly, "and you are not the first to try. No, you cannot do both equally well. With all things in life, when your focus is centered in one place, the other places suffer; however, we have all of us done both. Since you've been spending time in London, I imagine that you have been learning about that world."
     He sips his tea, giving you time to digest that opening rejoinder; he is patient, your papa. Far more than some might think. But he is also determined, to teach, to show, to reveal. And if it means revealing things to you that previously have been held secret... well, there is always a time and a place, isn't there?
     "Tell me," Tiernan remarks conversationally, "have you heard of a company called the Crescent Foundation?"

     He narrows his eyes in thought, lifting his cup for a sip. "It sounds familiar. I may have seen an advert..." Balthazar is curious, his fog is lifting. He thought he was alone, or that it was all on him somehow. As young people are wont to do.
     "Do you think I could manage touring and performing and manage a workable schedule here? Time passes so slowly there, or so swiftly here. I'm not sure which it is, actually." He reaches for a scone, sitting back to listen to what you have to say.
     Your advice has always been respected.

     Your papa reaches into a pocket and pulls out something which looks - eerily familiar, perhaps. It is disconcerting, because it is in no way, shape or form even remotely shaped like an animal. It could be a Blackberry, or at the very least, a Blackberry knock-off, and when he presses a key, it lights up. He taps a couple of buttons, and text begins streaming along the screen - faster than the eye can read. He hits another button, and it freezes, and he uses the track wheel to go through it more slowly. "A new order of waste-water recyclers has been placed by Taipan," Tiernan comments, "and it looks as if our bid for handling IBM's toxic material refinement and recycling has been accepted."
     He looks at you tranquilly, setting the device down. It is his own design - you know him well enough to guess that, even if that it works across worlds were not clue enough. "If it is what you truly wish to do, there are ways by which it can be done," Tiernan tells you with his habitual quiet calm. He takes a sip of his tea again. "However, there are some rules which will need to be gone over, some of which are not open to negotiation."

     "Do you have another one of those? Mine doesn't work here. I was thinking of asking Ani to give it a try." Give it a try? Anierin can do most anything it seems. He is your son. Too. Balthazar leans in to get a better, closer look at it.
     As you mention proscriptions, he glances up to you, cinnamon brown eyes peering beneath red-bronze hair. "It is what I wish to do," he quietly confirms. You are offering him everything that he wants. A way to have his cake and eat it too..
     "What would it entail?"

     The scrolling messages are from a personal assistant - located in Frankfurt. Wait, no - in Venice. Wait, no - in New York. It appears to be multiple people sending messages to the phone, each stating in the header a first name, last initial, and location. All of them are addressed to 'Terry'. Most of them either are reporting good news, bad news, or awaiting orders, or some combination thereof. "I could do that," Tiernan agrees. "Though you would need to make sure to keep it locked to the appropriate realm. Attempts to make it automatically detect when you've come back to this realm tend to react poorly, so far."
     He hands it over to you to look at, and calmly picks up a scone. "You already know to be careful with your powers while you're over there. I don't think I need to beat a dead horse; at least, I hope I don't. We will ... reduce your role, and I will discuss with Gruffydd and with your father the prospect of how to fill that gap. However, you will still have responsibilities here, and I will not be tolerant of them being missed for less than life and death situations. The fact that they will be significantly lessened means that you will have time to plan for your absences, and find ways around scheduling conflicts and dilemmas of that sort." Blue eyes look at you with the weight of steel. You are being given what you want, but there is still a price. Such is the cost of adulthood, Balthazar.
     The scone is eaten gradually; he is in no particular hurry. "You say you have met someone. Is it serious?"

     He thumbs through it with the expert quickness of a teenager with any new technology. "It would be better than what I have right now, which is jumping across to check the time and jumping back. And so on. It wasn't very efficient. This is marvelous," he notes, handing it back to you. He doesn't want to read your business. The point's well taken.
     As you explain, Balthazar nods. "I understand. I will.. work within whatever construct is agreed upon." With better tools, it will be easier. He knows you have just set the outer limits of his territory. He will work within it. "I appreciate the tolerance of it at all, to be honest."
     He looks back at his tea, settling in the chair. When you ask about...whomever it is... he smiles. There is a roseate touch to the fair caramel of his complexion. He lacks your dimples, but he doesn't need them. "Not yet, no. But... I think it could be one day. I really like her. Her name is Gillian West. She's an American studying at Oxford -- for her masters in history. She is far smarter than I," he grins. "Her face just stopped me in my tracks." Balthazar looks at you. "She's just... on my mind."

     He listens quietly, letting you put it into words as he sips at his tea again. "It runs in the family," Tiernan again says, sounding resigned. "Your father was the same. Your brother as well. Sometimes it happens that way; and I think both he and I will be grateful and relieved if you should take after him rather than after any of your uncles."
     It is perhaps the only time you've heard him say anything even remotely negative about your father's brothers. It is, in a way, proof that you are growing up. "You will keep an eye on your situation with her," Tiernan tells you, "and on your own feelings for her. If you should decide that it is moving towards something serious, or something permanent, I want you to let me know - first, before others. The others will mean well, but they will overreact, and when that happens, it causes no end of trouble. Now, there are some more rules."

     His smile warms. "Falling in love at first sight? You should have warned me. I did not realize I had a genetic predisposition. I thought it was because Gruffydd was a workaholic. Falling in love at first sight is certainly efficient and expedient." He laughs to use such words, teasing his brother and himself at the same time. "I have no intention in following in Aeron and Bran's well-traveled footsteps. I haven't the energy or the desire." He drinks at the apricot-laced tea, grinning in a slat as he sips. "They do take amorality to new lows. No, papa, I fear that I have too much a conscience for that."
     Balthazar nods once, his half-grin still perched upon his lips. "I don't think I will need the birds-and-the-bees speech, but... I will tell you, of course. If things, you know, turn to the serious." His smile is all Iowerth, though his cadence more closely matches your own. "I won't tell Gruffydd, I won't tell father. God knows, I won't say anything to Aeron or Bran. You will be the first to know. I am in a very serious case of like with her. I will tell you that. She absolutely fascinates me." He is a bit smitten. Not swooning, but bitten by the bug nonetheless. You know it when you see it. "I have started constructing a mortal history. My father works in government. My mother is a philosophy professor." He smiles a bit. "It not not true. Obviously I'm kind of regretting that I didn't talk to you sooner. If I'd known about your business, I'd just have used that..."

     "Aeron and Bran," Tiernan says dryly, "are not the only ones. Though they are certainly perhaps the most unquiet." He sets his tea cup aside, turning off the 'Blackberry' and tucking it away again. "You will tell me, not because of anything to do with the birds and the bees, but because you are, and will remain, Grand Duke Balthazar, son of the High King, brother to the High King that will be. It is very convenient to believe that what happens in one world has no effect in the other; but the two are connected, and this is one of the rules you must remember. In your family, and in your bloodline, especially, the two are connected; and the shadows cast will fall on both worlds."
     He makes it plain, in plain, direct words, factual and firm without threat. It is what it is. He nods to what you say - you are smitten, he acknowledges, you have begun to work out a story. "We will give you more of a background than that," Tiernan tells you. "I'll have you listed as a member of the founder's family on the corporate information sites; it won't be much, but it will help. You will need to go to your grandparents for more help on this : which brings us to the next set of rules."

     "I think I should be writing this down," he notes seriously. At that, the quill comes back to attention and scribbles the rules as noted in his own mind. And though he does not need his hands to jot it all down, he still sets the cup aside, and he gives you his full attention.
     "I appreciate it. I haven't had to really create a set of mortal aliases before. It is easier, if there are stories in progress. Grandfather has given me his Range Rover," Balthazar notes. "A dog," he smiles, "...and access to a trust account he set up. He's been quite generous. I only asked to borrow the car until I could line up enough gigs to buy it outright." He wants to make his own way, but he's not above taking help where help is offered.
     The gentle chiding was recognized for what it was. He nods. "Of course, da. I will tell you if Gillian and I become serious in any way so... appropriate actions might be taken, politically."
     Balthazar sits forward, to listen to what else you shall proscribe, and the quill likewise pauses, tilting toward you and waiting to ... take note.

     "Your grandparents will be the best allies you can have - both of them," Tiernan tells you, his gaze distant. He is looking into the Past; his own past, long before you were ever born, or even thought of. "Do nothing to anger them if you can avoid it. You know, I think, why your grandfather should not be angered. I do not know if you understand how dangerous your grandmother is."
     He looks at you patiently, then bends to refill his cup. "I have every expectation that should she die and ascend, she will become the newest trickster spirit or goddess to illuminate the skies. Though I don't know of any such which are female, chaos seems to attend her every step - reality itself seems to rearrange itself to her whims or her moods. She's generally benevolent, and she's an excellent ally, and harmless most of the time. But if you anger her, I don't know that there's anything Io or I can do except wait it out until she's calm. The surest way to upset her is to do anything to upset Davydd - so watch your step, and keep on her good side. And for the love of heaven itself, don't tell her about this girl of yours just yet."

     You can see it in his expression, half son of an angel that he is: Nainie? "I ... can't imagine intentionally angering her, da. She's only ever been supportive and loving. I doubt my being in a band in London would encourage her wrath. Or with grandfather. But ... I will continue to be careful. All grandfather has said is to mind the magic. Best to seem like everyone else." You know the speech.
     Balthazar looks to you with lifted eyebrows as his quill merrily takes note of all you say. "I wasn't planning on telling anyone about Gillian yet. For all I know, she could decide I'm an unwanted distraction to her studies. The last thing I need is for random magical creatures to start popping out and scaring her. I wasn't eve planning on telling you," he laughs. But you're the safest of the bunch, certainly, other than his other father, Iowerth. "So the rules are: don't piss off grandfather and nainie, don't tell anyone about Gillian, continue to work here as Grand Duke, in a reduced capacity, make certain to tell you if Gillian and I begin to see one another seriously, avoid Aeron and Bran..."

     "Do nothing to reveal yourself," Tiernan agrees. "And - I am only saying this because if I do not, your father will skin me - try not to get her pregnant, Balthazar." For all the half-humor in his words, the blue eyes are very serious. "Not only because of the cross-worlds thing. Your bloodline is a potent thing, with a life all its own. If she carries your child, you cannot simply stick it out, in that world, and hope that no magic will come of it. You will be setting yourself, her, and the child up for Hell down the road."
     It is as close to a lecture as he gets. It seems not even to occur to him that you would impregnate a girl and then disappear; no more than he would, himself. That is an alien sort of notion. "In the meantime," Tiernan begins to haul himself up from the chair, "I'd best meet with your father and brother and inform them of the change in plans. You have enough money to get by, over there?"

     He rises with you, his face going all sorts of scarlet. "I...will certainly avoid it with all I can. With however much is in my power, at any rate. And... should the unfortunate happen, I certainly shall not abandon them." No, it is sideways to his nature. Whatever he is, he is not as rash as Gruffydd and Gruffydd is hardly like...well... his uncles among others.
     Balthazar nods, "I do thus far, oes. We play nearly every night... larger clubs now. I'm making enough. Grandfather is letting me live above Black Jack Davy's, so I'm rent free at the moment. I have petrol for the Rover, but that's about it. I'm good for the now. I'll let you know. Ah, and I need one of those," he motions toward you, meaning your Blackberry. "That'll go a long way in helping me keep up."
     He is glad he told you, glad someone knows. And he is glad to still have your trust. Your son comes up to you, tall as he is, and gives you a hug. "Thank you for listening and for your patience. I'm sorry to have worried you."

     "I'll get you one - see me before you leave," Tiernan agrees, about the Blackberry. He hugs you, tightly, a hand to the back of your head. You are no longer a child. But you will always be his son; and it is hard for him to let go, harder than anything else that has been asked of him, in a life filled with hard decisions, hard tasks.
     You are released with a murmur as if in blessing, and he smiles at you, the same gentle, almost wistful smile you have been seeing all your life. "I am glad that it was nothing more severe," Tiernan murmurs. "Go - catch up on your work, yes?" He nods. "I'll take care of the rest. But no more slip-ups, Balthazar. We'll arrange it from here."

     "It's a long life, father. I'm sure I'll slip at least once," his mouth twists. "But I will try to keep it at a minimum, of course. My thanks and... yes...I am expected at an arts guild council. That meeting I actually want to attend. I hope to see you and father at dinner. I will spend a bit of time with Ani as well. I think he might be a bit peeved at me."
     Balthazar draws away, a bit of a chagrined look on his face. There's little worse than Ani's disapproval. It's as harsh as your own.

Posted by rowan at February 12, 2009 09:19 PM