Women are nothing but trouble.
     Gwilym Gwyn Garu, the White Stag, brother of the Red Dragon, son of the Queen of the Kingdom of the Flowering Tree and of the erstwhile Oak King, Holly King and High King stands before his mirror. He is narrow-eyed in thought. And in concentration.
     My little brother is missing, and it is because of a woman. Because of love. Is it any wonder he has steered clear of it as much as possible, for so long? An emerald eye examines his reflection; a hand waves, a shoulder is shrugged, and casual gear is set aside for leather armor, as black as the sea on a moonless night, with only thin pockmarks of stars where blows have struck but not found a home.
     He sweeps his hair back casually; red and gold, it spins through his fingers as he looks at his reflection, and through his reflection. Both eyes are visible now, and he sends out a call. Bran, blessed of the Holly King, I am looking for you. His eyes see through the mirror and beyond.
     I will look in the high places and in the low
     in the depths of the sea and among the clouds
     In the spaces between stars
     In the crowds of the city
     In the darkness and in the light
     But you will not be in the light, will you? Nor in the cities. Gwilym pushes through the mirror, allowing it to pass him through and to burst behind him with a soap bubble's bulging fragility. Glass splinters and litters the ground behind him where he walks. You will not be able to bear their touch, wounded as you are by Love. You will not be among the beasts, who copulate and are fruitful. You will not be in the graveyard, where skeletons commingle, bones wedded in death whether or not they had that in life. You will go ...
     Where no one and nothing else can go...
     He steps into the desert. It is freezing; it is night. And there is open wasteland in every direction, and he looks with eyes that see more than is natural for any sign of your passing. I am hunting you, Bran, little brother. Will you make this easy and come to me?
     It isn't as if he ever wants it to be easy...

     The dung beetle is a noble creature. It has its destiny and it fills it without complaint. It gathers the excrement of the world and makes little snack balls of it for itself. Were it not for the lowly dung beetle, we'd be up to our armpits in shit.
     A black beetle feels the weight of a boot upon the sand, the ripples of the Holly King's steps reverberating through the mirrors that exist in each facet of silica. Billions, billions, more than there are stars. Small black legs kick the sand up to cover it as it burrows into the physical stuff of Time, Possibilities (real, imagined, had and lost), Dreams and the Absence of Dreams. This is The Wasteland, after all.
     It is not Bran Hunting Season...
     The voice is small, virtually inaudible. It is barely a blip upon consciousness, but the senses of the Holly King are fine. There are no Brans here. Only dung beetles and scorpions and you.
     Of course, the voice of the dung beetle does sound remarkably like a Bran...
     The sand ripples about ten feet away from you, where a dung beetle skitters beneath the silicate skin of this endless desert. It is a beach in want of an ocean. But there is nothing to nurture it here. And he is an inconsolable as the wasteland, desiring of abandonment.
     The parasite that lives on the dung beetle, that cleans up its waste is even more noble...

     He is not surprised to find you here; he is only surprised that he has found you so quickly. But of course, finding you was always going to be the easy part of this job.
     Gwilym steps onto the sand, and forms a footprint in it. The granules wiggle away from his weight or are crushed underfoot; each grain as a living thing would scream, but instead it endures his weight silently and patiently, as do all things o the earth. Even in dreams it's so. And even the Wasteland cannot completely reject the call of earth.
     The footprint erases itself before his foot has even lifted. As his toes flex and his foot arches, before the heel lifts away from contact, already the grains of sand are shifting to smooth themselves away, to restore the pattern that was there before the Holly King's coming. "I am not leaving that easily or quickly, brawd." He does not allow you the splendid luxury of voiceless discussion. Gwilym crosses to within eighteen inches of you, and he drops to his haunches. Behind him, the sand is bare again; an empty canvas, waiting for the expression of hopes, or dreams, or desires, or fears. "Even though you want it. Do you want me to say the truth?"

     He has gone to the Very Last Place on Earth -- any Earth, at any Time. There really isn't anywhere else for him to go except to lead you on a wild beetle chase that you would undoubtedly win. Where else can he go? Detroit?
     The round, plum-colored beetle emerges from the sand, its small legs at its mouth to snack on the remaining detritus. It's not actual dung, of course. The Wasteland is wholly absent of ...waste. But it goes through the motions.
     Not particularly. I prefer lies. Good, honest lies. The sort that one can count on, like rain in November and heat in June. The beetle becomes a rook, squat and unhappy, plopped ungracefully upon the sand. It turns a rued, black eye to its master. He would deny Everyone. He is unable to deny you. That doesn't mean he has to like it.
     Do me the courtesy of lying to me. You would if you loved me. The raven opens its beak, its breath labored in its anguish. The black tongue sticks out and then all his feather puff. He would hop away, but there's no escape. Not from you. Not from Truth either.
     It will disappear, just like everything else does in Time. Footprint, fingerprint, fine art, and memory. I just want to be alone...

     It is because I love you that I don't lie to you, brawd. We always hurt the ones we love. Who else do we let get that close? And we are - you, me, Aeron - in this family, we are the ones cursed with being uncomfortable with closeness, more than the rest.
     He does not say it out loud. But he takes a seat on the sand, crosslegged, and he sets a hand down on the sand next to him. He scoops up a handful and allows the granules to slowly trickle out from between his fingers, cocking his eyebrow out you. Love is a bitch. And you give up too quickly.
     The sand continues to trickle away, counting out as if from an hourglass. Gwilym watches you patiently. "If you want to be alone, you will have to send me away."

     I still have my work, he counters, his beak snapping shut with a click. It is followed by a throaty sound - click, click, click! She doesn't need to be cooperative. She doesn't need to consent. My work is my work. What else is there? There are as many women as there are pebbles on the shore. Each one a slightly different shape, and yet. Is not a rock... a rock?
     The raven hunkers down, its wings and feathers sandy as it burrows beetle-like. It looks as if the Wasteland is the giant egg in his own nest, and he is here brooding. Literally. I can't send you away. This is your beachfront property, remember? So... what is it then? What is this truth?
     One black and glittering eye is cast upon you and then the other. Back and forth. He gives you The Eye.

     "You still have free will," Gwilym counters. "You can send me away if you truly wish to. All you have to do is tell me to fuck off."
     He is as patient as Atlas, even if without Atlas' burden. The sand continues to trickle away. "The truth is that running away doesn't do a damn thing to change the world, or to change your fate. If you want to think you've already lost, you can do that, of course. You can give her all the space in the world, but nothing in you or her makes that decision make a damned bit o' sense."
     The sand runs out, and he is left holding a scorpion. He allows it to crawl over his palm and up his arm, aware of it but giving it no further attention. "She is wounded, and you are wounded because you reflect her injuries. You're obviously made for each other, since neither one of you displays the least bit of sense to get the injuries seen to."
     Gwilym is calm; patient and without anger, without heat to his words. The scorpion reaches his shoulder, clacking its tail. "You want her to decide she wants you, to come to you on her own terms. That's what you tell yourself, even while you ignore that when you do so, you arm her to be able to - with her wounds - retreat to her castles in the air and in her mind and build up the prison walls again. Without you there to challenge her and her beliefs, her assumptions, to counter the old arguments of the ghosts who've injured her, what do you really think will happen, Bran?"
     He says it, and he picks up the scorpion off his shoulder, tossing it down to the sand and rising to his feet. "You're miserable and now you're going to be defensive; because I've touched on nerves and challenged your course of action," Gwilym predicts, giving you a calm, unreadable glance. "And you're not ready to come back. You're loyal; you won't quit on me. You're more miserable than y' are angry. You're too miserable even to get too angry; but your feet are heavy and your heart is leaden. And you want to know, then, what the damned answer is - if I'm so smart, how do you woo her back. And we both know I can't tell you that, because it has to be your answer. Neither of you would accept anything less."
     The scorpion digs its way down into the sand, black venom coating the grains at the closest edges of its hole. They begin to shift, to close in behind its passage. "You can't beg. You did that, and it isn't what works with a woman like Gillian West. You need to go back to the beginning, go back to the source. But you aren't ready to leave the desert, are you."

     "I don't want her back," Bran's voice sounds as his familiar face (similar to yours, but damn near a copy of your shared father's) can be seen. He sits on the sand in leather shadow armor. It may as well be painted on. It follows the flex and curve of his form. He looks to the scorpion, hand poised to flick it to Oblivion. "It's not as though I had her to begin with anyway. Work is work," there is that mantra again, as he lifts his dark green eyes to you, peering up through a curtain of blood red hair, "What's love got to do with it?"
     It isn't so much a lie as it is a deflection, a diversion, a defensive batting of his heart. It's full of Gillian barbs. He's come here to pick himself clean, to suture his own wounds. You've seen him do this before, but not with metaphoric or emotional wounds. Bran scowls as the scorpion hides from him. And in plain sight, he tries to disappear.
     Shadows and air pull away from him. The sand rolls away from the leather. But he looks at you, and you are the anchor to this Present. You are his brother and his king. Bran exhales a sigh, shaking his head and looking away. But at least he remains. Sands shift, changeable, but his frown is etched in, permanent as stone.
     "She will become like sand, mediocre, like everyone else around her," he notes easily. "She won't fulfill her potential." You are on his nerve. The very last one, in fact, and it quivers as you walk on it like a juggler on a tightrope. His body tenses and he leans away from you. "I can work with her without all of the rest," he retorts in a fluster. "I gave her everything she needed to start the next course. She'll figure it out until I feel like working again."

     His look shouts his disbelief louder than words. Bollocks. He says it out loud: "Bollocks. If you didn't want her back, you wouldn't be burying yourself in this." Gwilym sighs, and he leans in to ruffle your hair, rising to his feet. "You are giving up."
     He looks at you with recognition and with love, with an adoration and an understanding that goes beyond the present, the moment. You are afraid of losing yourself. You would almost rather lose her than win her, now; because having been hurt this deeply, continuing on means you could be hurt again. If she slips through your fingers now, you will never love again - and you will become a Lost thing, no matter how loyal.
     He does not confide it in you. It is True, but it is not something you can hear right now, and he recognizes that fact. "I wonder what she is up to," Gwilym answers you casually, as he turns away. "If she is thinking as defeatedly as you. Ah, well. I will leave you to the licking of your wounds, brawd. If you need me... well, y' won't, of course. But you know how to find me if you do, oes?"
     He does not plead. He does not yell. He does not threaten or remonstrate. He gives you your choice of what you will do.
     Isn't it alarming?

     "That's a horrible thing to say to a person," Bran notes heatedly. "Giving up." He frowns in your direction (it's not truly at you) as you ruffle his hair. He leans back, batting your hand with customary stubborn FIGHT. It is the only glimmer of hope he gives you.
     With a loud sigh, Bran stands up. "You know what I hate about this fucking family? You can't just go off and have a bad day. It has to turn into some huge, fucking ordeal. You can't just lure a girl into a fake engagement and give her a ring. It has to be a grand, fucking, serenaded dinner. I should never have said Yes to any of it. I was in command," he points at his chest. "I had her right were I wanted her. Then I had to go and get sentimental. When I kept it in perspective, everything was right with the world..."
     He doesn't want to care what she's thinking. His arms fold at his chest. He does care; he doesn't want to care. Let her hang! -- he wants to tell himself. But that's just because he's standing on his own chair with a rope around his own neck. If he goes, everyone goes.
     Well, at least he's democratic about it...
     "Bullshit, giving up. I'm not a wanker." He is in pain. He is defensive. But he's not a quitter. The rook appears again, taking a squat on your right shoulder. His talons grip you, but your armor protects you from his talons. Give me a rabbit's heart any day...

     He grins to himself and doesn't let it show, not even to you. Your feathers are ruffled in more ways than one. "Perspective's a funny thing," Gwilym tells you. He turns with you on his shoulder and begins to walk back the way he came. "Sometimes, it can look completely different through another pair o' eyes."
     You will heal. You won't like it, but you will heal. You will return to work, and I won't let y' give up - and in time, you'll get another opportunity. All depends on what you do with this one.
     The door opens, between this place, and he steps towards it, leaving the snakes and scorpions and dung beetles to one another's splendid isolation. It is up to you whether you will maintain your perch; he is leaving, with or without you. But you know how he feels. You know that he cares. Gwilym Gwyn Garu is far from heartless.

Posted by rowan at July 15, 2009 04:50 PM