And in the shimmering west, the lamps are lit for evening, dotting the ocean with fire. From the Philosopher's Island, home to this week's summit on music theory and education and the symposium on performance, a royal barge sets sail for the capitol island, the crowning jewel of the twelve-island chain...and home.
     Commanders in their royal garb row in concert. The coxswain stands at the stern, his voice a cadence, the ribbon of rhythm on which they move. He is their metronome. Sitting under the canopied stand, Grand Duke Balthazar looks out over the stretch of coastal bays, looking upward at the grand basilica that sits upon the limestone plateau. He stares at it in silence, carried forth in splendor, his gold and red robes of state pooled around his legs.
     In everything there is a song...
     It will seep in to his subconscious and its way to Reggie's bassline, or to Billy's arrangement, to the beat of a new drummer, or some look upon his face in the modulation of his own voice. For he on honeydew hath fed, and drunk the milk of Paradise...
     The barge makes landfall as the sun puts itself to rest in the depths of the horizon. Brilliant lamps light his way as he steps from the barge onto the docks. His mind crammed with music until it leaks from his ears, Balthazar leaves the water for the waiting city.
     He is clothed between worlds in a mixture of modern leather and ancient, roughened silks. The leathers are crimson, and the silk of the tunic is neither soft nor shiny; it is spun from raw silk, with a rougher texture, the colors mottled red and gold and violet. It is very Ottoman Empire and it suits him. Over that there are the robes of state, or in his case a leather jacket, crimson to match the pants. As he heads into the market from the docks, he tucks a small leather book -- his notes -- into the coat pocket.

     Hello, nephew.
     It is not spoken aloud, but it is spoken to be heard all the same. Sunset is his time, after all; you could not have chosen better if you were trying to get his attention. Gwilym Gwyn Garu appears between one breath and the next, red-gold hair falling over one eye. He is dressed simply - as he prefers - and not in the slightest in a way to draw attention to himself. The tunic is cotton, long-sleeved, and close-fitting enough that it could be mistaken for a long-sleeved jersey in uncertain light. The leggings are leather, and both are a soft charcoal, somewhere between black and grey. The boots are good old Doc Martens in oxblood red; and a coat hangs open, of some crumpled material, the same color as the boots. He smiles at you and closes his one visible eye, brilliant emerald, in a wink.
     No one takes particular note of him, as he is on the cusp between docks and market, where alleyways spin off to warehouses and thieves' dens alike. He could be a dock laborer or a merchant's bailer - or nobody at all, his energies held muted, shielding him from eyes other than your own.
     "Your timing's excellent. Just in time for a drink. I've a need to speak with you, your grace," the voice rolls out, like and unlike your father's in timber and accent. "If y' wouldn't mind stepping off your path for a moment."

     He quirked at the invisible presence -- reacting first to the voice. Uncle... It is both question and answer, even as his uncle, the Hollied One, is both the question and the answer. Balthazar smiles, it is warm, but it is openly curious. What could my uncle possibly need with me? Of course, majesty-uncle.
     The Grand Duke takes a tangent path, stepping toward the direction of his own uncle's voice. How many years since you saw Balthazar last? How your nephew has grown. Not a boy any longer, but seeming like his father reincarnated upon the turn of his nineteenth summer. His red hair is thick, in waves cut layered and jagged so it stands this way and that in artful disarray. His eyes -- a gift of Zafirah -- are cinnamon brown and they hold a resonance of warmth like the burning of incense.
     "What may I do for you, uncle?" Balthazar wonders, eyebrows lifted in askance and beautiful face smoothened over by curiosity.

     There is a hint of emotion in his eyes, and a quirk of a smile. You have grown so much. It is my own fault, oes? Staying away so long, even if... It trails off, and he waves a hand. The alley is clear, but there are crates, and he takes a seat on the edge of one before reaching through shadow for one of his bottles of wine - Italian, of course, the habit picked up some years ago when his lover was someone you just don't need to know about. Another pass and there's stemware, and he sets them up on the crate in order to pour.
     "It is good to see you. You'll forgive my being all maudlin, though I won't go to the point of making enough of an ass of myself to weep on your shoulder," Gwilym grins. "I'll save that for after you've gone, nephew. Duw. You have so much of your da in you. I wonder that he lets you out of his sight."
     The red wine sparkles, tumbles with a hint of the sun on the hills upon which the grapes were grown. He motions for you to take your pick of the glasses, smile becoming smoother, more meditative. "I didn't ask you to speak with me to whinge about the passing of time, tempting's it is. The fact is, my work's leading me to cross your path a bit, and you need to know about it." Gwilym cocks an eyebrow at you. "Not here, but in London. You ... just happened to be here when I sought you out. You have time to discuss it?"

     Balthazar pulls up a crate with a grin, "It is not his preference, uncle," he notes with humor, reaching for the glass on the right. "But I take the compliment, happily." He is sipping when you mention the crossing of paths, and his eyes lift to you, his eyebrows in motion again.
     "Ah... sure..." He sits back a little, his back resting against the alley's stone. "If it's about Black Jack's, I'm in the process of moving. It'll be clear again if you need it. Course, grandda is probably hoping I'd stay so he can give uncle Bran a reason to pay rent elsewhere." His lips twist a wry smile. "Anyway... you were saying..."
     And he takes another sip of the wine, his brown eyes intent upon you and your news.

     "Bah. I don't own the franchise to Davy's," Gwilym grins at you. He smirks a bit. "Let's not talk about Bran. He gives even me a headache, oes? I try to aim him out of the way where he'll cause less trouble. Sometimes, it even works. Reminds me, I should send him on a land survey," he adds, mostly to himself. Oes, a land survey... he can make sure nothing's popping up in the Broken Lands...
     He takes a sip of wine, mulling over what to say and how to say it. There isn't any really good way to bring it up. There's just ways which are worse than others. "I ... am not sure you know what it is I do, and odds are good that explaining would take more time than you really want to give right now, oes? It is complicated, but there is work for me in that world as well as here. I fought it, mind," he adds, grousing with a comical grimace, "for as long as I could before I gave in t' it. But that's life. Anyway - some of what I do relies on others, people with certain potential and talents."
     He sips his wine again, looking at you as he sets the glass aside, one boot up on the edge of the crate. "Without going on all day, I'll summarize. The primary person I've been working on's someone who's since I began crossed your path in a way which means that my work and your life have a point of intersection. I'd rather you find out about it from me, rather than discovering it later and thinking it was being hidden from you. With me so far?"

     He is still listening. Balthazar has inherited his father Tiernan's patient countenance while at the same time inheriting Iowerth's intense study. He attempts to give away nothing -- but you have years on him, and experiences he has not had, plus the benefit of intimate knowledge of a face that looks very much like that. You see by the spark in the cinnamon that he hits upon a name: Gillian And you can see the spark slowly become a flair.
     "So far," he intones quietly, in a timbre all too familiar. "I appreciate your coming to talk with me in person. I have a lot of people in my path, however, uncle. London is a big city, as you know," the Grand Duke smiles.
     "I will say that I have worked very hard, uncle, at staying out of your way. I have endeavored to. I will say that my first reaction is disappointment that I have failed... in a city so large...to avoid it."
     Surely not Gillian...
     "So... uncle..." he is respectful but is wanting to hear the name more than the reasoning or justification.

     "Oes, well. It's better to try and head off the fire if I can. That I've learned over the years - your da and I fought the most, when we fought at all, when we kept things from one another. I won't make you privy to all my secrets," Gwilym grins with a sparkle in his eyes which suggests and don't you just thank duw for that?, "but this much, I'll discuss readily, oes?"
     He swallows more wine, body language relaxed. He is beneath that alert; like a great cat, his relaxation is a cover for his observation of the mice. "I want you to understand it shouldn't affect your life that much. Doesn't mean you should - stop speaking to them, or ... avoid them, or in any way alter your life, your plans. Shouldn't affect you much at all, as a rule. But you shouldn't be surprised," he continues, "that our paths crossed. It's something in what we are, sommat - I don't know for sure which we got it from, mum or da... your grandparents, naturally ... but we draw to us the people most likely to be this way. Sometimes by happenstance." He shrugs. "Sometimes by fate, if you like. It is what it is, oes?"
     You receive that beautiful grin, the brilliance of that one visible eye undimmed. "In any case, I believe it will further my work there in ways that - well. I won't go on at too much length. As I said, probably you won't be interested."

     Balthazar looks to the wine. He tips the glass and then he takes a swallow. "I have to say, uncle," his voice is smooth music, rich upon the quiet tones, "...that I am not exactly certain that I want to be involved, even peripherally, in your work. No offense to you. I respect your power, and of course I love you, being my uncle. But your work tends to involve Aeron and Bran, and I have zero interest in sharing their fates or their choices, even if it is at your behest."
     He sets the empty glass aside. "And you still have not said who this person is, this project and this catalyst. Does our... intersection have a name?"

     "Aeron and Bran are rascals," Gwilym admits freely, "and I can't promise that there will never be any intersection. But I could not promise that even if there were not this current intersection, oes? As large as London is, fate tends to have stickiness to it, and we're all bound up in her web." He grins; the glass tips back, wine sloshing in it.
     "Oh, didn't I? Terribly rude of me." Gwilym waves the glass airily. "His name's Loki. Drummer by trade. I've a strong suspicion he's going to prove essential..."
     The glass is set down, and he smiles. But he watches you, and though his poise remains unequalled, he waits for your reaction much as a sniper does a target. He has no intention of being your target.

     "You do know that this is rather horribly inconvenient, uncle. He is involved in a very important business enterprise of mine. His schedule is packed. He will be touring. We may not even be in London for half the year. Surely, there are others, in a city of multi-millions, that you could choose. That is a bit close for comfort for me. Aeron and Bran may as well be in my own pockets. If they're not already," he rolls his eyes and ...
     ...There it is... the fire of the sea-dragon and the angel combined...
     "I want something of my own. What is it with this family that makes that so hard to understand?" It is not directed to you, personally, but you're here.
     A hand rakes through his hair -- his hair that not only seems to be like fire but takes on a flame's radiance. "I don't want to be in the middle, uncle. And I really can't have Loki, if he is to be involved in my enterprise, commandeered at a whim, no matter if the whim is yours or Aeron's or Bran's. We have a very intense schedule. And I cannot see that slacking any time soon..."

     "My work is not whimsical."
     The words are said quietly, but there is a wealth of meaning in it. For a moment, darkness rolls behind the emerald eye, and in its depths there is a forest visible. It is a deep forest; brambles and briers compete with pine forests. Gwilym rises to his feet, hopping lightly from the crates. "I'm sorry you're inconvenienced," his voice rolls dryly out over his tongue as he looks at you, "but that can't be helped. It's up to you whether you'll handle it with grace, or ... cut your own nose off to spite your face. I wouldn't, if I were you, though. Going around noseless doesn't help you or anybody else."
     Gwilym has a pair of gloves in his hand all of a sudden. He pulls them on with the care and grace of a thief, the energy and vigor of a general. "You have something of your own. Many things of your own, in fact. No one is going out of their way to take them from you; but this world and that are intertwined, nephew, and so are we. If y' need to get word to me, feel free to tag your da; he is one of the few people who can almost always find me, no matter what. I've informed you. Now I've work to get back to. Enjoy the wine," he tacks on. "It's free of charge."

     "He is not the only drummer in London, uncle," Balthazar reminds you, respectfully, but firmly. "He is good, but there are others. My nose... will be more disjointed with the murder of crows in his shadows -- and therefore in mine -- than it would be were I to simply find another. I am flexible, uncle."
     Which is to say -- he will not allow inconvenience. If it becomes inconvenient, if his aims are thwarted by Loki's destiny, then he will leave Loki to you and to Fate and move on.
     "I appreciate your honesty. How will I know if Loki is unable to make his commitments? Is it fair to expect some sort of notice if he is going to be unavailable? I have to make travel arrangements. If we are to be in America, and he must remain here, I will need time to call a replacement. You... do understand my point..."
     And you are leaving. "I am certain you will find me if you need to speak with me. You are the Holly King. I am a mere prince. I expect Aeron already knows where I am living. I am... apparently... not very difficult to find."
     He is upset, but respectful even so. He bows in the shade of the alley. "Thank you for the wine, uncle."

     "He shouldn't have trouble meeting his commitments." He looks at you, expression smoothly blank. Before, he spoke to you as a nephew; he let you see his emotions, some semblance of his true self. Now you are met with an impervious mask. "His work will still be his work. My plans ... are gradual ones. They stitch together the fabric of two worlds, to restore that which has been lost to mankind. Where you are ... makes no difference to me."
     He has been to America. He has been to many places. I am everywhere that there are shadows, where the creeping beasts of Chaos are on the move. He turns from you and moves into the shadows closest, his thoughts veiled from you as he steps into them and is swallowed up.
     Sometimes, it isn't about you, nephew, Gwilym tells you, his thoughts fading as footsteps. I will not contact you again without need, not directly. You've made your feelings clear, oes? No point in beating dead horses...

     I understand your point and your position, uncle. But where there are dead horses... there are crows...
     His issues are clear. Loud and clear. Wherever Aeron and Bran are, he wishes to be on the other side of the world.
     The universe is just not large enough.
     Balthazar waits until his uncle is out of sight and out of sound before turning back to his original path. He strides toward the summit of the plateau, through market, through residential streets, and finally up the road to the basilica itself.
     Unfolding from his back, flapping with annoyance and stirring a southern breeze are two enormous, golden wings. They drip with fire, dragging sparks along the ground as he walks.

Posted by rowan at February 25, 2009 07:39 AM