It's a sad day, indeed, when the place that makes the most sense of any on earth (or between earths) is the high court of the High King of the Fairies. Pomp and Circumstance, and the thousand gestures, rituals and meetings that go with it, wait for no man, nor heartbreak. The demands upon Grand Duke Balthazar's schedules was outlined to him, in no small detail, by the very perfunctory seneschal that woke him. Or, rather, the one who entered his chambers to wake him and read him his dailies only to find the Duke awake -- as he has been -- looking as if he had not slept at all. Which, point of fact, he had not.
The morning meetings on chamber music broke midday for a performance, which let out and into a brief lunch -- during which he did not eat -- which spat him out into another gathering of sculptors, philosophers and finally diplomats and emissaries, all of whom wonder where and how the Duke's patronage will be spent -- but most importantly on what and for whom.
From place to place, meeting to meeting, Balthazar went as instructed, played as expected, talked when required, and shook the appropriate number of hands. But it was all passing before him as if it were all on a conveyer belt. Or maybe, he thought, he was the one on the conveyer belt, drifting past without real engagement. He was so anticipated, those who spent time with him so desired in the doing so, that few really noticed that his smiles were feigned and the performances were hollow.
His time was not his own again until the sun set. He watches it even now as it sinks in pinks behind the mountains of these and the nearby islands and submerges itself into the endless sea. For the first time in a very long while, he is not dressed for London. There are no jeans, no Oxford Comma suit, no Bensimon sneakers or Converse Stars. There is no tie. He wears a dark purple sweater that fits close to his form, the sleeves longer -- the sweater must belong to Gruffydd, or once did. The britches are a midnight blue, cotton, with pockets should he need to employ them. His feet for the moment are bare. The hair that is usually mussed in thick and multitudinous layers, is simply combed, his forelocks in his eyes in a new rendition of the Mop Tops of old.
Balthazar sits on the terrace between the family rooms, just outside his own apartments, within a veranda chair. His elbow on the arm of it, he rests his head on his hand and stares out at the sea.
He materializes from shadows, appearing behind you as calmly and as casually as if it were an every day occurrence. Which, for him, it is. Is he not Gwilym Gwyn Garu, king of thieves, protector of the shadow roads? Of course he is.
He is clad in black, shadow armor and cloak, gloves and sword. Loki could tell you of those gloves; he knows the feel of them, though he is more likely to deny it. Gwilym appears, and he waits a moment, and then he speaks. "You look like your dog just left you and ran away with your horse. I take it my timing's off, oes? But time is no man's friend, not even mine. Talk to me."
"No, considering everything, I'd say your timing is about perfect, uncle." He is universe-weary, the young Grand Duke. It is like all the stars and nebulae are ganging up on him to point and laugh. Balthazar is too weary to fight -- not sleeping and not eating will do that to a person. He merely rubs his eyes and then looks to you all in black.
"Let's just say that you don't have to really do this anymore. The point is pretty moot. Bran's already won. I'm surprised actually," he waxes with grim humor, "...that there wasn't some sort of parade."
He doesn't look at you directly for very long. Soon again his eyes are what's left of the departing sun. "The girl has decided to go a different way, very much not in my direction. So, whatever he wants, whatever you want, whatever the universe wants, just... go ahead and take it."
He listens to you, cocking up an eyebrow. "First off," Gwilym answers you bluntly, "believe it or not, I don't keep my finger on the pulse of your everyday life. I realize it might seem like it sometimes, but really, I don't. I tend to get busy." It isn't personally aimed, and there is no bite to his words. He watches you critically.
"I still do have to do this," Gwilym replies, "even if the reason for the need has changed in your eyes. This has never been about the girl - not to me. The girl has mattered to you, and to Bran - and you two are in opposition for more reasons than either of you are aware of, and you're going to need to come to realizations and to terms with that. That can wait. In the meantime, though, I am here to give you something you don't think you want, but you do."
"I am here to teach."
You're right. He thinks he doesn't want it. Point of fact, he knows he doesn't. But clearly what he wants doesn't matter to anyone at the moment, on any level or plane of reality. The point of many things has been altered in his mind. If there weren't people whose employment now depended upon him, he might very well just chuck the whole thing into space like a ball of cast away space junk.
"I really don't want to talk about the girl anymore," he notes quietly. "Or what Bran may or may not do. I don't have to care anymore." He is telling himself that. Point of fact, he does care. A lot. He was... is... in love and now he is heartbroken and despondent.
"Actually, it seems like I was having a perfectly good picnic in the middle of a city park, with a nice girl, and then all of the sudden it was fucking Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds. That's what it feels like, uncle. And the girl's chosen the birds over me. So at this point, I really just don't care."
Balthazar exhales mightily. "I want something that I don't think I want." Cinnamon eyes are dull when they look to you. "And what would that be? I can tell you what I do want. I want a fucking break. Just ... one thing to go my way. That's what I want. I want some indication that I matter in the slightest, because I'm really not feeling that from the universe at the moment."
"You want to learn," Gwilym answers you, ignoring the detritus and litter and wreckage of your life, "and to expand. You want to know what your path is, and the only way to learn that is by trying new things, seeing new places. I'm not here because of Bran or the girl, and I don't know what happened or why, and while I'm sympathetic to your pain, nephew, mostly it's just not what's on my mind. I am here because of you."
He lets the words sink in with a little shake of his head that parts strands of red-gold hair over his right eye, then straightens with an emerald glance. "Oes, I know you don't want me, I'm not the right shape, sex or identity, but let's ignore that for now, oes? Get your shoes on; we have places to go."
His mouth puckers a moment as you speak and he swallows something. He doesn't have a taste for anything at the moment. Some of his sense have simply left the building of his body.
And you are not going to let him off the hook. The universe's streak continues. It is now 4-to-0. It's hardly a fair fight. With a mighty exhale, Balthazar rises. He doesn't say anything; he doesn't look at you. He just goes inside the nearest set of windowed doors to the interior of his apartments.
"I will do my best," he says and sounds unconvinced. There is a But that follows that, which he figures you can fill in for yourself. No, he's not at his most receptive.
But then, if you were wanting to break the prince to put him back together again, now would be as good a time as any. And the breaking was even done for you. How convenient!
"What does one wear to the Shadow Realms?" Balthazar wonders. "That is, if that's where we're going. Will I need to run, should I take my sneakers?" He glances back to you as he steps into his Converse. It is the only nod to London at the moment.
"Wear something comfortable. Not too bright. We may need to run, oes," Gwilym grins, "for the weapons you are used to are less likely to work."
He is aware of your mood, your lack of receptivity. He is even sympathetic to it; but he is not letting you dwell. Under other circumstances, he might; under present circumstances? Not so much.
"If you like," Gwilym offers, as he holds out a hand to you, "I can provide you with armor. But I think you will find it less comfortable than is your ideal..."
"I'm not much of a fighter... with weapons. I can use a sword; it's just not a ...primary skill of mine. I am more into... pyrotechnics." He doesn't explain what he means. For all you know, it could be a joke that he's simply not good at expressing at the moment.
Balthazar stands there a moment wondering what might be useful. He really can't think very straight, but seconds pass to find him rearranged in black trousers, black Docs, and a black long-sleeved pullover. In the low light -- only a few lamps are lit -- his eyes gleam a little like an animal's, reflective amber.
"Will this do?" He comes to stand in front of you, shrugging. He is tall -- he will be as tall as Gruffydd in another year. And though he lacks Bran's and Aeron's brawn, he is no shrinking violet. He is fit and able. Even if he feels neither at the moment. He looks at your offered hand. "Are we to shake on it? I'm not entering into some irrevocable contract, am I?"
"No, I'm going to escort you to my Realm. And while I could just open a hole up under your feet, I thought it might be taken the wrong way and you'd prefer to accompany me by choice," Gwilym answers you patiently. "It will do, oes." He doesn't bother smiling; he steps back into shadows, his eyes gleaming in the half-light.
You are in no mood for charm, oes? Well. That's quite all right, boyo. We will instead begin to teach you of the Holly King and the Oak King, since your parents have left it off so long.
Aloud, though, all he says is, "I give you my word that I harbor no ill will, Balthazar ap Iowerth. What I do is done out of need, not malice. If you are tormented, then I will try to help you heal - but for now, it is time for lessons to begin."
He plants his hand in yours then, and steps across with you. He looks at you as you make your promise. "I trust you, uncle. And I will endeavor to listen," he says. And I will try to hear. You speak of healing and you can see it in his face and in his eyes -- he doesn't have your skills, or Bran's or Aeron's, in deception and subterfuge. He isn't even gifted with Gruffydd's blank slate, inherited from Zafirah. He feels and he shows it. He is sensitive, and every nerve in his body is firing with pain, with hurt, and with love unrequited. It is too soon to even consider what healing might be like. It sounds, right now, like a fantasy.
And he's a half-angel living in The Utter Fantastic...
Do we need to be sotto voce? he wonders. When his inner voice is used, it is... transcendentally splendid. It is florid with the touches of the Angelic. It is like having the softest hallelujah whispered in the ear.
And you can feel it, certainly, the fire in the pit of his stomach, that burns from his heart to the quintessence. He is wounded. But even so, at least he is trying to be in motion. Maybe Gillian West isn't the only brave soul in London...
"We do not. Not yet, anyway." Gwilym smiles at you, and he draws you with him; through shadow, into darkness. The storied palace is left behind, with its guards and its meetings and its seneschals and its many bells dinning you to meetings and appointments and to uniforms and to official splendors. Here there is a wind that howls in the distance. The shadows stretch in all directions, a vast and ringing emptiness.
"We are safe for the moment." He releases your hand and draws his sword all the same, blade as black as midnight as he begins to walk on the road. His countenance is different, here; he is alert, not tensed but neither is he relaxed. He seems older, now, though it is a trick of light and (of course) shadow. He bears the weight of his armor more noticeably, here. "The beasts of Chaos are not upon us. There are walkers upon the road, though. I can hear them."
It is a featureless plain, devoid of life. Mist moves in and out, and the eyes play tricks on one, conjuring shapes and phantasms out of the fog. But Gwilym moves easily in this nighttime landscape. It is his work, not his home - but he knows it very well, all the same. "Talk to me."
He stands in it, willing his wings to stay in place, folded within him until really needed. "Is this the area between Dreams and Fear?" he wonders quietly. It is just ... space. It is the Void. Uncreated space. The potential that exists between Order and Chaos. Between Good and Evil. He turns loose of your hand, and he folds his arms against his chest.
"I'm... not sure what you want me to say," he offers after a quiet moment. His shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. What is there to say? He follows you, his eyes looking around to the shapes in the void, the formless fogs that attempt to take on the forms of one's thoughts. One's fears. One's dreams.
"I ...just don't feel like I have a heart at the moment. And anything I say," his voice lowers, "...will sound self-pitying and potentially pathetic. It's how I feel. Self-pitying and hurt and pathetic and lost. If your work weren't connected, if Loki weren't involved, I'd just... quit the band altogether. I'm not really in the mood for it at the moment. Everything tastes bad. Everything sounds off-key." Balthazar turns to look at you. Shall I go on? Because I can continue. I can rant for hours.
"So," he exhales (it's a sigh, call it what it is), and he gestures to the blankness around you both, "...what does this have to do with Oak and Holly? And what does that have to do with me?"
"You say what you need to say, what you want to say," Gwilym answers you, continuing to walk along the road. "This space is many places and many things. It is the realm of the Lost, the Forgotten, the Possible. Fear can drive people here, oes, and loneliness; despair, insanity, sadness. It is where people go who are unseen and ignored. Some die here. Others can make their return. Your father came close to ending up here, but the way here was barred to him."
He waves his sword; a slash against fog, a brief flash as the fog is illuminated, indicating the emptiness within it. "What it has to do with Oak and Holly is only everything. I am the Holly King, as my father was before me, oes? The triple king," Gwilym explains, "and a heavy burden for any man. I inherited Holly; your da, my twin, inherited Oak. Bran and Aeron follow Holly, and should I be idiot enough to get myself killed, they will be the Holly King after me." He grins. "I don't intend to be idiot enough, don't worry."
The sword is kept out, but he talks to you as he moves, watching his surroundings. "Simply put, your energy's Oak, Balthazar. And where your da and I pull together, it is because we were joined together in the womb. We have fought from time to time, and our fights hurt us desperately, but it was never for long. But the energy ... Holly and Oak ... they are joined, and they are apart. D'you understand? I won't blame you if you don't. It's not straightforward like calculus."
"I was really never good at math," he notes quietly as he follows you. He watches where he walks, where you walk. "What makes me oak-like? I don't feel very strong, though I am impenetrable when upset." That was almost, but not quite, a joke. His arms are still folded against his chest, protective of himself, shielding.
"So... are you saying that Bran ... and Aeron...and I are thrown together, but our energies are polar opposites, and so it is difficult to ...one...understand the other and... two... like the other? Because I will admit to both quite readily." He neither understands nor likes Bran.
Balthazar looks to the Nothing in front of his feet as he walks beside you. "I would suppose that would explain the almost primal annoyance he causes me," he chews the air at that. "I wish he were a fool... or stupid... it would make that easier on me. It is hard to hate a fool."
He is frowning and his pain -- and his anger -- are at the surface of his skin and his figure. "How did my father come close to being lost here?" He wonders this skeptically, though he doesn't doubt the veracity of your words. Balthazar simply cannot imagine his father being... anything other than how or what he is right now. "Is this like the Christmas Carol? Is this to show me the mistakes I am making so that I can avoid my current future in darkness?"
"It is part of it. It is not the whole; life is not that simple. And no, boyo, I'm afraid I'm no specter." Gwilym laughs at that. "I don't know the future, I only sense the shape of things and work from what I know, the same as you or anyone else. I have certain advantages, oes, but..."
He lets is slide, instead taking your questions and your comments one at a time. "Bran is neither stupid or a fool," he agrees, "and if he were either, he'd be of much less use to me than he is. He has his flaws and his wounds, the same as anyone else. Your mutual antipathy is not rooted in his Holly energy, nor in your Oak energy; I'd be lyin' if I said it were, and it'd be a cop-out if I let you think it is. The antipathy is in getting off to a bad start and going straight to a worse 'un, and the energies clashing exacerbates the whole damned shooting match."
The air changes, becoming thicker, and Gwilym stops speaking, looking alert as he sniffs the air. He shrugs, relaxing again, though he speaks in a lower voice. "Might be a Lost around here somewhere. We get them sometimes; once in a while, right at my very doorstep, though it's rare they make their way as far as that. Bran has his damage, nephew, and it explains why he does what he does. That's worth noting, but it doesn't make what he does more excusable - just gives you the key to understanding. And understanding is an important thing; in my role, in your da's role, in any role you are likely to take up as well."
The sword is held more carefully and less casually now, just in case. "Your father came very close to falling into despair. Love alone does not guard against despair, Balthazar. Even love returned does not always run smoothly. There were times when he was very much alone, and the sheer weight and force of his despair could have pitched him here. I would not let that happen." Gwilym says it with the force of a vow, the weight of a prophecy, his expression half-hidden in shadow and fog. He is not looking at you at all, right now; his gaze is alert, scanning his surroundings. "We all of us - every living person - spend moments in darkness. That doesn't mean you'll end up here, duw be thanked! As for Oak..."
Gwilym stops, straightening and turning to look at you, serious for the moment. "Being Oak doesn't mean you can always be strong, any more than being Holly always means you can be resilient. But you are a child of sunlight and summer, as I am not and could never be. Don't think of it as a bad thing; it isn't. There's a price attached to each and every one of us that lives, and my way - the Holly King's way - is a bloody and resolute road, Balthazar. It's a job that's got to be done, just as Oak's such. But if you are Oak, and I do believe you are, then rejoice in it. But try not to resent Bran too much. Try to understand him if you can. Not all at once, and this isn't about Bran, so let's stop talking about him and bringing him up, oes?"
The heaviness dispels, and he chuckles, shaking his head and turning to peer into the gloaming again. "Do you know why I say you should stay in your band, why your music could be important?"
There is resentment, anger, frustration, regret. "No... he's not a fool," he concedes quietly, easily. It's the truth. "I just... hate that he was right. As sore a loser as he is, he's a worse winner." Balthazar's face is shadowed a bit as he turns and looks around you both at the thickening fog. "I can't imagine being ...anymore lost and despairing than I am already. I'm pretty sure I don't ever want to know how desperate one must be to end up lost here. And if it hurts any worse than what I already feel? I would rather jump barefoot on the sun."
His mouth twists as you discuss Bran and his foibles, his pressures, his own pain. He doesn't want to feel sympathy -- particularly now. I will try to understand him, uncle. When I can stand it. Right now, it is too hard. Too sharp.
"I'm not sure what being Oak even is to know whether to rejoice in it or not. I don't feel particularly anything, uncle," Balthazar notes. He walks without fear amid the thickening darkness. You are here. What cause has he to fear? "I neither feel sunny nor warm." He shrugs a shoulder. "I'm not sure what the Oak King does or should do, or ... if it is my calling...when I will feel it."
As you speak of music, Balthazar turns his head to look at you. "Not really, no. I can't see where it matters in the slightest, apart from enabling Loki to travel and spread the... well... do whatever it is that he does for you." And he's really not sure what that is. "It's just music. It's alright, I suppose. I'm not saving the world or anything. It's not a very serious pursuit." Certainly not one that interests those who have serious pursuits. "Do you know how many songs I wrote about her that I'm now going to have to sing for the next few years?" His eyes go glassy with a lifting of water. Balthazar blinks it away, letting it shudder through his frame as he looks at the Nothingness around him. "Seven in less than a month. I have to perform in front of two-thousand people in what will be London Thursday when I return. I haven't the slightest idea where that energy will come from, or the will, or the drive. The only thing keeping me in it at this point is obligation and embarrassment."
"Music calls to the lost." Gwilym is very serious as he looks at you. "You can't help the lost without understanding their loss, Balthazar. I am not going to insult you by saying that this is going to make you stronger. I have had my heart shattered a time or three, and I have shattered hearts a time or three. There are all the trite, tired old sayings, and I won't say they're wrong, but we don't need them right now."
He crosses to you, putting an arm around your shoulders. "Music lifts people out of darkness. You will go on stage and you will sing your songs, and you may find words to express your pain, not because the songs will be any good - they may be, but they may be utter crap. I don't know. You'll do so because by doing so, you offer a lifeline to people who think themselves alone in their pain. You know better, oes. Many do not."
He turns you, tugs you into a one-armed hug, sword still ready in his other hand. His forehead rests against yours. It isn't easy, no. But nothing ever worth doing, or having, is easy, Balthazar. And we all of us - all of us - spend time in the darkness. You are a bright and shining thing; I do not believe that your time here will be long. But it will hurt, and it will go on hurting, and it will only begin bit by bit to get better. That is the truth, oes. And it is not one of the more pleasant truths.
You are released, and Gwilym exhales, recognizing your emotion. He rubs your cheek with his palm, then pats your shoulder. "You will find strength in the most unexpected of places. Just don't be blind to the opportunities when they come knocking."
The hug was unexpected -- even after the arm was on his shoulder -- and so it takes a moment for his hands to uncross, for that extra cage around the bruised heart to open up. His touch is very light, nearly ephemeral. He does not believe he is bright or shining but he takes you at your word, and he accepts the comfort as it is given. It isn't easy to admit that one is hurting, even harder to admit that a hug might be helpful, now and then.
But it was needed -- and more, the recognition of where he is. No, he does not yet believe that this will not be a permanent feeling, that he will never love again having loved but once and lost. His face is red in his sudden emotion, a high scarlet half-hidden with the turning of his head as you release him.
"The first person who suggests that heartache makes good pop songs is going to get punched," he says with emotion on his voice and fire in his eyes. "Thank you, uncle," he says more softly. "For understanding. And.. I will try to be open," Balthazar says to your comments on finding strength. He is not really sure what that will be, will mean, what it would look like, or if he can truly be open when he feels closed.
He is not certain what or how to reply to the subject of music. Thinking about it causes his own pain to sharpen. The very thought of opening his mouth and having to recall the words, the notes, and then having to modulate, to be on key makes him a bit ill. He walks along with you, trying not to think about it.
"I'm having a hard time feeling joy about what I do, feeling excited by it. How do I fake it until I can? I wish I were a better actor, or a better liar. I can't seem to do either one. Do you... have any suggestions?"
He lets you walk, and he walks. "Take time here. Visit over there for a few hours, then come back. You have somewhere to run to. Most don't." Gwilym's eyes are sharp, scanning the mists continually. He stops suddenly, holding up a hand. "Lost."
He says the word, and plunges forward abruptly. Mist swallows him up. You are, it seems, suddenly alone, in the middle of a vast and roiling Nothing.
Lost?
If I wasn't before, I am now. How do I get back? Where am I going?
Balthazar sighs as his uncle disappears and he turns to look around to where he stands...
In the middle of Nothing...
At the center of Everything...
There is nothing but you. You are the only defined thing to be seen, anywhere on the horizon; fog forms shapes and figures, given definition only by your straying thoughts. The only sound is the howling of the forlorn wind...
Time is immeasurable. It ticks like seconds, but there is nothing to give time meaning, here. It is lonelier than anything on Earth - or so it seems...
"Right." Gwilym returns suddenly, as if he'd never been gone, except that his face is made of polished marble, it is set so in stone. "That's dealt with. You all right, then?" He is tensed. And he does not look at you, but to the side.
"I had a moment of panic, but then realized it was pointless," Balthazar notes quietly. "I ... how do I get out if you have to leave again? I ... have never navigated this Place In Between."
He was calm ... resigned... but upon your return, would just as soon have the information as not. Balthazar looks around. "When you left... I felt that I was... truly in the void. I thought: Is he going to leave me like Dante out here to navigate through hell and limbo alone? I thought... that might be the quiz to follow the lesson."
I'm really tired of being quizzed...
"It is... the middle of Nothing out here," Balthazar softly mentions as he looks to where you are looking. "And... strangely... the center of everything. I'm not sure whether I am fascinated or terrified or both, uncle."
"No. There was a Lost one I had to tend to. It had nothing to do with you." Gwilym's expression does not change or warm; he goes on looking past you, through you. "Sometimes, when they come here, it is already too late."
He shakes it off, as best he can, and he smiles at you with a pale return to his previous warmth. "To return is tricky, but easier for you than for most. Light a candle to banish darkness, oes? Have hope. That is all it takes, Balthazar. Unless someone is exerting their will to keep you here, that is all it ever takes. I'm hungry. Shall we go to my home for a snack?"
Light a candle? I can do that, but feel the warmth from the flame? That might take a bit more time. Balthazar nods to you, the Nothingness disconcerting after a while to the... uninitiated. "A change of scenery would be appreciated," he notes quietly.
Cinnamon eyes, flecked with gold, scan the darkness for the Lost. But he doesn't concentrate on the formless fog, lest it take a form. He turns his attention back to you and waits for you to lead the way.
A hand is waved, and fog, and space, and darkness fold in upon themselves, and on you and the Holly King. It collapses, tumbling, and a room is revealed that seems timeless and captured in time itself. A bed, unmade, the dark wood clawing at the floor. Bookcases and shelves, dripping with books and bottles and objets d'art. A table, laden with coins and rare gems, jewelry spilling to the floor itself. Goblets half-filled, cards tossed down, couches with their coverlets.
"It isn't much," Gwilym says with a slight grin, "but it's home, oes? Welcome to the Center of All Things."
He steps away from you, and with a pass of his hand, the uncovered part of the table is covered with food. Fruit and cheese, bread and wine, venison and spiced cakes. Everything which might delight the senses can be found somewhere in here. And the Holly King sheaths his sword with a sigh, stumping to a chair and settling into it.
Aeron, we have a guest, if you are here... if not, no need to race home. We lost another one...
A black bird suddenly flutters into space, landing a moment -- only just! -- on the table before bounding back up with a spice cake held in its talons. The raven is sleek, its dark feathers an inky black sheen. He is leaning on the bed with a spice cake in his hand in the next moment. "I saw you. I was on the other side of Chaos watching a wraith. Nephew..."
It is a cool but nevertheless polite salutation.
From the everything in Nothing to the Center of All Things...
Balthazar turns, pivoting to look from thing to thing in this chamber of riches and secrets. "The Center of All Things," he repeats, as if to burn that in his memory. Eyebrows lift at the sudden appearance of the raven. His heart leapt twice: in surprise and in the sharp pang of recent defeat.
But it is not Bran...
"Aeron," Balthazar nods. He turns to look at the food. He realizes he is starving and reaches over to take a bit of fruit and cheese. "Are we literally at the Center of All Things? I have never been to the center of the universe, though I have believed myself to be there once or twice."
"It is the Center of Nothing and Everything. It is Possibility - and all things come out of possibility. It is," Gwilym explains in simple words, "my home. Aeron chooses to live with me, though he could live wherever he liked, and for that, I owe him much. Even the Holly King is not immune to solitude."
He smiles, a thieving smile with a hint of emotion all the same. If only you knew. He leans forward to take up a cup, then settles back in his seat. "A suicide," Gwilym tells Aeron a bit gruffly. "There was nothing I could do. She came through too late."
Balthazar looks between you, his face reddening a touch. Mouth full of grape, he reaches over to take one of the glasses of wine that materialized out of the general and unending bounty of the universe that is at your command and he takes a seat.
His mind is buzzing full and empty all at once. Overwhelmed, as one must always be at the Center of All Things. "Possibility," Balthazar repeats quietly. It is a small thread of hope of positivity to grasp, but in repeating it he feels along the edges of it. Not yet, not quite believing, but he listens. He glances up at the mention of suicide, frowning a little.
No, you are not that lost, Balthazar. You should not feel so sorry for yourself.
Aeron glances to his nephew then to Gwilym with an upraised eyebrow. And what is the matter with him? Without asking, without the slightest hint of performance, Aeron rises and walks to the table. He fetches two glasses of wine and without prompting hands a glass to Gwilym.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Suicides are ...hard. Do you want me to return to patrol?" he quietly wonders. "I did not mean to interrupt."
I didn't ask the details, but it seems his girl isn't his girl. She's tossed him to the curb. He believes Bran responsible. I've set his mind to considering other options...
"It is all right," Gwilym tells Aeron. "It is empty now. I got to her too late, but before Chaos could smell her out. It will be a few hours before they get really active, now." Dangerous enough that he does not want an unschooled nephew along to get hurt. "We'll patrol together tomorrow, when they begin to play themselves out."
It is a bit like hunting wolves. Or sharks. He exhales, taking the glass that is brought to him with a half-smile for his brother, his lover. "Possibility is a wondrous thing. Painful sometimes, beautiful often, ugly on occasion. All of it you will find here. There are corners of this place which even I have not yet found. I have not needed them yet. Or Fate has not wanted me to." Gwilym grins. "Fate's a bitch."
Both eyebrows lift at the news, but that is his only show of surprise. You know what they say about Details. Hmm... an interesting development. I will let you know what I find out unless you wish to query him. Aeron sips at his wine and moves to a nearby chair. He doesn't roost on the arm of his king's chair in mixed company. He nods to his king on the patrol, then looks to his nephew as he gives his goblet a tilting turn. "The universe is larger even than you thought," Aeron offers to his nephew. "What do you think of that? Speaking of possibilities..."
Looking into his wine, Balthazar lifts his cup to take a sip. "I am surprised and not surprised. It's a little overwhelming. My brain is full, and empty, at the same time, Uncle Aeron."
Cinnamon rests on Gwilym as he speaks of Fate. "I always thought Fate and Destiny were rather neutral. Neither caring or uncaring." He pauses. "I always assumed it ... didn't really care so long as its ends were being met."
The food tastes like cardboard, but he continues to pluck at the grapes. Possibilities. That word again. He sips at the wine between eating grapes and small cubes of cheese. "It is an uncomfortable word at the moment. How does one continue to be open...and then... how do you recognize when a possibility comes your way?"
He does not wish to talk about it. I do not wish to force him. If he decides to reveal all, I'll let him, but I won't ask. To be honest? I love my family, but I am not all that interested. His heart is broken. He'll survive.
There is sympathy. There is compassion. There is also realism. Gwilym smiles as he takes a pull at his wine. "Everything that crosses your path is an opportunity. Every person, a door. Some do close, oes. Others open for the closing. I don't know what possibilities will be put in your path, nephew, but I do know that they will be there, and it is up to you to have the wit to recognize them." He glances to Aeron affectionately. "Occasionally, opportunities are lobbed at the backs of our heads like speedin' bricks. I've caught a few that way, too."
"I suppose you could call anything an opportunity. Even a malatov cocktail is an opportunity. I guess it depends on your point of view. And if you are an optimist, able to turn setbacks -- real or imagined -- into possibilities or opportunities for something new. I'm not quite there yet, uncle."
A broken heart. Is there anything more maudlin in Creation? Aeron glances to his lover-king-brother as his nephew is into his wine. The look is heated, humored, but brief. "You will simply have to learn to be quicker if you wish to dodge the bricks," Aeron notes, "...or learn to break bricks with your forehead. That's what Bran does. I prefer to step out of the way of shrapnel and make my own opportunities."
He smiles into his cup sipping from it as he glances again to his king.
One of the glances is caught and Balthazar looks to the cup in his hands. He gives what's left of the wine a slosh and stands. "I've probably taken up enough of your time, uncle," Balthazar notes quietly. "I... appreciate the lessons. I hope," the word of the day, "...to be able to incorporate it sooner rather than later. But... I think I'm probably tiresome, my mood that is."
"You're in pain," Gwilym answers calmly. "Pain doesn't get itself over with all at once. Isolating yourself doesn't prevent it from hurting, but there's no need to rush to throw yourself back into the fray." He rises to his feet with a stretch. "I'll take y' back home, certes. If there's anything you need, you'll let me know, oes? Aeron and I will get onto patrol sooner, that's all."
Or come back here for some quiet time before hurling ourselves back into the fray...
Balthazar nods once. Yes, in fact, he is. He sets the goblet aside upon the table, the wine already going to his head from the lack of food. "Sure," he notes quietly. He glances to Aeron who becomes a raven once more, hopping up to take his roost upon the Holly King's shoulder, and he gestures for Gwilym to lead the way.
Your wish is my want the raven hawks within his king's head.
Wish. Want. Hope. Balthazar stretches his own wings for a moment, the golden, fiery things flickering but not burning. Not a single fiber of carpet is scorched. He folds them back, the great wings disappearing into the black of his clothing. "Thank you, uncle," Balthazar murmurs. "I will ... call. When... should I meet with you next? I will need to make sure I enter you in my calendar..."
"Psssht. I don't bother with formal calendars and the like. I will show up when there is time."
He knows when there will be time. He is very good at bypassing royal security - and royal schedules, for that matter. Gwilym rises, rook upon his shoulder, and his one visible eye glints with sly humor as he smiles and claps a hand to your shoulder. "We will make time. Now... to home..."
His hand upon your shoulder is all he needs. He summons up the shadows to swallow you, and they spit you out in no time at all, in your rooms, upon the balcony once again. Of Holly King and raven alike there is no sign. But there is a word.
Possibilities abound, nephew. A sore heart should be especially looking for them.
Posted by rowan at March 14, 2009 12:08 PM
