Red lounge clothing morphed into a more familiar suit jacket, jeans, and t-shirt combination. The hand raking through cinnamon hair burnishes it with fiery light and musses it this way and that. Sparks linger in the air around him as he rubs his face in frustration...
     Gruffydd... I need to see you immediately...meet me in the sitting room...
     Hello... how are you. I am well... these are normal salutations, Balthazar. Elsewhere in the private library, lavender eyes lift from a row of books and to the insubstantial air and the specter of his younger brother's agitation. Do tell: what has you marching down the halls like a Young Mars?
     Balthazar ascends the staircase of the northeast turret, steps two by two by two. A matter of state. I am being serious...
     Clearly. Very well. I will be there momentarily.
     On the second floor of the private family tower where guests are never housed, there is a grand sitting room full of the treasures of India and the near and far east. It is private, confidential. None but the former or present high king and assorted family members would ever linger there. A modern man, dressed as a Londoner, he seems oddly suited to a room of such treasures. Balthazar heads to the bar and pours three drinks.
     Yes... three...
     Eyes on the amber liquid, the color close to his eyes, Balthazar communes with the fire contained within. Uncle Gwilym. It is a call that reverberates Near and Far. In the Shadows there flies a meteor, a flare gun shot from the Sun King himself. I need a conference with you, if you're not too busy...
     In umbral realms, the sparks of that meteor linger, becoming small comets, trailing out to fireflies before dispersing altogether, his voice a honeyed reverberation in each and every flame.

     Hmmm? From Somewhere That Is Not Here, Gwilym rolls over in his bed. Naked skin moves against silk sheets, whispering intimacy and sensual dreams as he rises from a nap that began as an intended snooze and turned into hours of sex and gameplay. On the plus side, he is more than merely refreshed. Ah. Sure thing. Just me or should I bring a slide projector?
     Something is bothering you. You wouldn't be calling him if it wasn't, because you never do call him just to call him. Gwilym shrugs it off, letting it roll off his shoulders as he looks himself in a full length mirror and clothes himself with Thought. Black leather armor forms itself over his skin, leaving off helm but keeping cloak and sword. His hair is shorn short for the moment, so that not one but two emerald eyes are sharply visible and keenly alert.
     Aeron, he calls. I am meeting with the Sun King-to-be. He has something up his ass again. You don't need to come, but I may need you after, depending on how it goes. Can you make sure Loki's kept busy for the duration?
     And he steps through shadows, which open for him, caressing him with tongues of darkness in his passage. I am on his way, he informs his nephew. Ready, ready or not...

     I leave that up to you, uncle, comes the voice of Balthazar. It stirs like incense, leaving behind the scent of cinnamon and myrrh and amber. Resined tendrils of thought drift, invite, and curl like smoke....

     ...Leaning back on a rock of Asgard, Aeron watches the fireworks of his nephew's announcement and eating the reddest of apples. It stands out against the blackness of shadows and forgotten kingdoms. A dark red eyebrow lifts, joined by its twin, as the voice of his Triad calls out to him. You know how I love to entertain your ward, he replies with grand, sardonic flair. He pitches the apple core to the endless maw of dark matter, turning as it dissolves into sugared Nothing...

     Gruffydd closes the door to the sitting room behind him. He is again in a mixture of cobalt and violet, leather and silken cotton, the fabrics suited for the Otherworld while the vestments more suited for this world. Grace and strength are perfectly balanced, and upon his face curiosity seems more serene wonder. "Balthazar..." He pauses in consideration of his brother. To the shimmering air around him. To the electricity of Love and Desire that blares off him like light and radiation from the sun. "Or should I say, your majesty?"

     "I'm not sure what you should say," Balthazar holds out a glass to his elder, far more majestic brother. His mouth is tugged neither in smile nor frown but in some middle, neutral and uncertain territory. "But... thanks, I guess. I've called Uncle Gwilym as well. What I would like to discuss concerns all of us." He pours the third and final glass, then sets the bottle aside. His skin becomes gold brushed, gleaming. His skin resonant with honey. The air around him hums and twirls like adoring bees.
     Taking his glass, Gruffydd then takes a seat. He calmly sips at the golden drink...

     Oes, oes, well, he won't be alone, at least, so maybe you'll have some eye candy to watch or sommat. Gwilym speaks to his lover, his servant, his brother and his Raven all at the same time as he smiles to himself at the thought. I'll keep you posted.
     He passes through darkness, coming out the other side, coalescing from the shadows into the sitting room. Where Balthazar is sunlight and warmth itself, he is the absence of light. Between them are cast strange and writhing shadows that take forms of their owns and dissipate again, unnoticed.
     "Oh, good. Drinks," the Holly King says cheerily. "Afternoon, Gruffydd. Balthazar. Nice day for it, oes?"

     Three glasses, three kings. Balthazar turns to his uncle, pivoting to offer him the glass generously full of honey brandy. He shudders, his eyes masting a moment as he exhales and unpacks his wings. They stretch wide and high before tucking back with another shudder. It is not pain. The centeredness he had achieved upon waking, upon meditating, is now scattered, the sun storms returned. His energy flares, he yet unaccustomed, unpracticed at commanding it.
     "Sorry for the short notice," Balthazar says, food shimmering into existence around both of you. "But thanks for coming. Uncle... brother. I think the three of us need to talk about the ones we've recently chosen. I ... think we are on the cusp of a harmonic ... or non-harmonic as the case may be... convergence. Convergence," his mouth tilts, "...collision. Whatever it may be. At least two of us," amber-cinnamon eyes look from his uncle to his older brother, "...have only recently revealed themselves to their... respective... lovers. And the third," he looks to his uncle, "...Loki... knows about me as well. But I am struggling..." Balthazar waves his hand and frowns, "I guess that's obvious, right? With how to ... explain or... provide context. Along with everything else. What about you?" That is said to Gruffydd.

     Gruffydd looks directly to his brother, the serenity undisturbed. "I have chosen a consort, uncle. My ...Tiernan... if you will. It is Maddie's brother and your charge's friend. Now that we are all on the same page," he murrs with upraised eyebrows. We are on the same page now, oes? "I fully intend on giving Preston the crash course in the Universe As We Know It," Gruffydd notes. He glances to Gwilym. "If you think it would help, I am happy to run a master class on it. The entire family can join in." Gruffydd looks in his glass, head tilted to watch the golden liquid slide against the crystal.

     He takes the glass with a grin, watching his nephews with an interested alertness and moving to lean back against a wall. "Diolch," Gwilym salutes with the glass. At least it's not apple brandy. "Hello and glad to see you're doing well, oes. Context? Hm. Context is always tricky and shaded, you should know."
     He looks between Gruffydd and Balthazar, eyebrows going up. Oho. "Consorts can be useful. Tiernan has always served your da well in that context, although he was more of a husband than consort. But nobody expects you to be your da, as I'm sure you know." Gwilym takes a sip of the brandy again, seeming interested but not particularly perturbed. Of course, what reason would he have to be disturbed by it?
     "A class might not be a bad idea, though before we get into the details of that, let's hammer out the basis, oes? What ... exactly ... needs to be established, first of all?"

     "In this case, uncle, it rather is like husband. If all goes well," Gruffydd says, sipping at the brandy. "Maria and I have discussed it," he says more for Balthazar's information than Gwilym's. "She approves of it. In fact, it is upon her recommendation. But it is early yet. The offer has been made and accepted, funnily enough."

     Balthazar is not in a very funny place. "I think we ought to, at least for Maddie and Preston, start at the beginning. God made the universe and such," he takes a seat upon the edge of the sofa. "I don't know how much you want Loki to know. He is doing better. He's helped me this week. Not that it shows. But that's more my problem than any failing on his part." Now that elicits a wry smile.
     Holding himself in, capping the corona that is him, makes him twitchy and uncomfortable, uneasy and uncertain. Balthazar rises in the next moment, pacing to the windows to overlook the garden. Light finds him, wherever he is, and spotlights him. He can't hide, even though he wants to. "She's pretty accepting really but I can tell you for a fact that Preston isn't. He's confused, unable and unwilling to take assistance. Hates me, by the way, so thanks for that," he quips to his brother. "As if sleeping with his sixteen year old baby sister wasn't bad enough, he now blames me for taking everything else that was his: Loki, Gillian, Maddie. The only consolation seems to be that he's soon to outrank me. Maybe if he understood who we are better... it would help him adjust. Loki, too, really. He might have an even better grasp on matters if he understood more about it, the universe, and where we are within it. Maddie?" Balthazar exhales and shrugs.

     "So is this conversation, brother, for them or for you?" Gruffydd wonders quietly, suddenly. He glances to his uncle with an upraised brow. It is mostly rhetorical. Mostly.

     He looks between brothers and eyes them with the internal weariness of a man who's never had kids. "Time out." Gwilym does the internationally recognized signal for it of the tee of hands. "One thing at a time. Balthazar, you're upset. Fair. Sounds as if you may have reason t' be, but taking it out on your brother isn't exactly helping you make your point, oes? One thing at a time."
     He takes up his drink. It is going to be a long afternoon. A long swallow follows the thought, and he puts on his patient face, much like pulling on a ski mask. "All right. First things first. Leave Loki out of it, leave Maddie out of it. Preston West III seems at least largely a crux for your current plaint, Balthazar. Begin there, at the beginning, and let Gruffydd answer. Or let Gruffydd begin and then you answer, I don't care which, but you're going to sit and listen to one another and if I have to mediate so be it."
     His hand drops to touch his sword. Duw. Io, you're going to owe me.

     "It's not for me," Balthazar retorts, the rest of it halted by the call for Time Out. He rakes a hand through his hair, fingers rubbing at his scalp. His shoulder jerks a little at the end of it, ending in his arms folding at his chest. He is quiet for a time -- Gruffydd is relaxed in his chair, waiting -- and then Balthazar turns, his back given to the view of the garden. "It's not for me," he repeats, far more level in tone. "He's struggling with his sexuality, his family's demands, and the sudden realization that we exist. I'm not telling you anything you don't know," he says to Gruffydd.

     "That is true," Gruffydd evenly replies.

     "I can't really leave Maddie and Loki out of it," Balthazar continues, turning toward Gwilym. "The problem is... they all think they're alone, that they are the only ones grappling with this problem, this information, this new reality. They're friends, old friends. They could help one another if they knew. Now... Preston has no intention of ever talking to either one of them about it. Of the three, he'd handle it most poorly, in my opinion," he rolls out with a look to his brother. "And maybe it would help him realize that I haven't taken anything from him. I'm really not looking forward to having to deal with his hatred ...or whatever it is... in two realities. That sort of stereo I can do without..."

     "Your point is a good one, Balthazar. I'm not arguing with you," Gruffydd quietly insists. He pauses and pivots his chair toward his uncle. "I intend to speak with him tonight and tomorrow. I will be covering a lot of ground in a short amount of time. I believe he can handle it. He does tend to sell himself short. That seems to be a family trait. Like our charm and loquaciousness."

     He listens, slouching down into a chair with the unconscious ease of the sword being an extension of his body, watching both of his nephews and settling his arms on the arms of the chair. "Sounds as if speaking to him is the first thing to be done, oes," Gwilym agrees with a shrug. "Selling one's self short is sometimes a trait in this family, too. It's something to keep in mind." And Balthazar gets a direct look at that.
     "So. What do we actually need to address? Hatred, oes? Why does he hate you? For that matter, why d'you think he hates you?"

     "Because he said I was lucky that he didn't actively want me dead. I believe that's how he put it." He glances to Gruffydd and to Gwilym in separate turns. "He said there is no way that I can right the wrong of going behind his back with his sister. There is no room for reconciliation or forgiveness, really. And while in one breath he said he didn't blame me for taking everything that was once his, he repeatedly pointed out that I had done so. I'm pretty sure he doesn't like me," Balthazar smirks at that. "The fact that he didn't want to take my hand in an honest shake, with pretty much open hostility and disdain..."

     "... is a problem," Gruffydd nods. He rises, finally, with an exhalation. "I will speak with him, Balthazar. However, given your statements, I don't believe a joint gathering would be productive or in his best interest. Would it be helpful for them to each know that the others know? Oes... it would. But it's not something we can force, brother. As for Maddie, simply do your best. She seems, from what you say, willing to listen and accept." He glances between you both. "If that is all," he begins, "... I should find my consort and begin the Great Head Straightening..."

     The family trait comment hasn't sunk in. That, too, comes naturally. "I just would like to avoid a nuclear meltdown. Well... as much as possible anyway," Balthazar notes quietly. He is frowning now, his mood souring by the moment. "Maybe they will, you know, remember that they're related, or friends. I suggested they all spend time together, without us, for a day. Might do them all good, really. Anyway, that was all I had, just a suggestion."

     Gruffydd studies his brother for a long moment. "The suggestion was appropriate. I am glad you brought this to my attention." He pauses. "You're too hard on yourself, Balthazar. You will be fine. You do not believe me," he smiles a little, already seeing his brother tense up. "Too stubborn. Uncle," Gruffydd pivots to face Gwilym. "Perhaps you can speak with him and convince him. I believe Preston will be the easier to convince..."

     Again he holds up his hands. Time out. "Something you both need to keep in mind, I think. I realize I risk losing the title of the cool uncle by saying this, but have either of y' taken into account that the lad is just that - a boy?"
     Gwilym furrows his eyebrows at both of them. "He's eighteen. And American. And I'm not making excuses, mind, and it's sommat he has to get over - but both of those aren't exactly in his favor, for sorting out this shite. And he's had a few ... issues himself. Now," he points at Balthazar, "that isn't saying you don't have a point. You do. But it's also worth thinking about in the sense that this 'hatred' may not be so fixed in stone as all that."

     By Gruffydd's expression, one might accurately infer that he finds birthplace irrelevant. However, on the rest of the points he is in agreement, his assessment being the same. "I have taken it into account," that mouth forms a spreading curl. Into account, yes, and into his bed. "He is very young," Gruffydd quietly agrees, looking to his brother again. "And he needs a great deal of preparation and instruction. And time, and I believe space, within which to become confident and comfortable. He is quite gifted, but is quite lost. While I realize it is a lot to ask, your highness," Gruffydd pointedly looks to his brother, "... particularly in the face of extremely strong dislike, as you describe, I do ask that Love not turn his face away from him. You can be of help to him, and to me."

     Amber eyes lift to both of you in quick turns. "He has no interest in help and in my help in particular. In fact, he has expressly refused it..."

     "I didn't realize Kings needed to have permission," Gruffydd offers in return. It is yours to give, Balthazar, regardless of whether he wishes to accept it...

     "And you've never dealt with a stubborn person before?" Gwilym cocks an eyebrow at Balthazar. Are you sure we're related? "Look. Stop for a minute and think about it - I realize you feel you've given him a fair shake, and y' have, but sometimes people need more than that. If I were as fast to turn away as you're being, where d'you think Loki'd be by now? Aeron would've booted his arse halfway across the Atlantic. Loki has potential. He's also got damage. Take your eyes off your own place in things for a minute and take a look at the boy, not as Maddie's brother - or Gillian's if y' like - but with all the pieces y' know."
     "Actually - scratch that." Gwilym stands up and walks over to Balthazar, drink set aside. He puts his hands on his nephew's shoulders, not violently, but in a light, firm clasp. "Close your eyes and find him. Y' can do that much already. Don't talk to him, don't tip him off, just - look at him with the Sun in your eyes. Look and tell us - honestly and fairly and fully - what you see. This is for you I'm saying this, not for him or for your brother. Trust me."

     Amber and cinnamon flash, two suns cupped between lashes like the filtered rays of those suns. He is frustrated -- with himself more than Preston. But regardless of where the frustration lies, it is boiling over like displaced lava. He sighs, closing his eyes. "My mind is on fire. I can't concentrate," Balthazar argues but he doesn't twist out of your hold. The beautiful face is contracted in a frown.
     He's a nova. The Love that would normally be in his grasp is fractured. Unfocused. "I don't see anything," Balthazar mutters. "Just ...nothing. I'm all over the place and no place," he complains. "I can't fix on anything. What the hell kind of Love god am I anyway? If I can't get out of myself to look at him."

     "Brother," Gruffydd offers from where he stands. "You are too hard on yourself. Too quick. Be still..."
     Be still...

     Frowning, Balthazar tries to still himself, to bring all of his energy into focus, under dominion. The nuclear meltdown appears abated for the time being, some amount of stillness attained. He breathes deeply in, deeply out. And he shakes his head. "I don't see him, uncle. He's closed to me or... I'm merely not strong enough... I don't know... there's just Illumination and then..... nothing."

     Gwilym glances to Gruffydd, then pats Balthazar's shoulders. "Well, later then. Practice it, and try again in a bit. Start with those you know a bit better - your girl, and Loki. That is in part going to be what y' need to do - to illuminate things, not only for others, but for yourself. Don't feel you have to keep so busy being the light that y' don't take some of that light for your own use. It's allowed. Required, even."
     He smiles, ruffling your hair affectionately. It is always hard, he tells you. Transitions. Becoming like we are. It was hard for me too. But it has its moments. Oes? You will see...

     Balthazar sighs, nodding his head. "I will work on it." His shoulder twitches, half-shrugging. "I think I'll go ... meditate for a while..."

     Gruffydd exhales a bit, his face softened in sympathy and compassion. He nods to his brother. "Meditation would be good. I would suggest... not trying to dam up that power, brother. Just... let it happen. You'll be fine."

     "You will be fine," Gwilym agrees firmly. He steps back. "I mean, look at me. I'm the biggest fuck-up this family's ever produced," he cracks in a rolling, droll tone of voice. "And if I got t' where I am now, imagine how much further you'll go, boyo."
     He ruffles his nephew's hair again, giving a sly, one-sided smile as he steps towards shadows, drawing them around himself. You'll both be grand, boyos. We'll speak again... at dinner...

Posted by rowan at June 02, 2009 08:15 PM