...I hold you in my hands
     A little animal
     ....And only some dumb idiot
     Would let you go...
     The doors to the ballroom, now music room, are opened to the gallery, and the windows from the gallery are opened to the gardens. The sound of a piano goes out; the scent of honeyed flowers blows in. It is the first day of summer and Summer is here...
     The sound of Keane's Sunshine filters through the room with a lazy sweetness, instrumental. At the keys, his golden hair in artful disarray, Balthazar looks at the keys, at his fingers, and then ahead to seemingly nothing. But where dazed-and-confused gazes were all he had just yesterday, there is the piercing clarity of the sun in those amber-colored eyes today.
     I hold you in cupped hands
     ....And shield you from a storm
     ...Where only some dumb idiot
     Would let you go...
     He is dressed in a crimson t-shirt, which is both tucked and untucked from the dark wash jeans he wears. The buckle of his belt gleams gold with sunlight, reflecting off the color of his short, thick hair. Balthazar closes his eyes for an instant, his mouth sliding in an easy smile.
     "But if I'm one thing
     Then that's the one thing
     I should know...
     Lost in the sun...
     Can anybody find their home?
     Come on, come on, come on...
     Can anybody find their home?"
     Gold eyes upon the keys, upon his fingers moving steadily. It is not a trance. It is artful Purpose. It is Intention, made both sweet and savory. Balthazar lifts his gaze as the song sings on its own, the baby grand piano taking the stage, front and center. He chuckles at something -- it is more smile than laugh. A realization.

     I am on the horns of a dilemma, and the horns are uncomfortably ones I put there myself...
     Gwilym exhales, glancing around to make sure that his ravens will not be eavesdropping. When the Holly King wants to talk to someone alone, he means it; he gestures, opening a path against shadows for himself to walk through.
     A moment later, he is coming in through the doors of the ballroom, dressed casually and slouching in his jeans and Doc Martens and his BJD tee. "Nephew. Not to intrude in on your inspiration, but ... got a minute?"
     The Holly King quirks up a red-gold eyebrow, and he gestures. The doors ease halfway shut, as if waiting on your answer.

     You are a part of that realization, for as he thought, you appeared. His fingers lift from the keys -- the vibration of music lingers several moments afterward -- and Balthazar rises from the bench. With the sun sitting on his shoulders, he can be easily confused with a mountain. In truth, he is not taller than he was yesterday, or the day before that. But his confidence, the air of maturity is quite different from the day before. "Of course, uncle," he says easily. And the doors close the rest of the way like dutiful butlers, bowing.
     As he moves to the sitting area in the nearby corner of this former ballroom, a selection of brandies and other delectables appear. Balthazar is all ears, all eyes, as he gestures for you to have a seat before him. You are the ranking king, and his uncle. Deference is easily given. "I can't seem to stop eating," he murmurs. "I'm not sure what that means. Please," he says with a smile (sunny, of course). And he gives the floor to you, standing and waiting for you to sit ahead of him as he pilfers a few of the nut and spice-stuffed dates from a plate.

     He eyes you, sizing you up. There is nothing combative to it; it is just what he does. If he needs to kill someone, he wants to know the fastest and most efficient way, the warrior's eyes, the assassin's eyes ordinarily hidden from his family and from the world now showing.
     The Oak King should, after all, know what his opposite number really is.
     "A few things," Gwilym tells you without bothering with the joking and the preamble. He takes a date but does not eat it, sinking onto a chair and lounging back. "One, I wanted to see how you were settling in, but it looks like you are doing fine. You'll tell me otherwise, oes? Two, I have a problem and it tangents onto y'. I am hoping you won't need me t' explain it top to bottom..."
     "...it's about my priest."

     And the Oak King, in his easy gallantry, is just as easy under the assassin's microscope. You take his measure; he shines a light of Understanding upon things once hidden in shadows and darkness. You hide. He seeks. His measurement is different; it is all centered upon you as an individual and, separately, as a Power.
     Balthazar takes a seat after you, one leg curled beneath him upon the sofa. "I don't need to know everything," he smiles a little, resting his head on his hand as he looks to you. "Not that you would tell me everything. You would not. I am doing much better today," he notes in quiet aside to your first point. "And you are quite right, uncle. You would know if I weren't." But maybe not in the obvious way. He doesn't mean it to be jokey, either. It is quite true, quite open, quite honest. The two of you are bound now in a dance. It is older than both of you. You are both the sun. He in its zenith; you in its eclipse.
     He is quiet a moment, looking at you as you speak. Something is the matter. But he doesn't spoil it. His amber-sun eyes shimmer in his thoughtful blink. "I'm happy to help, if I can. How is your priest? I haven't seen him for a day... I think it's only been a day. I have to tell you, ascensions do play tricks with Time. Was yours that way?"

     "Mine did, though mine was as different as yours as night from day." Gwilym smirks at that, rolling the date between his palms. "I ended up with a high priest out of the deal. Not one you'd meet over here, mind."
     He does not eat the date. He is not sure what it would do to him, and his native caution, cunning, wariness - choose your own term - keeps him from such risk. His risks are calculated, even when they are calculated on the fly and from the gut...
     "My priest is a failure." The words are blunt; not intended to hurt, but not padded, either. There is nothing to soften the blow. "Maybe he can still reach what I need him to be; I don't know. But right now, he is not what I need him to be, and no amount of working at it is getting it through to him. It is taking too long."
     He exhales, sitting up and tossing the date through shadows to the creatures that feed there, leaning on his thighs with his elbows. Gwilym looks tired, frustrated and thoughtful. "Maybe I pushed him too fast. I don't know," he admits. "You might be able to tell. Any way I look at it, though, I need to replace him. And I need t' do so without anyone knowing. You'd be able to tell; so I'm telling you up front. And," he holds up a hand, "let's not get into 'do you really need not to tell anybody'. I do."

     Though certainly the date is not drugged intentionally, and certainly not in such a way that would cause his favored uncle to come to harm, taking a date from the Oak King's plate does come with inherent risks. He's not even conscious of it yet, not entirely. He eats the date and becomes suffuse with sunlight and the quality that his now Him.
     Balthazar's expression is openly sympathetic and empathetic. He unfolds his leg and sits forward. "He seems to be trapped on his particular circuit of the Wheel. Some spoke, some where is snagged. I think he has a great deal of talent and possibility. He's just ... stuck, uncle. He seems to circle around three essential problems or issues. I am sorry that it has not worked out as envisioned. Perhaps ... we've all said too much." His mouth twists a little at that. "And maybe my bringing him with me wasn't such a good idea. I was wanting him to be here for his friends... and for himself too. To maybe better understand. But... one has to be willing and ready to hear in order to understand."
     "Perhaps," Balthazar begins, "...he will improve when he is able to concentrate on himself, his issues, particularly with his family. They weigh on him. He will have a chance to do all that. I have found, in this experience," Balthazar gestures to himself, and to the obvious (and not obvious) transformations that have occurred in him, "...that I need to take time to assess as well. Time to find out who I am here and my purpose, my focus. Where am I most and best needed and useful. And," he smiles a little to you, "...what would be enjoyable. I am putting the band on hiatus. Well, actually, the band Oxford Comma is disbanded. I may play with Reggie in the future, or Loki perhaps. But for now... I need to be free to explore, discover where I want to be and what I want to be doing while there. So perhaps, with a bit less magic around him, Loki can regain his equilibrium."
     He eats another of the dates and he reaches out for a glass of shiraz, which appears to the hand and waiting. "I don't question you, uncle. You know your business. I wouldn't interfere with it. I respect you and your need for secrecy and stealth, uncle," Balthazar notes, sitting back. "I will keep your confidences. As always. I mean, we are in this together, are we not? We are not opposites, as we may seem." He smiles a little there, clued in to it rather nicely actually. "That's what this is. A partnership of opposites that make a whole. Is there anything you need or would like me to do for you?"

     "If he'd been here for anybody," Gwilym answers bluntly, "maybe it would have worked, oes? But he isn't there for anybody or anything. I can't help him. I can't give him what he wants. I could give him what he needs - but he isn't ready for it. Not yet."
     You speak, and he listens, and he nods once, sharply. It does not take him long to absorb the gist of what you say. "Do? I don't know. I have to find a replacement - sommat else, to fill the gap, before anybody takes too much notice. I have to do it yesterday. If you spot someone before I do - send word that nobody else can hear or see."
     Gwilym smirks, barking out a laugh and sitting up, one emerald eye regarding you sparklingly. "Secrets aren't really your thing, oes? Do you think you can?"

     "I can keep the secrets I wish to keep, uncle," Balthazar says with a smile. "I just can't lie. I'm a horrible liar. That doesn't mean I can't simply hold my tongue." His smile becomes a grin, complicit, and then it dissolves into a sugary, even look. "It's nobody's business but your own. If I do see someone, I will be sure to whisper it only to you. I will be traveling," Balthazar mentions. "I'm going...well, not on holiday, though it'll seem like one. London ... is not my home. I need to find my place, and then, I think, the rest will begin to fall into place. I'm not trying to," his look intensifies slightly in his own thoughts, "...force something to work, if it no longer fits. You know? London, the band, whatever it may be. Music will likely be involved but ... it's only part of the whole thing. The dream is bigger than that now."
     Balthazar sighs a bit to think of Loki. He is concerned about his friend. "He stops himself," he says, glancing to you through his thoughts. "He is like that mime pose: man trapped in a box. But it's not on you, uncle," Balthazar says, sipping his wine finally and then setting it aside. "This is between him and himself. I hope he is able to sort his matters. I care about what happens to him. The whole family," Balthazar's expression quietens, turning quite serious. "This was harder on them than it was on me. I wasn't expecting that. It seems to be unraveling a bit for them. Sisters do not speak, brother is prejudiced against future brother-in-law. And all of them stubborn. Well," Balthazar's expression lightens in a smile, "...it's nothing we can solve in a day. I'm trying to stay out of it, as much as I can anyway..."
     "Is there anything you're looking for, in particular? Some quality or capacity that would better serve for what you're trying to do?"

     "Diolch," Gwilym allows it to roll out as he sprawls back, folding his hands behind his head. "That's as much as I could or would ask."
     You go on, and he listens, watching you lazily, through narrowed eyes and lowered lashes. He is very good at being pretty, though increasingly he would object to the use of the word. "They're a stubborn group," Gwilym agrees. "Americans usually are. They usually want t' be liked - to be found special little snowflakes. But I will give them this - they have been through a great deal, and they're all of them chafing under it in different ways. The brother's marked, y' know."
     It's tossed off casually, and he cocks an eyebrow at you. "As for sisters... you've been blessed. We all fight, but we usually make up well. Not everyone does."
     Your next question has him exhaling. "Activity," Gwilym says finally. "It isn't enough to have potential, it isn't enough to see - though half the problem has been a stubborn blindness in one if not both eyes - he also has to act. I don't care what action. Show me a man who fights frenziedly with the world around him, and mayhap his punches can be redirected to where they do some good. But he can't sit on his arse and sulk. I can't work with that." Not anymore.

     What is better than the blush of the Oak King? The smile that comes with it, butter on toast as it is, only heightens the appeal. It is Delight and Knowing Delight at that. "I have been blessed," Balthazar very tactfully replies, his look considerably less tactful. "I wasn't expecting that Maddie was an actual fireball. I thought it was just metaphoric. But she actually is a bit of a comet girl. I like meteorites, so it works out. But I was still surprised." His expression is sober for a moment: "However, I do not want to be the source of contention, or the pawn in the game of keeping sisters apart from one another. Maddie's acting all of her seventeen at the moment."
     Balthazar takes up the glass of shiraz, stealing another sip before sitting back. He prefers to keep his hands free. "Marked? How so?" There is a glimmer in his gaze. "Or do I really not want to know how or where?" He really doesn't want to know what Gruffydd is, or is not, or is thinking about, doing with Preston.
     He's rather certain that Preston doesn't want him considering it either...
     He is thankful for the distraction of a priest. "Activity," he echoes and he nods in thought. Balthazar takes up the wine for another swallow, two, before setting the glass down with a gentle chime. "Able to be observant but not someone to sit on the sidelines and make commentary. He or she," his wonders on that, could it be a girl? "...would need to be able to discern meaning and convert that into some sort of intent. I'll keep my eyes open, uncle," Balthazar notes. "I am certain you'd beat me to the punch, but a second set of eyes can't hurt, right?"

     He smirks. "Long before you or your brawd laid eyes on him, nephew," Gwilym assures you. "If you look at him from the back - when he can't see you, to shield his eyes against y' - you'll see the markings."
     He sits up, leaning forward to look at you. "He." Question answered. "He should be able to do. Brains and beauty, oes." He smiles like a shark. "Or at least the ability to see and t' act... I want him very sharp. But able to cut, not just defend."

     That information is tucked away in a pocket of his brain for another time, another opportunity. He is curious, but he leaves it be for now. Balthazar finishes his wine in a swallow, the empty glass disappearing now that it has served its purpose and fulfilled its destiny.
     "He," Balthazar repeats with the uptick of the corners of his mouth. "I would hate to deprive you of hunting for him. I'm sure that's more than half the fun," his mouth twists at the idea. He can just imagine. "But I realize time and stealth are of the essence. Would it be easier to choose someone already somewhat familiar with magic, or at least quantum physics? That might give you a head start. I think London's crawling with magicians...mundane, financial and otherwise. That is what London's good for: variety."
     His gaze is steady, curious, wondering in his line of questioning and the traded conversation. Balthazar curls a leg beneath him again, his fingers taking up another three stuffed dates, these stuffed with serrano ham. "It sort of sounds like you need a warrior-priest... a boxer and a philosopher...rolled into one..."

     "It is time that makes me desperate enough to bring it to you as well. And the trouble with magicians is that they think they have all the answers. The trouble with quantum physics is they're so damned sure magic doesn't exist that they'll rationalize themselves into the padded vests before believing the evidence I give 'em."
     Gwilym is a restless creature; he rises to his feet, looking at you. "London's as good a place to look as any," he allows magnanimously. "But the wars we fight aren't always with swords and fists, oes? Where will you go from here?"

     "I think... maybe Venice," Balthazar says, still not quite sure. "Turkey, India, Italy... America. These are all on the list. I'm not sure about Australia. But I'm going to let the sun lead me, rather than me trying to pull it behind me in the direction I think I should be going." He smiles at that. What a difference a week makes. "I will see what fits me and what seems to make the most sense." He isn't concerned. He is open to whatever his Destiny is now. There is no resistance, no stubborn fixation. He's calm and engaged as he looks out over a journey's beginning.
     Balthazar rises as you do, stepping forward in preparation for saying goodbye. He smiles warmly. "You can hug me again, by the way. I'm not a sex bomb. Well, not unless I really want to be," he notes in aside. "And I save that for Maddie." The poor girl. "I'll... shine a light and see, uncle," he continues quietly. "And will keep in touch with you. Thank you, again, for all your help the past few months. I couldn't have reached this without you, uncle. You're short a priest, but you've gained a king."

Posted by rowan at July 11, 2009 04:36 PM