For all the topsy-turvy happening in the hallways at the changing of guards, the changing of servant shifts, the dancing of diplomats and the ever-spinning wheels of Gossip and Rumor down the marble halls, the library and offices of the Crown Prince and High King are remarkably quiet. The Crown Prince and High King are not in their offices and the neighboring royal library is vacant...
     ...But for one very quiet King (and prince)...
     Balthazar stands near one of the arched windows, watching the progression of the sun from Afternoon toward Twilight. It is still some hours before sunset. He is clothed in armor, the skin of the Sun King seeming spun gold from the sun itself. His upper body is in fitted gild chain, the plate from the earlier race removed. But the metallic kilt and girdle and the armored boots remain. A shoulder to the wall next to the glass, he shimmers, radiant in his reflection. His amber lashes are lowered, his gaze seeming on the horizon but actually lingering on his thoughts and his heart.
     One the grand marble table, the centerpiece of the main library area, are topography and geologic maps of his father's islands, the large velum sheets as ageless as the High King himself, unfolded; his studies interrupted.

     There is a crackle of lightning arching across the sky. That's odd, considering the light of rain; and it's not hot enough for heat lightning. There it is again - a little closer this time. It seems to fade away, though, leaving the sky empty again of anything which wasn't there before.
     And then something drops down in front of you, on the other side of the glass. 'It' is clothed in black silk and black leather, all of it rather snug; 'it' has strawberry-blonde hair that moves on its own, like Medusa's snakes. 'It' is also hovering in mid-air and surrounded by a thin, blue-white glow that seems to come from the eyes and extend outwards to envelope the skin and leather and silk like a thin film.
     "Open the window, please, Prince Balthazar," Gillian West calls, voice as icy as a winter storm. "I have some words to share with you." Her fists are clenched and also glowing. She doesn't look nearly as relaxed as she had over lunch in Oxford.

     At the dropping of the figure in front of his face, the general (as well as King and Prince) snaps to attention, his thoughts dissolving. There is no fear, no matter that you're Statica, Queen of Lightning at the moment. Balthazar reaches up to unhinge the windows, his golden eyes on you. Your movements are marked, your body language, your stance. And he opens the window anyway.
     "Actually, it's King Balthazar. If you are going to scold me, let's be titularly correct." For all of your supercharged anger, Balthazar seems calm (it is actually subdued). He folds his arms against his chest, his armored shoulder given to the wall once more. And he waits for you to say... or do... whatever it is you have come here to do.
     He faces you without hesitation, without dread, as if you were the Abyss of the Future Itself. Solemnly, Balthazar looks to you, his wings unfolding from the aether, in their golds and ripened blush.

     "Brave words from a man in metal armor," Gillian snaps back icily. She flies in through the open window, dropping to land with a quiet thump on the floor. "If you were going to take it slow and easy with my sister, that'd be one thing, but what's the big deal of dragging her all the way here and getting her worked up and then going oh, hey, let's take it slow? I've half a mind to bloody your nose, you tremendous - you - ooh! I'm so mad I'm reverting to Elizabethan slurs!"
     She is angry, her eyes snapping, electricity hissing and popping in an aura all around her. Overhead, stormclouds are slowly filtering in to diffuse the afternoon sun. She folds her arms tightly over her chest, tilting her head back to glower at you better. "You're just lucky I was raised not to hit people without giving them a chance to speak in their own defense first!"

     Balthazar tilts his head slightly, and the armor is gone. It is replaced by charcoal grey pants and a fitted saffron colored sweater. "That's not what I said to her." Balthazar pushes off the wall, turning calmly toward the table. A service of tea appears. The more angry you are, the calmer he becomes, and the more quiet. "I love her, Gillian." He pauses. "Would you like to have a seat and really speak about it? Or do you just want to hurl curses at me? I can go either way. Just... I'd like to know if you'd like a cup of tea. I just don't want to wear it."
     Balthazar takes a seat beside the table, legs wide, his elbows resting on his thighs. He looks to his hands. "Things ... progressed differently than I thought they would. For me." He looks to you. "And my trajectory rapidly changed. She's not ready to be a queen, a wife, a mother. And my forcing her to do this ahead of her time wouldn't be fair to her...or to me. So...I suggested we spend some time apart. I need to build my kingdom. She needs to experience life. I didn't break up with her. It's not like I'm going to be seeing other women."
     He sits back, looking at you squarely. "I really do care for her. But... I want to settle down. I want a wife. I want children. And you're right... I should have thought of these things before now. I didn't. I have to live with that." Balthazar inclines his head. The wounds are fresh. He opens his arms, his hands. So go ahead, it says, say whatever you have to say. Throw your curses.

     She sits down, arms still folded. "Don't be ridiculous. If I were going to throw things at you, I wouldn't have warned you first," Gillian retorts. She listens to you, stony-faced. It doesn't really mollify her, but she does listen. "I'm glad you realize that it's your fault, at least. She's been crying for hours and she's convinced that this means you two will break up."
     She taps one booted toe against the other ankle. "She's also convinced it means we're going to end up going out again." Gillian narrows her eyes. "I suppose because she figures I'm older, and closer to being in the sort of position you mention. In any case, I'm glad you're not going to be dating other women. Usually, where we're from, 'taking a break' does mean 'seeing other people'."

     He pauses to pour you a cup of tea (how very British of him) and then one for himself. There is a half-smirk of ironic humor, and he looks at you. "There are three reasons that can't happen: I'm in love with your sister; you're involved with my uncle; and if you had been remotely interested in me as a person, Maddie wouldn't be in a palace bedroom crying in the first place."
     Balthazar takes a sip of the tea, but then sets it aside. It really was primarily for you. "We may break up. We may not. I don't know. It depends on where and how we both land. She needs to figure out who and what she wants to be and do. I have to figure out what sort of king to be, what ideals to champion, how to build it, what it all means. When I started seeing her, Gillian, I could never have imagined all of this. I was running from all of this. I had no interests in politics. That was always my brother's realm, his art form." He pauses, discomfort in his face. She's not the only one who is in pain. "But things are different now. And she needed to have the choice, don't you think? Of being a queen. Of being a mother, a wife, a partner. Or... doing something else. How unhappy would we have been had I proposed to her as I had planned, only to learn in a few months that we were not on the same road. At least this way, she has options. At least this way, you know, maybe the pain will not be so great if it does not work out."
     Balthazar chuckles at the thought of dating other women. "After the West Sisters, I think I need a rest, don't you?" His gaze lingers then lowers to his hands. His amber eyebrows lift. "So... no. No other women. I've expressly refused any and all comers. I am a ... one at a time kind of guy," he says, his gaze returning to Gillian. He shrugs a little. "I didn't intend on hurting her. I feel really horrible, if it's any help or consolation to you. If you want to make me feel more horrible, give it your best shot..."

     Now she looks like she wants to fling the tea in your face. "Excuse me? Remotely interested in you as a person? I'm the one who tried staying friends, Balthazar. We went on what, like, four dates? Don't put this on me."
     The cup clatters down forcefully onto its saucer, and she stares at you steadily. She is both hurt and insulted, now. "Okay. So you screwed up by not doing things in the right order. And you feel horrible. That doesn't change the fact that you pushed her away instead of involving her in this process. I'm not here to make you feel horrible, so take off your whiny martyrdom pants right now." She slaps her palm on the table, making sparks shower and fade away.
     "I didn't want to date you because as much as I liked you as a friend, I couldn't see it working out. You wanted to be a rock star. I wanted to be a world-renowned archeologist. Things change, and neither of us are where we were then, but for the love of God, are you really going to sit there and be more Emo McTightPants than you were when we were going out? I'm appalled."
     Gillian stands, ignoring the tea and drawing an arc of lightning around herself like a cape. It hovers against the air, then dissipates, allowing her to harmlessly dispel some of the energy generated by her anger. "If you really want a relationship with my sister - with any woman! - try making them a part of the dialogue instead of talking to them once and then going that's it, time-out, I'm running away now, I'll come back when you're more grown-up than you are now and when I've got my stuff together. My relationship with your uncle has nothing to do with my relationship with your sister, or it shouldn't. My interest in you shouldn't, either - the only part of that argument should be that you're in love with my sister, and not with me. And if you want to know how I feel, try asking instead of fucking assuming."
     Oh, she is steamed. Blue-white arcs again, and she stomps over to the windows, hurling them open wide and frying a passing pigeon to dissipate more of the energy. "Mere words cannot express how incredibly angry I am with you now, Balthazar. Climb down off the cross, it's taken."

     "You weren't fucking involved in the conversation." His own anger flares, much as the sun does, and he rises. And he follows you, his stride covering the distance quickly, though he's not running, he's not lunging at you. He's merely large with a sizable stride.
     "You haven't been here. You're not her and you're not me. Where the hell do you get off telling me how I should handle relationships? Because you're so good at them? Because you're obviously the goddamned expert, Gillian. You know all about running, do you not?"
     He is not intimated by your power. Rather, your show of power only serves to add to his irritation. His voice is quiet as he moves to stand so close to you that he can feel the static... and you can feel the heat. "I love your sister. But she is not ready. And she cannot get ready for what I need her to be able to do if I am around her." His voice is the hiss of water steaming. "I am not pushing her away. But she needs both the freedom and the space to become whatever it she is going to become, even as I must do. And you can stop the theatrics, Bette Davis. I'll hop off the cross the moment you put down your script."
     Balthazar is calm even in his furor. "I am not in love with you, Gillian West," he says it plainly, simply, without embellishment. His face, beautiful, incandescent in his emotion. "And I don't appreciate your tone, your attitude or your disrespect. May I remind you that this... is not London or Boston. Do you understand?"

     "I'm not DOING theatrics." Her voice rises. "Maybe your power came with an instruction manual, but mine didn't, and in the interests of not electrocuting you, myself, or anybody else, I'm bleeding it off! When I figure out how to just turn it off, I will. And I never said you were in love with me." She gives you a mystified flat stare. "I know this isn't London or Boston. I'm here for one reason; for my sister's sake."
     She turns away sharply and goes to the window again, hopping out of it and hanging there in mid-air as she turns to you. "Fuck you, Balthazar. You made the decision for her, without consulting if she felt it was needed. And you keep jumping into judgment - on me, on her, on what's going on - without ever stopping to ask questions. Maybe I don't have all the answers - and I never said I did - but at least I care enough to try to find them out. You don't appreciate my tone? Then you don't have to deal with it. Goodbye."

     "Bullshit!"
     His voice reverberates in the great library, the sound bouncing off the marble. And guards, most likely, are on their way. And perhaps one or two of the family. "I didn't make the decision for her. I made the suggestion. I think it's the right thing to do, personally. And it is, quite frankly, none of your goddamned business. I'm jumping to judgement? Who's the one throwing names? I was having a civil fucking conversation. I was. You flew into hysterics. You came here like Zeus with your lightning in hand, and your self-righteous West bullshit."
     You can float; he can fly. He stands on the windowsill, unconcerned with the height as he stands there on the precipice -- on the heels of your pending departure. "I recommend that you stop projecting. Then perhaps you would achieve some balance. But then, if you couldn't project, you might not be able to communicate at all."

     She reacts as if slapped, tears springing into her eyes. "Then maybe you'd better make sure she knows you didn't make it for her," Gillian answers quietly. Her lower lip trembles, but her voice is rock steady, glacially so. "As for projecting? Pot, meet kettle."
     She whirls away before the flood can do more than show its arrival, darting off and dropping like a stone.

     Balthazar? Tiernan's tone is concerned. Small wonder. Do I need the guards to break open the doors?

     Stepping off the windowsill, Balthazar slams the window shut. He really shouldn't be allowed near glass. The window shatters, becoming little chips of color. He crouches on the balls of his feet, hands to his head as the Persian expletives fly.
     Maybe the Sun King shouldn't be surrounded by flammable objects such as priceless books and maps...
     Steam and residual static fill the line of his thoughts, no words expressed in answer to the call for concern. No. He finally says. It is far too simple. Far too final. And obviously furious. Frowning, Balthazar pivots, and a wave of his hand restores the glass.
     As the door is opened by guards, Balthazar is alone, clothed in armor once more. He marches past them, and the Royal Guards steps quickly back to dodge the fiery wings, startled by royal anger rarely seen.
     I am beginning to understand Gruffydd's preference for men. The tone is biting, edged with fire. Gillian West not only makes me want to love her sister less, she really makes a wonderful case for homosexuality.

     ...Ah. It's not often your father is reduced to speechless monosyllables, but you've managed it. Tiernan sighs from his position in his office and pulls open a drawer. From the drawer he takes a bottle of Excedrin, brought over from his last trip to America. He carefully shakes out three tablets and chases them down with water. Only then does he say anything further.
     Try not to do anything which will require diplomatic interventions, Balthazar. If you were younger, he'd be telling you to go to bed early. Where are you headed now?

     I'm going to go kill pirates. I may set Shadows on fire. In short, wherever she's not. Guards bow and servants scatter. Oh, Gossip and Rumor are taking flight. Flying lightning maidens! An angry lovers' quarrel!
     Balthazar no longer cares...
     Uncle says father used to blow things out of the water when he would fight with you. Sounds thrilling. I won't need cannons. It'll be economic.

     He did. Tiernan answers you quietly. And sometimes innocent people get hurt in the crossfire, Balthazar. I am not going to give you orders. You are old enough to make your own decisions. But I am asking you not to do anything you will regret. I will be in my office all night if you need me.
     Resignedly, he pulls the drawer open. He can't take more for another six hours. It isn't going to be enough.

     And it stops him long enough to think, and thinking dissipates the inferno, cutting off the oxygen of his own infuriation. His fists clench, his jaw sets and he steps through fire to appear in his father's office.
     He is sitting in the chair across from him, his wings burning without igniting. Balthazar frowns, leaning to one side in the chair, one leg stretched out. He looks relaxed.
     See? He can pretend.

     Tiernan is a trifle surprised by this. He closes the drawer again and looks across at you. "Would you care for a drink, Balthazar?" he inquires gently. Though he is youthened from what he was, right now he feels every minute of his age. Somehow, it shows, in his eyes and around the corners.

     "I don't think I need to be around anything flammable at the moment," he calmly states. "I just need five blessed minutes of someone not telling me how to live my life or casting judgement on me, calling me a martyr, heartless," he begins counting it out on his fingers, "...appalling...Emo McTightPants...bad at relationships, I'm running out of fingers..."
     His lowers his hands, his arms landing on the arms of the chair audibly. "Oh, immature, I forgot one. Like she's a prize. If I had any residual feelings for Gillian West, they've been converted to disgust, anger and tremendous dislike."

     An eyebrow slides up. Emo McTightPants? Tiernan doesn't comment on it, however. He sighs and takes out a bottle of brandy. "I am not going to defend her to you, and especially in your current mood," he calmly states. "I take it she found out that her little sister is upset, and likely overreacted." He shrugs. Americans.
     He pours you a drink, then slides it to you and rises to his feet. "I am going to call your father in," he says, still calmly, "but I think that this may be a good time for you to go to your islands and begin work on your kingdom. Do you disagree?"

     "I don't think I'm in the mood for anything constructive at the moment." Balthazar is quiet, folding his wings to seem less bellicose as he sips at the brandy. "She found out, yes. Flew into the library, sparking lightning everywhere. Gets up in my face, like I work for her, and then castigates me for the next fifteen minutes. I attempted to have a civil conversation, was honest about my feelings and my not wanting to break up with her sister or hurt her for Christ's sake, and all of the sudden I'm projecting, I'm immature, I'm making decisions for Madison..."
     He starts getting angry about it all over again. Balthazar goes quiet, attempting to breathe to calm himself down. He takes a swallow of brandy, then sets the glass aside.

     He holds up a hand. "Balthazar," Tiernan says calmly and evenly, "I do not think it is healthy or constructive for you to relive the argument in play-by-play. I am sorry that it did not go well; that is, however, to be expected. She is the youngest, and we've seen that they do pull together in times of crisis. This might not have been a crisis, but it clearly has been perceived as one. And," there is a ghost of a smile, "before, you were complaining about distance between the West siblings. It looks as if you've found a way of breaching that."
     He shakes his head, turning from you for a moment. More drama between Balthazar and the Wests. Apparently Gillian West's arrived and found out about Balthazar putting things on hold and is very displeased on Madison's behalf. I have talked Balthazar out of going and blowing ships out of the water. I may need you to come down and take over for me, however. I will let you know.
     He turns back to you, still looking calm and weary. "You come from a large family, Balthazar, of very opinionated people. There are Irish and Welsh lines in your family, with a smattering of other, equally opinionated bloodlines. I realize that it can be difficult to put up with at times, but it is better than the alternative of having no one who cares for you and loves you. I think it would be as well if you can hold onto that, son."
     He adds silently to his husband, Your son seems to be a throwback to his grandfather. I suddenly understand aspects of the family history much better.

     They do say it skips a generation. I am on my way. You've done enough today. Five minutes.
     Balthazar snorts a laugh. "Be careful what you wish for. Yes. I remember." Wearily, he slumps down into the chair, his eyes going to the ceiling, or maybe up to God. His hands rest on his armored stomach, fingers interlacing. He chews and swallows words that won't be helpful. He quiets; he listens. "I am not ungrateful for the love and concern of my family," Balthazar says after a moment. "I don't like being disrespected in my own house. Well, the house where I live. I understand Madison is hurt. I'm the one who hurt her. And I am hurting, too. This isn't easy for me. I have a ring in my room in want of a finger that now shall not have a place to sit. I have a kingdom I have built for a young lady who may well never visit it." His eyes go brassy bright again with his own pain and frustration. "I understand I'm the villain today. I get it."
     He closes his eyes, shaking his head. "I'm going to go... work on re-imagining things. I can't think here today..."

     It is good timing. The door to the office opens, and Iowerth pops his head in to see if one or more of you are here. He sees Balthazar rising. "It's rather toasty in here," he remarks. "Have a seat. Let's cool off together, shall we?"

     Tiernan smiles faintly to his husband, but with some gratitude beneath it. I thought it was adolescence which was supposed to bring these kinds of upsets. Aloud, he says, "She has always seemed a reasoning sort of young woman, although a young woman of passion and fire of her own. I am unsurprised that she exploded at you. After all, she has had it building for some time, hasn't she?"
     He slides his chair in. "No doubt she will regret it when she's cooled off. Depending, of course..." Tiernan lets it trail off. He isn't interested in getting into it. He goes to kiss Iowerth's cheek. I realize that our children think my patience is nearly endless, and that they find themselves sometimes at odds with my comprehension of others' points of view. I suspect if I remain, I will only end up setting him off again, Io. Deus... sometimes I wonder how you and I ever stayed together long enough to find ourselves where we are now, remembering back. But the young are blind, aren't they?

     I'm still somewhat myopic. But yes, the younger the eyes, the less they actually see. But...let us remember that he has had an emotional day. Expecting him to be cool as a cucumber is a bit unrealistic. But... I know you are at your wit's end. Iowerth smiles to Tiernan, a warm smile -- and sympathetic -- as Tiernan kisses his cheek. He takes a moment to return it. I love you.
     Iowerth looks then between his husband and his middle son as Tiernan speaks. "I understand that you and Gillian had a contentious discussion," Iowerth says seriously to his son. "I'm sorry. I'm sure that's not what you needed today."
     Balthazar looks to his father. "I could have done without it, yes."
     Iowerth smiles understandingly, and puts a hand to his son's shoulder. "Blowing up pirates is a good release. But it's not really what you want to do. It's not your style. I think, instead, meditation." He gives his son's shoulder a shake. "You are emotional, your nerves are all bared, and she did an American jazz routine on them, I know. I recommend you spend some time with the houri. Sing. Whatever it is you wish to do to channel your energy, Balthazar. And...your father and I will speak with Gillian. Not to smooth this over -- that we must leave to you both -- but we will have a constructive dialog and see what we can resolve. I am sorry about your loss, son. Truly. I know what it feels like. I was inconsolable. I didn't blow up pirates, but I did cause the sea to open up and swallow them whole. I know what you're feeling. I know why. I've felt it." Iowerth gives his son another pat to the shoulder, a grab and a squeeze there.
     Balthazar looks to his fathers, sighing the remainder of his anger away. Raw heartache is what's left behind. And some embarrassment. "I don't know that I want to be around hundreds of unattainable women just at the moment. But... point taken, father." He looks to his Papa Tiernan, apology in his face. "I'm going to go. Perhaps I'll just sleep off the rest of this day and start fresh again tomorrow..."

     And I love you. Tiernan smiles slightly to his husband, then nods to his son. "Sleep has served me well a few times in the past. Whatever else you do, though, Balthazar," he leans down to pat your shoulder, "remember to be kind. To yourself, and to others; even when you do not feel like it. It is a heavy burden, but you are much more powerful than most, now; and it is the burden of the powerful."
     He straightens up. I keep taking aspirin and wanting more.

     Balthazar accepts what his father says, though at the moment he does not feel very charitable. "Yes, father. I will send apologies to Gillian for my reaction." He doesn't want to, but he will. He doesn't want to be nice to her at the moment. It is getting weary to be the big person every single second of every single day. He bows his head to his father's. "If you don't mind, sirs..."
     Iowerth looks at his son a long while, glancing to Tiernan. "Of course, Your Majesty," the High King says to his son. "I will see you later. Come for dinner." That is not a request.

     Tiernan bows to his son slightly. "Rest well, Balthazar," he answers quietly. He is so tired. But he is gallant and patient to a fault. Even when he wants to strangle his loved ones.
     Still, perhaps it's just as well there are no laden sea chests in the room...

     The door closes and Iowerth looks to you with upraised eyebrows. "This is going to be a long night. I recommend something stronger than aspirin. So... I suppose we should visit with Gillian..."

     "If we must." Tiernan sighs. "Do we have any heroin?" He straightens, rubbing his forehead, and begins moving for the door without truly waiting for an answer.

Posted by rowan at January 07, 2010 12:39 PM