March in Wales is much like February in Wales, which isn't all that different from December. It is grey. It is raining. There is a chill in the air yet. But the world is very green by day, which is somehow supposed to make up for it all. Being as it is night, and the green is completely lost on everyone, it's another murky, Welsh evening.
     Davydd sits in the grand hall, which once held one of the many thrones of Wales. Now, it's split between a grand dining room and an even grander living area. The only throne in Powis Castle now is a leather, overstuffed wingback chair and ottoman, within which the old king himself sits, reading. Near his left hand, there's a bottle of Penderyn and a glass two-fingers' full, a pack of cheap cigarettes from the East Indies or somesuch damn place, a Zippo, and a cell phone.
     The man himself is dressed in a light sweater -- it may be spring in other parts of the world, but a sweater is still needed in Powis -- black, of course, paired with grey wool trousers and a pair of high-priced Norwegian shoes. His red hair is copper bronze, deep and brassy at the same time, and cut short until the curls are tamed. It's not that far off from the color of the fire that's merrily eating the hawthorne wood in the grand hearth beside him.
     Davydd lowers the book -- Welsh poetry from the tenth century -- and glances to his watch.

     Iowerth Rhudd Draig enters without fanfare. He is dressed like any Welsh country gentleman, looking like he could be Davydd's slightly older brother. He wears a navy sweater, a nice rich blue, paired with a sky blue scarf and navy wool trousers. Hands in his pockets, Iowerth smiles. "Da... so ... when's dinner...?"

     Gwilym is the next to arrive. Unlike Iowerth, he isn't smiling. He is dressed in jeans and boots and fine silk shirt, a brown bomber jacket over that. Fingerless gloves are on his hands, and his hair falls over one eye. "Da. Io."
     He knows what's going to be coming. He isn't happy about it, but he is in his own way as along for the ride as any. "Glad you're earlier, brawd," he drawls. Tonight isn't going to be pretty.

     Davydd glances up again and then he drops his book to his lap. "Well there comes the king," he says softly, with love and with a tinge to his voice. My son is now older than I. How is that possible?
     Davydd is mid-rise when his other son enters, eternally young. Davydd beams. "What ho, the Holly King cometh. Duw's boots, it's good to see you both." He rises, leaving his book behind and he crosses the floor to give them a greeting hug. Each is hugged separately, a bear hug from an old Welsh mountain. "You look great, and you, with all the cheek," he clips to Gwilym. He puts a hand to the back of his second son's head, his smile warm and dear. "It's good to see you both. Please... please have a seat. Dinner'll be done and ready by the time the rest of them get here."
     There's a look that passes between the three of you. It's something of a mixture of humor and dread. "Where's Ani and Balto?"

     Iowerth pivots looking to his brother with a smile. Aren't I the one who's supposed to be distemperate? And then to Davydd: "Balthazar is bringing him along. They should be here any moment really." He takes a deep breath, looks between his brother and his father and then he sighs. "Gwilym and I could use a drink, da. To be honest..."

     Davydd snorts with sympathy. "There's Penderyn, but if you want something a bit more fancy feel free to grab whatever you like." From thin air he means. Of course.

     "If I don't get a drink, my head will explode," Gwilym agrees. His usual humor is largely in absence. He has a headache already. It is named Bran, and it is not here yet. "Aeron and Bran will be here. Aeron's probably here already and rooting about in mum's jewelry boxes. Bran is ... probably marshaling his forces."
     It is almost a joke. But it isn't, at the same time. For all his youth, he does not feel young. But he does hug his papa back, and then his twin. "Penderyn will suit me, da. As long as there's plenty of it. Look, before things start, I just want you both to know that I already tried to talk sense into him, and it didn't take. I wash my hands of it."
     That's such a promising start.

     Davydd and Iowerth wear different but complementary looks. Davydd peers at you both as he turns to fetch another two glasses. He'll do the honor for his two kingly sons. "What's the issue? I know we've a bit of housecleaning to take care of with Serena but..."
     Now what? is the look that he wears.

     Iowerth takes a seat in one of the other leather chairs, nodding a Thanks, da to Davydd as Davydd hands him his whiskey. "There seem to be some... issues between himself, Bran that is, and Balthazar. I thought those were largely addressed?" Iowerth notes to his brother. His mouth puckers in a world-weary smirk. "Am I going to need a flowchart to keep up with it?"

     Davydd hands Gwilym his drink -- a double. "So what's going on?"

     "Bran's being shortsighted. Again." Gwilym looks weary as hell. "New issues, old issues - same melody, slightly different words. He's not talking about kidnappings and seductions, thank duw." He takes a glass and collapses into one of the remaining chairs, looking embittered.
     "He thinks Balthazar needs to grow up and is wasting his potential, and that as a result he's not good enough for this girl he's courting. Wants to turn the girl into some agent of change or sommat. I tried talking to him." Gwilym takes a large swallow and closes his eyes. "Balthazar doesn't know yet. Bran wanted to beard the lion in his den. I made him take it to here instead. I'm sorry, da, I know I'm letting you and Io down, but he's being thicker than lead. I've hit my limit."

     "Son," Davydd says with a chuckle and a sigh, "...you're not letting anyone down. No one expects you to be able to constantly rein that in. He's a chip off this old block, and it takes one to know one. He's an impossible bastard..."

     Before Iowerth can even think to interject, the Impossible Bastard himself is suddenly there with his twin. In unison they say: "I suppose we should just let the chips fall where they may." In their duplicity, they are the very copies of Davydd. A wee bit taller, and younger looking by at least ten years.
     "Are we not even going to make it through dinner before we argue?" Aeron wonders with a right eyebrow lifting.
     Bran folds his arms across his chest, "I don't think so, brother mine," he says to his twin.

     Iowerth looks back and forth and catches himself spectating. Though he's high king, in this house, he's just the oldest brother. He shares a glance with Davydd. Are you going to run this meeting or shall I?

     Davydd holds up his hands: "Peace, lads. You," he points to Bran, "sit over there," he points to an empty leather chair between himself and the high king. "You," he points to Aeron, "...sit over there," he gestures to a leather chair on the other side of Gwilym. "We're bloody well going to be civilized. I understand there's some frustration so... for the moment, can it. We'll take it point by point if we have to..."

     I am torn...
     The thought is a secret between shadows, finding its way to Gwilym's ears alone. Aeron doesn't look at him as he thinks, speaks. He is sitting patiently, quietly, his expression blank and waiting and at his own father's command.

     I know. I'm sorry. The thought is sent back, as quietly as it was received. Gwilym slouches down in his seat, looking all of nineteen with the jacket rucked over his shoulders and his glass in his hand. He looks straight ahead and at no one at all. You have to feel solidarity with him. He's your twin, and otherwise he's on his own, in a sense, oes? I've gone to the wall for him before, Aeron. And he has some good points. But in other ways he is being shortsighted, and as closeminded as he accuses others of being.
     He gulps his drink and lowers his hand and he doesn't say anything out loud at all.

     I am here to listen. Not to judge. Your will is my command. I shall not go against you. But... I don't want him to be attacked... ganged up on. Aeron takes a seat and is as silent as Gwilym. He is placid-faced in the face of the family drama.

     Bran takes a seat as well, but far more dynamically. He can barely sit still. And he is already feeling as if the room is doing to come down against him. His eyes are glittering, his jaw is set, and his arms are folded against his chest.

     Iowerth glances to his brother Gwilym first, before looking to the other twins. "We're not here to pass judgment, Bran. We need to come to some agreement, some... compromise. We will hear you. I will hear you. But... let's remember we are all family..."

     Bran cuts a look to his older brother. "We haven't had a very good track record in that department..."

     Davydd puts his hand on Bran's shoulder. Relax, boyo, before you crush the chair. He then takes a seat on his own chair and glances to his watch.

     He pushes time to its furthest minute, but Balthazar finally arrives. Dressed in a white suit with a sky blue shirt, he comes in with Anierin trailing behind him. "Sorry, we had to wait until Ani finished his algebra exam." He glances around for the food. There is none. Is this a setup? Cinnamon brown eyes flick to Bran and Aeron, "Uncles," he salutes in voice only, looking to Gwilym, "Your majesty," and then to his father. "Da."

     Iowerth smiles a bit. "Have a seat, son. Hello, Ani," Iowerth smiles, loving, proud father that he is. "Dinner's not quite ready. Do you want to go play a while?"
     Anierin, dark-haired and fair where the others are red-haired and ruddy, looks from face to face to face. He gets the feeling, suddenly, that he doesn't really want to stay. He runs up to his father, giving him a hug, and then to his grandfather, to do the same. "Can I go to the library, papa?" he says to Davydd. "Do you still have the model ships?"

     "Oh aye," Davydd beams. "Go on then. We'll call you when the beef pies are done, boyo. And the doglets are in the bedroom. You can take them with if you like."

     That's all the boy needs really: the promise of adventure and dogs. Anierin runs out with a wave to his father.

     I know. I'm on his side as much as on any side. I know it's hard for him to believe. But he is my brother too. Gwilym goes to radio silence in his head, looking brooding and moody. As Balthazar arrives with Anierin, he nods, lifting his glass in response to the greeting.
     Good to keep Ani out of it, Gwilym tells his twin. I ... am sorry, Io.

     He is too young to understand. He will have a better night if he's off playing with dogs. I'd go with him, there's a smile at that, if I could.
     "Before we can have dinner, we need to talk, all of us." Iowerth looks to everyone in that, lastly his own father. "There's no need to develop indigestion."

     Balthazar looks to Gwilym, lastly to the twins. Something has happened. He takes a seat, and he forgoes the whiskey of the older generation, materializing rosewater liquor in a goblet as he sits back.

     As everyone is seated, Davydd stands and he takes a position, his position, in the center of the wheel they all make. He is the hub of it all, after all. "There seems to be an ongoing issue here," Davydd says, lordly but with the dragon's gruff. "Mainly, between the two of you," he gestures to Bran and Balthazar. "Serena seems to be the least of it. So...we're going to air it out. Air all of it out. And when it's out and talked on, then it's done. We come to this house as family and we leave this house as family. I won't have this bickering between lines. It's a distraction. And it undermines your High King there, who's graciously given me the floor, and his twin king's work, who's come seeking some resolution. So... what seems to be the problem, boys?"

     Gwilym holds his peace. It is what it is, he says with his eyes. There is tiredness there, and sadness, and a stoicism that mirrors Tiernan's, for a moment. But he doesn't move, he doesn't depart. He nods, and he drinks.

     "I'm not sure where to start," Bran rolls out.

     Balthazar peers at Bran, then at his father and grandfather. "I'm really not sure what this is all about..."

     "It's about Gillian West," Aeron starts. "Bran wants her. Balthazar has her," his hand lazily gestures back and forth. "You may begin, brother," he murrs toward Bran, his fingers folding against his stomach.

     Balthazar's eyes glint with cinnamon fire. He has to all but bit his tongue and draw blood to keep himself from speaking. All of the majesty in the room keeps him seated.

     "There are so few keys in this universe," Bran begins in measured tone. "Our mother is one such key. Gillian West is one such key. Slot her into the universe and turn and things are altered. I don't want to fuck her. I just want to guide and nurture those abilities. They are what we need to make our fates unfold. What the witch Isabella wants, she can provide. It's my opinion that her would be boyfriend over there doesn't really want her to grow that far, that fast. She's already ahead of him. She's smarter, braver, destined for greatness. He's too protective. He's going to smother her..."

     "And you don't see why I'd feel protective? Really?" Balthazar cuts in.

     Davydd holds up his hand, cutting off the argument. He looks between the two. "So why can't she be both? Hmm? You work with her to unlock the worlds, and you continue to date her. I really don't see the need for all this heartache..."

     "Because my own family doesn't trust me," Bran retorts. "And I can't have her distracted from her studies to go play feel-me-up in the Range Rover..."

     Gwilym looks at the ceiling. Duw, give me strength. "Whatever she is or is not," the Holly King says with finality, "she has the element of choice. Note I'm not stopping my would-be priest from dating if he wants to. Hell, I'd be delighted if he did. If it's her destiny, it'll happen anyway, oes? And making comment on what she's choosin' to do, with Balthazar or anyone else, isn't exactly going to help your case, Bran."
     He finishes his drink, color high. He is beginning to get angry. He stands, stalking to help himself to more Penderyn.

     "You do see that you are doing it to yourself," Iowerth notes quietly to Bran. "And I'm sorry, brother, for having made a part of this mess. But we need to figure out how to move forward as a unit. Because if you think I am going to tolerate a split family, you're sadly mistaken. You are saying your ...work... is more significant than Balthazar's own. On the surface, you being a veteran of battles, I can follow your logic. But you don't know what Balthazar's destiny is. You don't know how she fits ...or you fit... into it. It's a selfish request, demanding that he let her go to serve some purpose of your own. Can you not support your nephew's work in this world? If not, then how could you possibly ever expect him to support yours?"

     Davydd blinks a moment as both of his sons speak, his mouth tilting to the side a bit. Couldn't have said it better myself.

     "Your king has voiced his opinion, his concern, his preference here. What will it take to satisfy you, Bran?" Iowerth continues.

     Bran frowns. Now he's the one in the corner, again. "I'm the black fucking sheep of this family. Nothing I say matters. Nevermind..." His face goes purple red in his own agitation.

     Balthazar is so upset, he is beyond rational speech. His skin is pale with ire. His eyes are bright. "You think you can do better by her. You think you're smart enough..."

     "She's a brilliant, brave girl. And you've not the slightest idea what you're doing," Bran notes. "I want to work with her... you won't let me near her. You won't let her out of your sight long enough. Course, I could just let you keep on with that. You'll shake her off yourself soon enough."

     Davydd raises his hand, shutting up the whole room a moment. "This really isn't constructive. Bran, you've painted yourself in your own corner, son. You have a good heart and an apt mind, but you've my mouth and my rashness. I know you're doin' what you think is right but it's not all about you an' your sense of rightness. You're not the only one involved..."
     "And you, Balthazar. You can't protect her, son. You can't protect her from her fate, her destiny, her happiness. You hold on too tight, and Bran's right...you're going to lose her anyway. Are the kings in the room alright with my playing Solomon tonight? Will everyone here abide by my recommendation? Are we ready for peace?"

     "I will," Gwilym answers with finality. He is tired of trying to play peacemaker. He is the Holly King, after all. My way is a bloody way, as my father's was before me. This ... peace business ...
     He sits back down, shaking his head.

     Iowerth looks between Gwilym and his father. "The High King will recognize the judgement of his father, oes."

     Davydd turns to Balthazar. "Balto, you will need to allow your uncle to work with this young woman. Not because Bran is more deserving than you, but because if you feel for this girl, you must be open to the possibility that her story is greater than you anticipated. And you will have to try to trust your uncle to do what is best..."
     Pivoting to Bran, Davydd exhales. "Bran, you need to respect your nephew's position and his feelings. If he cares for the girl, you need to leave her be. Let her decide her own path. Guide her if you can, but respect your nephew. You're suppose to love one another. To support one another's work. All of your work, everything you do, affects your father's and your brother/uncle's work. You shoot yourselves in the feet if you turn against one another. I see no reason why you both can't work together. Don't fuck his girlfriend," Davydd points to Bran. "Don't get in his way," he points to Balthazar. "This should be fairly easy to do. Now... you're both driving your respective king crazy. I think you boys should stand and shake hands or hug. And remember who you are to one another."

     Aeron has remained quite and drawn. At the former high king's adjudication, he lifts an eyebrow. Interesting. Make them work together to force them to make amends.

     He really doesn't expect this to go well. In truth, he's half expecting it to be the fight of the century - if not now, then eventually. These two, work together? But Gwilym does not let his skepticism show in his eyes. "I would like to propose some cross-training as well, da. If you're open to the idea."

     Balthazar is less than pleased. But he has no say. Somehow, he's lost again. He is batting 0-for-2 against the Holly King. He does not move to take his uncle's hand. So far, it seems to him, he's the only one sacrificing anything. Let Bran fucking stand and walk over.

     Iowerth sighs a little in sympathy. But he doesn't cross his own father. Son... I know this is difficult. I truly do.

     Davydd looks to Gwilym as he waves for Bran to stand up. Bran first, and then Balthazar. He's going to make them shake on it. To clasp hands like men. "What do you have in mind?"

     Bran begins to rise. Balthazar remains seated a moment more...

     "Balthazar should walk the shadow roads with Bran," Gwilym says with an air of finality. "And Bran..."
     His gaze cuts to his younger brother. It is tempting to say he should scrub toilets with a matchbook. He is not thrilled with his raven right now. But he is, beyond all measure, fairer than he gets credit for. "Bran should spend an equal amount of time helping Balthazar. Roadie or sommat. Or public relations for Balthazar's band."
     He stands and puts down his glass, turning to stare at brother and nephew. "You two aren't going to get over your differences at arm's length, and the way you're gearing up, you're digging your heels in further and further. So you've got to get to know each other on the inside, where it counts and where it hurts, or this is going to keep recurring. And I can't afford it. Io can't afford it. The Work can't afford it. I want you," he looks at Balthazar, "to succeed in what you're doing. Think otherwise if you insist, but it's the truth. And," he looks at Bran, "you need to realize that his success is a part of my will as much as anything else. If the girl has a part in his destiny or yours - we'll see. But this is enough of this."
     He turns back to his father. "That's my request of you. How the details work out is less important to me than that it gets worked out. We all waste more time batting heads against the hardest thing we can find, which inevitably is one another's heads. The only way around is through, oes? So that's my proposal." He sits back down.

     Davydd grins with a lightning flash. "That's bloody brilliant, that. I think that's exactly what is needed. I will let you two sort it out together. That's what needs to happen here. Your Majesty," he says to the high king, "... do we have your agreement?"

     Iowerth nods to his father and to his brother, his expression easing somewhat. "Oes, the High King agrees. I think this is the most rational plan, and I thank you both, Holly Kings past and present, for your guidance and your solutions. Prince Balthazar," Iowerth intones, "you have heard what is expected of you. You know you have my love. I want you to know you have my faith as well that all will be done accordingly. Now... son," he softens, less formal, "... stand and greet your uncle and let's start being a family again. You have to come halfway, duke."

     Balthazar rises. He stares at Bran a moment and the offers his hand. There is still much work to be done here. But they do manage to shake hands.

     Davydd stands between them, a hand at the back of their respective necks. He gives them each a shake. "Do it once more with feeling. And then let's eat. I'm ruddy starvin'..."

     Bran looks to his nephew -- an appraising look as he shakes his hand. He takes the measure of the man...

     Balthazar is not overjoyed. He's not even mollified. But he is resigned. He shakes his uncle's hand and then starts to move away.

     "Tss," Davydd whispers, "..you're going to burn a hole in my fancy rugs with that temper. Go get some air. Fetch Ani," Davydd pats him on the shoulder. "Tell him it's time for supper."

     Balthazar nods and turns. He pauses a moment as he steps next to the Holly King. There is less resignation but more respectful acceptance then. No... no, he is not happy. Not by a long shot. But he understands that while he lost some... he did not lose all. Without saying a word more, Balthazar leaves the grand hall for the courtyard and libraries.

     Aeron sighs, the first sound heard from him in a while. "I will gladly assist, brother, with our nephew," he says to Gwilym. He sits forward then, smirking to his brother. "Tsk...employment. That's going to play havoc with your reputation."

     It's done, and thank god for that. Gwilym nods to Balthazar as his nephew takes his leave, and he drinks from his glass in a long, thirsty swallow. "So. What's for dinner?"

     "I think... whatever the bloody hell we want," Iowerth drawls, rising. He looks to Bran and Aeron a moment. "I appreciate your compromise. Know that we're all on the same side." He places a hand on Aeron's shoulder and then Bran's as he refills his glass.
     His last visit is to his brother. He remains standing beside his own twin, his hand on his brother's shoulder. Iowerth pats him gently before stepping away.

     "I had the kitchens turn out the best in Welsh cuisine. Rabbit, roast, potatoes, scones, buns, beef pies, cornish hen pies, you name it, if it had a pulse, boyos, we have it," Davydd smiles. No, lads, this wasn't easy. But .. be patient... I'm proud of you both. You did the level best you could. I think he ... Bran... just needed to hear it from me...
     "Alright," Davydd says, his hands coming together, "...let's head to the dining room, and fill our guts, lads."

     I want my gut full... comes an errant thought to the Holly King's ears. But not with the beef from his table. Aeron smirks as he stands. He punches his brother Bran on the way to the dining room, pausing only briefly to shake the High King's hand and to pat the arm of the Holly King.

     Bran half scowls, half grins at his twin, then turns to the two kings. He bows his head to Iowerth, his High King, and then he turns to Gwilym. His face softens with regret. I am sorry for being so stubborn, my liege. I beg your forgiveness.

     His gut twists at his twin's touch, and Iowerth gets a softened look. At least it's done. For now. He looks down and stands, reddening as his lover's words sink into his ears, and he looks straight ahead without responding to it just yet.
     "Cornish hen. Been too long since I've had myself one of those," Gwilym drawls. "I'm looking forward to it, I am." He cuts a glance at Bran. He is still tense - not angry, but not pleased. Show me in your work. And give your nephew the chance you want me to give you.
ran rises and nods, his mouth twisting. It is not a smile. It is not a frown. It is a mixture of emotions. He is doubtful and he is satisfied. It is a win-win for him, but he does not enjoy his king's displeasure. Bran exits behind his twin.

     "Boys," Davydd says to his sons, an arm going around Gwilym and Iowerth, "might I suggest the brandy... you both look like you could use a drink..."

     Iowerth looks to his father. "You've no idea..."

Posted by rowan at March 09, 2009 08:31 PM