Well, contrition is fun, but one shouldn't make a habit out of it...
     The raw silk and brown leather from his lunch discussion and apology session melted away, leaving behind close-fitting chain of burnished gold, the metal holding a deeper resonance. Wings that were tucked away unfolded lavishly, blushing deep scarlet against the golden feathers, and his skin and hair and lips seem edible in the final shudder of his transformation. He is harvest. The sacrifice of the Holly King, the blood of the hunt, loads the tables of autumn and winter, but is is the sun that makes possible the bounty of the earth.
     I am returning, my brother...
     The Oak King gives a courtesy call, audible by both his brother and his brother's lover, before he even leaves his chamber. He reaches out as he passes his dining table, and a pomegranate appears in his hand, as blushed as his mouth and wings. He takes a bite of the fruit, sipping the sweet juice, his mouth working the pulp away from the seeds as he strolls.
     He lifts a hand to his brother's door as he arrives, rapping with his knuckles. He knows better than to enter without a verbal invitation...

     Come in...
     The voice of the future king-dreamer is clear within both his brother's and his lover's minds, coming with the scent of cloves. Within his chambers, Gruffydd has dressed for work, though not for a state dinner. He is in his midnight blues, the leathers and raw silk shirt of the same hue. He pours four snifters full of a dark brandy. Uncle... we are assembling in my chamber...
     Glancing up, his dark, curly hair a halo around his fine face, Gruffydd looks to his door as it opens and then looks to Preston. A smile crosses his expression, touching both his eyes and his lips. "You look... refreshed, Balthazar..."

     "I am feeling better, thanks," Balthazar replies. He looks to see where Preston is as he brings the pomegranate back to his mouth for another bite and heads toward the seating area.

     He is awake, again, finally, dressed in his 'uniform' of dark blue and white. His silver locks are wavy and slightly damp from recent bathing, and he is eating an apple somewhat vigorously. Being around Gruffydd seems to end up making him hungry. He nods to Balthazar, but doesn't speak.
     There's still at least one more coming, after all.
     He gives his lover a look from under lowered eyelashes, then settles back against the sofa cushions, crossing his legs and tucking an arm in against his middle as he takes another bite. That the pale juices are making his skin sticky - well, either he's unaware of the innuendo inherent or it just doesn't bother him. His expression suggests that in this case, he's actually unaware instead of being a dick.

     Oh, oes? Well, I'd better get some pants on, hadn't I...
     Gwilym rises from his seat, tossing his cards in. "Family calls," he tells the others around the table airily. "Full house, by the by. I'll leave y' to divide the pot among y'selves."
     It is the eternal dragon poker game. The five heads of the hydra are sulking under the table, having been roundly spanked for trying to look at the other players' cards. Smaug, the ancient and immortal red dragon, exhales plumes of smoke. "Sometimes," he rumbles, "I do believe you cheat, Holly King. But as you are contributing your winnings, I'll allow it to slide. This time." He scrapes a talon across the obsidian slab that doubles as a table, sending gold coins skittering and sliding to fall musically.
     An ebon-skinned elf with pupilless green eyes smiles, settling back in his chair as he lays down his cards. "It saves me the trouble of betting on an inside straight," he answers easily. He closes one eye in a wink at Gwilym. "I'd offer to walk you home, but your family might not be happy to see me."
     Gwilym laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. "Just acos you're a god-king of death doesn't mean you're not welcome, boyo! But in this case, I think best I go alone. Besides," he grins, "I wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong idea about us. Right then, lads, I'm off." He draws his sword, slicing through the skin of that reality and crossing into darkness.
     Are there any little sausage puffs? I do love those little sausage puffs. Oh, and some nice sharp cheese...

     With all the nonchalance of turning a page in a book, Balthazar summons sausage puffs, sharp cheddar and Stilton, as well as the traditional, familial beef pastries. He continues to tend to his pomegranate. A ravenous but tidy eater, the Oak King takes up an entire chair and then some with both his breadth (courtesy of his wings) and his length. His form is something beyond athletic, and the air hums around him -- not with the bees of Summer -- but with aroma of honey.
     Golden eyes, honeyed amber, turn toward Preston. He gives the future consort a return nod, congenial enough. Apple juice, pomegranate juice -- the fragrance of both is thick in the air. Balthazar consumes the energy of it as much as the flavor of it. And where Desire is, He is; where He is, Desire is. And that, too, encourages and sustains him.

     Yes, pants would be preferable. While I don't mind nudity among family and friends, Balthazar is somewhat squeamish. And we do have a guest. Gruffydd's voice is light in its humor, spiced with his own wit. He brings a glass to both Preston and Balthazar, the scent of fig and cognac adding to that of the fruit and the nearby beef. It occurs to him that there's so little difference between an orgy and an all you can eat buffet...
     The future king then goes to retrieve his own glass, the last, the fourth left for his uncle near the pile of beef and sausages. Sipping at the fig and cognac, Gruffydd takes a seat next to Preston and Balthazar -- he sits in between. It's not for anyone's safety, in particular. But it is the position of Peacemaker. One clearly not chosen over the other.

     Balthazar looks up from his pomegranate, the fruit lowering from his blushed mouth for a moment. He can feel the Holly King's approach. There is a pricking to his skin, a slight coolness at his neck, and the smell of evergreen....

     The fabric of reality peels open from blackness, and Gwilym Gwyn Garu, the Holly King, steps through, emerging from the blackness of nothing and nowhere, grinning as he sheathes his sword. He is indeed wearing pants. Reality seals up behind him, and he smiles like a shark at his nephews and one other. "Damn," he rolls out, "but sometimes it's hard work being this amazin'. How's it going, then, boyos? I didn't bring the lads. I was assuming this was a private party."
     He casts his glance over at Preston, cocking up an eyebrow, and his thoughts are aimed for the older of his two nephews alone for a moment. Very nice. Very pretty. California vintage, mm? You'll want to be mindful. They tend to keep too long in oak and the end result's often sour. Unless you like the taste of wood, oes? He strides forward, casually clapping his fellow King of seasons on the shoulder. "Y' look better than last I saw y'. Ooh, Stilton!" He bends to grab himself a chunk of it. "So. What's this all about, then?"

     Preston's lowered his apple, although he hasn't finished it. He didn't really meet Gwilym, before, and now he's not quite sure what to make of him. The stepping out of nothingness with a sword's impressive - it's downright Hollywood - but the rest is very in the face and unpredictable. It's almost camp. He cocks up a slightly skeptical eyebrow, glancing sidelong to Gruffydd in an is this guy for real? sort of way. "Uh... hi."

     Thank you. You always did have a keen eye. I've uncorked this particular vintage. Here...he is allowed to breathe. Gruffydd smiles to his uncle as he enters with all of the necessary and expected theatrics. "Yes... the bounty is courtesy of your Compatriot," the Oak King, "... and the brandy is courtesy of me. I appreciate your appearance on short notice, uncle."
     Oh, he's quite real. The smile says it all. It is dark like a ripe, black grape, but affectionate. His eyes hold respect quite clearly. "Uncle, this Arian, one previously known as Preston West, brother of Gillian and Madison, whom you've met. Arian," he says to Preston, "...this is Gwilym Gwyn Garu, the Holly King. He is the master of the Wild Hunt and has the most extensive spy network on this side of the universe. He is my father's twin brother and, therefore, my uncle. He is Aeron and Bran's brother."
     Gruffydd sips at his brandy, his expression serene and thoughtful. "It would have been fine. I should have noted such...." He pauses while the Holly King retrieves food and drink and takes a moment to commune with the Oak King.

     Balthazar looks to the Holly King at the clap upon his shoulder. "I have had my moments," he murmurs, "....but I am beginning to feel a bit better, thank you." The words are quiet, poetic. He tosses the pomegranate up and it becomes a cardinal and flies out of the chamber. He settles back to listen.

     "I have asked for this meeting to discuss some intelligence and to determine how best to share this information in the future. I would like to discuss, with this group, the possibility of creating a security council. But..." Gruffydd smiles easily, "...that is getting ahead of ourselves. Arian, if you would please detail what you have Seen, I think the how's and why's will become clearer."

     I suppose it'd be vulgar to ask if your corkscrew really does twist round and round. I hear pigs have that. Ha! Gwilym's grin is wide and piratical, one visible eye gleaming as he takes everything in. "Fraternal twin, mind," he tells Pres. "Don't expect us to be looking so much alike as that, oes? Aeron and Bran are my little brothers."
     He glances to his fellow King with a capital K, eyebrow quirking up as he spots the flash of metal. Batting for the other team now, nephew? Or just experimenting with a new style? Time was, after all, spent in modern London. He sits heavily, popping some cheese into his mouth and chewing. "...Arian. A good name." And to Gruffydd, he murmurs silently, Getting into the treasure-collecting business? Should I be locking up my tower?

     Pres shifts to sit upright, apple balanced on his knee like one of the fabled apples of Discord. He discreetly wipes his fingers on a silk napkin, looking around the room at the three Llewellyn descendants. He manages to conceal his unease, but it's impossible not to feel a little outnumbered, under the circumstances.
     "It isn't quite as simple as that, but I'll try." He looks to Gwilym first, as the Unknown. "I've got the ability to see the possible futures. It's not cleanly controlled; but I can see bits and pieces of the past and present, and what could have happened, and things which could still happen. I've been trying to work out how to predict the most likely futures, but there are certain things I've seen which seem at least moderately plausible. So. I'm confident that there are people who will be trying to back Balthazar against Gruffydd, and will try to use an enmity between him and me to their benefit. If they don't have that enmity, they're likely to get more desperate, and less patient; there's at least some risk that they'll try assassination attempts against those they perceive as weaker figures attached to the major players, to try to shift blame around and cause a collapse or other crisis situation where they can gain ground."
     He shifts slightly, picking up a glass and not drinking from it just yet. "I See in more specific details than that, but ... there are a lot of scenarios, and I don't have definite faces or names. I do better given something specific to start with."

     It all depends upon the position and my mood. And I have my riches. I think your tower is safe, uncle. Though he is a vanquisher of pirates, his smile is smoother than a gold coin. "Yes, most of my grandparents children come in matching or ...coordinating sets," he explains to his Arian. "I worry for my future queen." He begins to still to open the floor for his future consort.

     Without looking up at his uncle, the Oak King takes a sip of the brandy and then exchanges it for a beef pastry. Since everyone in this family is either gay or bisexual, I thought I'd at least try to fit in. I feel like such the outcast: I'm heterosexual and monogamous. I'm like the white sheep of the family. He glances to his uncle. It's actually a translator. I feel I need a Robert's Rule of Orders when hanging out with these two.
     He calmly eats while Preston...that is, Arian... begins unfolding the very information that made him go pop before. This time, there is no building of static. There is no anxiety. He sits and listens and eats.

     Gruffydd looks between all three men as his Arian speaks. "I thought, uncle, that you might wish to tap into Arian's abilities. You certainly, at a minimum, need to be aware of the information. Whether you choose to work in tandem or not. Information from this source," he gestures to his lover, "...might be helpful to you, to the Hunt, and to your Network. And as I share the gift of far sight, my gifts do not quite work in the same vein. It is more pattern-based. And you are about fifteen steps ahead of everyone else in general. The three of us, certainly, should convene and converse."
     He does not yet mention Balthazar's role.

     Balthazar does not seem concerned in not being mentioned. He is listening, watching, eating, and learning.

     Now, now. I'm fairly sure your granny isn't gay or bisexual, and my da sure as hell isn't. There are things even the Holly King does not know. And doesn't necessarily want to; parental sex lives fit high on that list. Bran isn't either, and what about your sisters? There's a roguish lift of eyebrows as he sits down on the other side of the Sun King and picks up a drink. I am the Lord of Misrule. There'll be no parliamentizin' while I'm in the room...
     To his other nephew, the roguish glint is wider still, though winking out to listen without further jocularity at Preston's expense. "Interestin' idea, though not as easily done as said. I can't just barge in and borrow his eyes any more than I can your own - the eyes are connected to the mind, which are connected to the soul. There's ways of doing such things, 'course, but many of them fall into the realm of the sort of magics which get you damned. Now, if Arian's willing," he looks at the American in the room, "and If we can form close enough bonds of trust... we'd be able to do that sort of three-way." He is not worried about his nephew being able to. That part is easy. "Otherwise, the better way would be for the two of you to do it," he grin quickly at the implied entendre, then grow serious again. "Your pattern abilities on top of your Sight would winnow down the top, say, five big risks. I'd then be able to take that and run with it, so to speak."

     Pres stirs slightly, turning to look at Gruffydd. "I think," he says quietly, "you've already done that a couple of times, even if not on purpose. Remember the butchers...?" He doesn't explain for the others. It is a personal reference, a private reference; one of the most private that he could make. He looks back to the others. "I'm open to trying whatever's needed. I'm not sure how useful I'll be for it, is all."

     Balthazar glances to the three as they speak and then looks to the beef pastry as he completes his slow, methodical decimation. Amber eyes hold a resonant warmth -- of mulled cider and cinnamon and the light of a bedroom's fire -- as he listens and considers. An ambered eyebrow lifts at the mention of threeway. No matter its context.
     What are the top five risks? he asks the little critter at his ear. Can you answer any question? he wonders suddenly: ...or just those that focus on political hypotheticals, or questions of logic? I forgot to ask before.

     "That's part of why I wanted to consult you," Gruffydd smiles. "To determine what would work best for your purposes. Certainly," he looks to Arian, ".... we can share that information between the two of us, come up with the patterns that seem the most relevant or plausible. We have a strong link," there is an intimate look at that. "And... yes...Arian, even if we were two butchers in Kent." He smiles at that and at the memory and then returns his attention to his uncle.
     "And then we pass along that information to you. My only concern with that, though it does minimize the amount of interruption for you, which is a positive, is that there could be a snippet, something he has seen that I have not, but something for which you may already have some information or intelligence. In the beginning, it may be better to have more information than less." He looks to his uncle, to Arian. "What are your thoughts on that... both of you..."
     Gruffydd has not forgotten about his brother. But as of yet, there is nothing to take to him. He merely wants him present, to hear and to know.

     And the Oak King does not interrupt. The only sound that comes from his chair is the sound of him biting into a golden pear. He seems to be completely untroubled, as if he were watching all of this unfold on the telly. Balthazar lounges, his scarlet and gold wings, his blushed mouth, his every appearance and detail unveiled in all its wonder and bounty. The harvest is ... very good to him and he to it.
     Insufficient input. Parameters must be set in order to run analysis, comes the first answer. There is a quiet (to you, inaudible to others) click, and the earring shifts just slightly in and on your ear. Unit can answer questions for which defined parameters have been set and if there is information unit's database or that of which unit may access. No other limiting factors are known to apply at this time. Please state valid query with defined variables and unit will be happy to assist.
     No wonder Tiernan made it a mosquito...

     Arian blushes at the look; it comes without his willing it and stays whether he wills it or no, so he does the best he can and ignores his own blush, trying not to squirm. It is difficult. Gruffydd affects him keenly and deeply, and the intimate look is returned with one from under lowered lashes. He tears his gaze away. "I don't really know the pros and cons, I guess. I'm game for whatever'll help that doesn't kill me. I'm hard to kill, but I don't like to tempt fate too much."

     "Wise lad," Gwilym grins at that. His one visible eye sparkles as he looks at the glance exchanged between Crown Prince and page. You have difficulty not ravishing him at every opportunity, don't y'? Ah, well. Pity my own was soured - I blame myself, but then, I suspect it was soured long before it was ever decanted. He sighs soundlessly, lips continuing their speech independent of his brain. "Fate's a dangerous witch to dice with. Believe me, I know. Right, then."
     He drains his drink, setting it out of his way. "First off, there's no way we can keep track of every variable, every suspicion, no matter what we look into and with what. I could have a million men and eyes in the sky and all you'd do is drive it underground. It wouldn't crush rebellion; it'd do the opposite and incite it. Even when there's suspicion and bad people, so t' speak, you have to allow the appearance of trust to flourish. Even when you know pilfering fingers are at the till, because if you don't, the resentment drives more people to pilfer. And," he holds a finger up alongside the bridge of his nose, "even if they're sitting an' talking shite, it isn't the same as doing. So oes, you can look and see what you find, and I can look into it; we can plan and prepare. But we can't really act until they've done something, even if it's small - at least," he glances to Gruffydd, "according to how your da did things. For all I know, you intend to change that. Do y'?"

     "No, I don't want to change the approach, uncle, or how justice is meted out," Gruffydd says easily. "And most importantly, I don't want the fear of uprising to change the way I view the universe or the type of existence I want to engender here. That said, I also don't want to play La-la-la," he places his hands over his ears for emphasis, "... and think that we will not be challenged. We already have been and we will continue to be. I want to be out in front of it when and where we can. And if Arian has information that can help us protect our people, the Agreement that grandfather and father and you have worked tirelessly to create and then protect, then I want to tap into that." He smiles swiftly. "I don't want to be paranoid, however. I don't have the jowls for it."
     Having learned from the master, I make whatever opportunities I can to enjoy him. But I cannot imagine that you lack for sweets and delights, Holly King. You and Oak hold dominion over it, as I recall. And ...speaking of Oak... what make you of this?

     Balthazar frowns -- perhaps the pear is tart, that is certainly the expression. How do I set the parameters? And how can I change the language settings to Normal. He takes another bite of the pear.
     "There is an advantage," Balthazar speaks, finally, his gaze remaining on his pear, "... in appearing to be oblivious. I do it all the time." There is something of study in his voice, and thought. "Better, in many ways, to appear oblivious than tyrannical. You had a vision for your kingdom, brother, we have talked about it for years. Regardless of the storms, despite challenges real or imagined, present or future, I recommend you carry out your vision without alteration. As Ghandi said: Be the change you want to see in the world."
     But he is used to his advice being ignored in this family. It happens regularly. Actually, it's a wonder he didn't grow up and decide to be a Mute. Having said it, Balthazar goes back to eating his pear as if he hadn't spoken at all.
     He is practicing the art of being oblivious right now, as a matter of fact. It is, perhaps, his saving grace.
     Parameters define an expression. 'What are the top five risks' has no defined parameters and returns null input. To wit: risk to what or to whom. Under what circumstances or conditions. By what criteria are these risks to be assessed and ordered. The speech gradually clicks to something less 'machine' although it remains something 'formal'. Unit cannot offer an answer without conditions placed to narrow the range to initiate a search of local databases. Many regrets. To set parameters, only tell unit desired range for search.

     "Righto," Gwilym answers cheerily, settling back comfortably, hands folded behind his head. "I don't think, really, much needs t' change. There's been such wheelin's and dealin's throughout Time, really. Get enough people in one place and bam, politics. That's just my opinion, 'course." He sits up again, leaning forward. "So I'm a little unclear. What, exactly, d'you want me to do?"
     There are delights and there are delights. I had sought a High Priest, not for here, for that role is well-filled, and how often it is filled he doesn't even jest about, this time, but for Elsewhere. I had chosen and - well, a tale for another time, oes? Suffice to say that it was another California lad. And it didn't work out.

     Arian shifts his weight, uncomfortable in this august assemblage. He has no real place here; no power, and little concrete to add. Not the first time he's been in that position. So he stays silent, listening. Watching. The silver eyes are alert, for all his stillness. Antinous, the Indian pageboy, a Grace - whatever he is, he has at least the gift of silence when he wants it.

     Gruffydd seems to be in a reverie of some kind. It might seem that he wasn't listening, but he was, and is, of course. His lavender eyes are sharp and bright and his face, while warm and amiable, has that serenity that comes over him. "Mostly, I wanted you to alert you to the fact that Arian appears to be an Oracle." His mouth curls like incense smoke. "And introduce the two of you. While I'm not sure yet what partnership may arise between the two of you, I want to ensure that we work together, to coordinate this information. But before we continue, I do want to circle back, Arian, to your question about what you have seen and whether or not we can be, rather, I can be more precise in my questions. Last night, you spoke regarding Balthazar's ascension... and the tug of war that that is inspiring. Very Caesar like," he glances to his burnished brother with a smile.
     "Can you speak to that plot? What are you seeing. One, I would like the Ascendant to understand the frothiness that he is inspiring so he can be aware of political pitfalls in the generals corps. But more to the point, for my uncle's benefit, since I have called him away from his otherwise busy schedule, this is a plot that could have legs and really run. I should rather learn from the lessons of Rome than repeat them."

     Balthazar's expression remains unchanged. Of course no one regarded his advice. He doesn't take the bait -- he tries not to take the bait -- and instead looks at the pear, regarding its remains, its color, its sweetness. He seems either oblivious or bored. What are the top five risks to the upcoming transition of power. Rank them in order of percent of likelihood or success based on historical data from recent power transitions or company take-overs.
     The mention of Caesar elicits a raise of an amber eyebrow but he is being careful with his emotions. He's not really involved apart from being a spectator.
     Unit beginning download from local databases now. It will take some time to cross-reference and return specific results. Survey of beginning results returning suggests motivational factors of merchants seeking greater control of free market. The 'voice' sounds distracted and fainter, flickering slightly.

     Gwilym glances to Balthazar sharply, curiosity showing in that eye. He does not say anything, though. Not yet. Not now. "I'd like to hear, though you're not pulling me away from anything at present." He smirks. "This is why I do have people working for me, oes? But oes, go on." He rises to his feet, hands in his pockets.

     Pres looks to his feet, then closes his eyes. "There is no one single plot. There's different people and different ... reasons. Some are people who didn't like your dad," he shrugs to both brothers, "and aren't gonna like you. Some think your family just has too much power; they want something closer to a constitutional monarchy. Some are just in it to line their own pockets. So they all have their own reasons to want to distract you, or to limit your power, or to get rid of you... and different ways of trying to get what they want. It's - just not that cut and dried, where it's just one group trying something. Sorry."

     "No need to apologize, Arian," Gruffydd's voice is reassuring and quiet. "Are there any details you can describe? The types of individuals? Perhaps places or other things of interest or is it more amorphous? Impressions of things that might occur." There is a glance for Balthazar's silence, but he prefers to concentrate on one problem at a time.

     Balthazar tosses the pear up in the air. It becomes a gold-eyed dove. The symbolism shouldn't be lost on anyone. "Well, if they are looking to have a poster boy for revolution, they won't find that in me. I am nothing if not loyal. And I'm not going to encourage anything to the contrary."

     Gruffydd's attention shifts. "It's a common enough story. I think you and I both know the usual endings." What is the matter, brother?

     Nothing. I am listening. I simply don't have anything to offer other than my attention. Balthazar glances to his brother briefly and then to the other two men as he sits forward to retrieve his brandy. He looks at the liquid before sipping at it.
     And when I do speak, he keeps to himself, it appears to go into a vacuum. It is better, perhaps, to remain quiet. To listen. To learn. And to keep one's opinions to oneself.

     Gruffydd's attention returns to the topic. "Don't self-edit," he smiles slightly. "You do not have to formulate the answers. We just want to understand what you're seeing, in as much detail as you can give..."

     He closes his eyes again; it's easier to focus, that way. "It gives me a headache when I try too long. Uh. I know there are at least five different groups. I know there's at least one older guy who's pissed because of some kind of sanctions? I ... damn." Pres rubs his forehead. "There's some who I do't think are human. Grey skin, yellow eyes?"

     "Hmm," Gwilym comments, folding his arms over his chest. "Y' know, I wouldn't be surprised if he's running into warding spells," he comments to Gruffydd and Balthazar. "Makes sense, really. Anybody up to mischief's going to try to keep it quiet by whatever means at their disposal, and if they've access to competent enough magics, they'll block scrys and sommat. Impressive he's getting this much, if so. 'Course, Sight tends to work in flashes that they can't quite block - but deliberate looking would fall under the rules for scrying, oes?" He rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "Mind, I'm no thaumaturge. You'd want to talk to a professional for that." He smiles sharply. "Or a scholar."

     "Hmm... that is true. I hadn't considered that," Gruffydd ruminates, looking to his uncle a moment. He then turns to his lover. "That's fine, Arian. No need to get a headache. I think it would be good for you to have some sort of way to capture those images when they are fresh. I will ask Anierin or Tiernan about such. It would need to be secure, useless to anyone else. I will speak to them about it. If a blocking is being used, it will be interesting to see when that occurs and with what information. We may use the royal corps of mages, but I would prefer to do so very deliberately..."
     "...In the meantime, I think that the critical questions have been answered for the time being. He and I," Gruffydd says, gesturing between himself and Arian as he looks to both his brother and his uncle, "...will see what patterns emerge, what visions seem to have the most weight to them between the two of us and we will let you know, uncle. And Balthazar," he looks to his younger brother, "...you thought I had you here for window dressing," he smirks. "The General's Corps is one of the more active political cells. You will want to keep your eyes and your ears open -- you do not need to form opinions on anyone's behalf, but do be careful. I think once the transition has occurred, some of this will die down a bit. The longer plots, the more thought-out position taking won't be affected, of course, but the tension and upheaval will not be permanent. Of course, if you see or hear anything interesting, let us know."

     "Perhaps I can help with the warding spells. There is nothing like the Clear Light of Day to restore one's vision," Balthazar offers, his brandy finished. "And I'm sure Ani could come up with something. He has been working on plans for my eventual palace, but I can ask him to put that project on hold." He makes his offer, conciliatory. But he doesn't press it. He would like his palace built. Somewhere. Eventually.
     Nodding to his brother, hearing him, Balthazar looks to Arian. "Grey skin and yellow eyes. It sounds like either merfolk or perhaps shifters from the mountains? Some of the outlying areas, perhaps?" A glance to Gwilym, another pomegranate appearing in his hands. "The merchant's guild or trading guild. Someone's always unhappy in the merchant's guild." He takes a small bite from the fruit, sucking the flesh away from the seeds.

     Arian nods, settling back into silence. He has a headache throbbing behind one eye now; it makes sinking into quiet more attractive. He takes up his drink with closed eyes, sipping at it.

     "The trouble with that," Gwilym answers Balthazar thoughtfully, leaning against a wall and thinking aloud, "is there's really no way to do so subtly. Do so and you let them know we're on to them, and that's not necessarily what we want to do, oes? Let's hold that in reserve. Gruffydd's right on the generals," he grins, "for they're often a more loutish and political lot even than the assassins' guild." He is, of course, well aware of them and their boltholes. "Let Ani keep working with you on your plans for now. Priorities!"
     He grins slyly as to the mention of unhappy merchants. "Grey skin and yellow eyes - doesn't ring a bell at the mo, but I'll put my eyes and ears out there. And in the meantime, my boyos and I with a little help from our friends, we can make the merchants have other things to think of. Should do to draw their attention into divisions, especially the way we can do it." He chuckles, entirely too pleased with himself all of a sudden.

     Gruffydd is sympathetic as Arian begins to sink into silence, sipping at his drink with closed eyes. His head must be hurting. He resists the urge to telepathically confirm that. Looking between the other two kings. He smiles at his uncle. "Oes, I think it is time for that voodoo that you do so well. As they say. That's it for now, then," Gruffydd exhales, rising from his chair. He passes behind the sofa, his hand going to Arian's silver hair. His fingers move through it a moment...
     ...And along each strand soothing energy moves, a metaphysical balm...
     "At least we have a plan. I think the next week and a few days are going to prove very interesting. I would anticipate another weather front, uncle... brother," he says to them both. "When I know more, I will of course share that. And anything else of interest," he says that more to Gwilym.

     Balthazar looks between the three men. There is a moment when he contemplates rising and going to the sofa and laying hands on Preston, but as his brother rises to do so himself, Balthazar remains seated for a moment. "I'm not really known for my subtlety. But that's a valid point, uncle." He concedes it easily as he sucks the sweet flesh from the pomegranate seeds. "I'm not sure how much a priority it is. It is to me. But that doesn't mean it should remain his priority. I recognize that my work and plans come after that of the High King and his successor."
     He is used to his projects being subordinate to his brother's. Even to Bran's. He might as well make the conciliatory gesture in good faith. It is better to give it away than for it to be taken.
     Balthazar rises after another moment. "If that is all, brother, it would appear that... Arian," he uses the new name, "... could use a change of topics. And perhaps less of an audience. Arian... " he offers in farewell and he turns to his uncle. "Uncle..."

     He shivers, resisting the urge to curl into that touch, to take more than solace. The urge is so clearly visible in the silver gaze he lifts, briefly, to Gruffydd's eyes; he briefly rests a hand against Gruffydd's knee in a casual bump that would fool nobody present in the room. He stoically resists, though, his hand withdrawing back to the propriety of his own lap and of its mate.
     He doesn't say anything. He is being Good. The balm given only briefly pulls aside that mask, showing a brief and fleeting glimpse of sweetness underneath, of adoration cut off by gilt eyelashes. But there are farewells to make, and he is nothing if not polite. The mask is put firmly back on, and he rises to his feet to bow to each man in turn. "Sirs. I am sorry not to be of more assistance."

     Delicious. Gwilym smiles cordially, wickedness showing in the one visible eye as he tells Gruffydd, As well for you Aeron isn't here. I'd be half-surprised if he didn't urge me to take a bite and taste for myself. Guard your treasure well, nephew; as a king of thieves, I can recognize that which will drive others into greedy attempts at thievery, and not all of them will be doing so to attempt to spite you.
     Aloud, he says nothing of the sort. He claps Balthazar on the shoulder. "I'll follow you out. I don't go as far as you, for once," he laughs at his own humor, "but I'll aid the High King-to-be because I choose to. Blood will tell, oes? And I do quite like blood. It's pretty when it catches the light." He winks, heading for the door. "Good evening, nephew. A pleasure, Arian. You know, I think I have a bridge to sell some people..."

     I am sure a great many won't consider me at all. But I trust his ability to fight for himself. Of course, I have provided plenty of reinforcements. Gruffydd is quietly amused by that. It would take an army. And my own persuasion.... of course...
     He settles back upon the sofa, preparing to enjoy some quiet time. "Brother, uncle. Have a good night..." He chuckles. "And thank you, Uncle. Blood or no, I appreciate your support. And I am certain you shall have no difficulties. You are an impeccable salesman. I would buy from you and I know better..."

     Balthazar holds, his pomegranate and golden-pear colored wings lifting slightly as his uncle claps him on the shoulder. He moves ahead as Gwilym bids farewell to family. He waits at the entrance, holding the door open. "Brother," he nods in farewell.
     He is quiet as he steps into the hall, pomegranate lifted to his mouth again. The sweetness of the juice fills him with energy, the sun contained in it (as in all things). His eyes are a resonant gold, shimmering as if backed by candlelight, and mouth is blushed by the juice of the fruit he eats. Balthazar slowly heads down the corridor, his steps measured to walk alongside you.

     He allows the door to swing closed on the future king and his leman, following the line of the hallway, amused to watch with that single visible eye the reactions of any in the halls who see you and him together. As if to make further mockery of those reactions, he puts his hands behind his back. "So, how about those ponies?"
     All right, then? Y' look a bit, well... peaky. Something eating you?

     It has been a long day.
     "What are the current odds on my winning the championship? I would have been the favorite until last week. I really have to return to the ring." That, he said to himself.
     No sooner do I think I have myself together when something happens, and I am thrown into confusion. Now, mind you, I am easily confused so... take it as you like it. He offers you a pear pulled from the aether. How long did it take you, Uncle, to become confident in what you can do? By the way... thank you for at least acknowledging I spoke. I think most of what I say in this family just floats up to the atmosphere and this disappears.
     Balthazar glances to you. I am feeling tremendously improved over this morning. I blew up my chambers. All the glass, shattered. I think I scared Preston... Arian...or at least made him a bit nervous. I am one step forward and three steps back with him at all times.

     To be confident, or to seem it? Ask me or ask your da and you'll get different answers. I am not the right person to ask, to know my story. I suspect that the Holly King never is - we spew so much shite and spin illusions around ourselves, that even being ourselves is difficult, let alone the telling. Suffice it to say, nephew, that I am most often a wreck of a man. Ask your da, or Tiernan, or Aeron, or your nainie.
     "Oes, well, now you're healed, you can return to the ring and see how many people cower before your insatiable blood lust." Gwilym is easily amused; it shows in the sparkle to his eye, his wit. Nervous, maybe. He didn't strike me as scared. Although he did strike me as rather sick with love. I'll lay you ten golden that he's sucking your brother's cock right now, or close to, if his headache allows. I may do him a disservice. Maybe they are even now discussing the political intricacies of the situation at hand. But my money's still on the cock-sucking.
     He chuckles, glancing out a window in passing. You need to stop living with mum and dad, oes? I had the same problem. When I ... came to be who and what I am ... I couldn't even overnight here anymore. I grant you I had other motivations as well, but so have y', haven't y'?

     That makes him laugh. And smile. He glances to you as you and he walk toward his chamber. Save your money, uncle. His amusement lingers even through his seriousness. I think I need to leave as soon as possible, yes. I still do not feel any place calling me. I don't know where I belong. I even asked Nainie for Avalon and The Flowering Tree and she turned me away. I wasn't sure how to take that at the time, still not. It's like... everything I say is ignored, every idea discounted. Here, I'm nothing. I'm not even the sun. I don't know what I am.
     There is a thoughtful look that moves across his face. "I will be going back tomorrow. I should have gone today. I could have saved myself some heartache. But... tomorrow I get back in the saddle. I can blow things up with purpose."
     Balthazar nods. I ... do have other motivations. I don't need to be sleeping, or not sleeping, between my brother's rooms and my fathers'. There's no privacy. There's no respect. And I am feeling restless and discounted. I'm also feeling like a bit of a dunce surrounded by MENSA members when it comes to politics. I'm taking lessons, if you can believe that. Or will be.

     You sure she turned you away? I notice you seem to be slightly out of sync, oes - but I think some of it is language. You're speaking a different dialect; you're still unsettled. Natural, considering. But why d'you want Avalon? D'you really want a kingdom of old men and sleeping kings tied to Britain and spiteful cats of women out to stab each other in the back? Hell, mum doesn't even spend all that much time there...
     Gwilym looks sidelong to you and nods. "Blowing things up has purpose," he agrees readily. "Y' should find some things which need to be blown up. Your da used to do it. Very therapeutic, I'm told."
     You're a King. Why're you begging for a kingdom, anyway? This area never existed on any maps until your da made it, breathed it into existence. You're his son and the son of an angel, even not counting that Irish bloke your da married, he grins again, quicksilver fast. Make yourself an island to start with. Somewhere in the east, so you can catch the sun on its rising. Build yourself a castle there. If you find you want some actual big kingdom attached to more, you can move it around, or build a new one. In the meantime, no real hardship to put in a backdoor for y' if you'd like me to, so you can get between here and there without too much fuss. Makes the morning commute a little less hellish.
     As for lessons, well, let me know if I can help, but, his hand comes up, lightning quick, to catch you on the back of your head. Not hard. Ass. Stop beating yourself up over your brains. Your da didn't raise any dunces. You managed to get to this age without being married, trapped, ostracized or gelded in the courts of the High King himself. So you're not privy to every last nuance of every courtly dance politic - just means you now know what you need to catch up on. You're the bloomin' Sun King, nephew! You only have to have two buttons: compassion and nuclear detonation. If one's not called for, the other probably is, oes? And oes, you can learn the rest.

     Well, if the stories are correct, it's sort of where Oak Kings go. Or so I thought. But then it ended up being a bit far. And... yeah, she gave me her polite non-answer, which is always no. I love her; she's a good woman. But the sun, for her, doesn't rise and set on my brow, uncle. She has bigger issues at the moment: he full womb and Bran's possible marriage. Everything else is a far distant third.
     "I am better when I sweat. Lying around just makes me irritable." He smiles a little, glancing to you. "I will probably feel better tomorrow..."
     Did my father feel drawn to this area? What made him choose this location over another? Did he dream, do you recall? I haven't felt, dreamed, envisioned anything. I thought... maybe I would be tugged in a certain direction, or that I'd feel something. But then it became Autumn. I was thinking, maybe the south. That way I could have both East and West suns somehow captured...
     His thoughts are interrupted as you hit the back of his head. Balthazar glances to you with a smirk, then shrugs. In comparison to everyone else around me, I feel like the slow one. He rolls an armored shoulder in a half shrug. I know I'm not stupid but... well, it is what it is. And I will need your help, uncle. I've been instructed to go seek you out for such. And the earring? It's a bit of a cheat sheet, though I haven't figured out how to use it yet. Whenever I ask it a political question, it tells me it doesn't compute. So as soon as I'm smart enough to ask an intelligent question of a robotic mosquito, I will give you a call.

     I don't know. He didn't tell me why he chose this place, although he showed it to me before anyone else. There is a withdrawn element to his 'tone'; memories weigh upon him heavily. D'you want me to talk to mum about Avalon and find out what's really up with that? But as for Oak Kings, maybe it's where they go. Or maybe it's where they've gone in the past. I don't think it's rooted in stone that you have to go there if you don't actually feel pulled and compelled there.
     He grins at you sidelong, draping his arm around your shoulders. "Go break a few bones," Gwilym advises. "Not yours, 'course. It'll do you a world o' good. Nothing quite like it for letting off stress." He pauses. "You probably don't want to do it the way I do it, 'course."
     And I can sing and I can play the guitar, but you leave me in the dust. It's what we practice, where our interests have always been most strongly rooted, by choice or circumstance. Sounds like your robo-bug isn't smart enough to keep up with your questions, actually. Which in away is good. Means you're smarter than it. But also means y' need to dumb down your questions so it can keep up with you. Puts you in a higher class than 101.
     He lets his arm fall, stepping back and looking to you. "Going to go to that now, then? If so, I will see you soon. Try not to lose me any money when I put it on you." He grins wickedly. "You know how to reach me."

     No need regarding Avalon. I've moved on from that. Better to start over, a place of my own, I think. Were I to go there, I'd be going from mum and da's to grandmum and grandda's. Not exactly independent. No, I think I just need to cut the strings and be done. I'll sort it out. Ani's probably creating something overly complicated, he smiles fondly at that. But he has a flair for the extraordinarily practical. So, I'm going to see where he is with the plans and then... go from there.
     Balthazar gives you a look as your arm surrounds him, then leaves him. "No, not today. I think I would rather work out my frustrations a bit more.... tenderly. Madison is due home in about an hour. Some exertion is better than others. So... what is your method?"
     It is an honestly curious question. He is on your path, simply the well-lit, golden version of it. The self-doubt and recrimination, the need for balance and energy, the need to explode -- these are all the same feelings you have felt (and do still feel).
     Balthazar turns to you. He smiles. "Your money will be safe, I think. And... I do," he murmurs. You have always been a good support for me. And I thank you, uncle. Perhaps soon, I shall not take so much preparation and work.

     He smiles at your question. "I? I go on a rampage and I fuck everyone in my line of sight," Gwilym answers you blithely. "Until I burn it out of my system, or..."
     He doesn't finish the sentence. You do not need to know how that ends up. Nobody needs to know his demons. He smiles at you. Stop runnin' yourself down. It's a huge adjustment. I ran from my throne for years, y'know. And even after I took it, I went through more changes and incarnations. It's not normal for us to have to undergo such transformations. Why would it go quickly? We hardly start out knowing who and what we are, and then it all changes on us.
     He steps back, drawing his sword with a jaunty salute to you. "Until next time, then, oes? Give your young lady," he winks, "my regards. Or save 'em for yourself. Oes, perhaps that's best. I'd best get back to work, m'self. My lads and I've some work to do."
     Oh, boyos...
     He rips a hole in reality with the edge of his sword, stepping through it; the rip shudders and then is gone, the Holly King with it.

Posted by rowan at December 03, 2009 01:33 AM