Early evening, and the year is still sufficiently in the depths of spring that early evening doesn't blend directly into the middle of the night. In an intersection of corridor and room, Loki stands considering, an earpiece whispering in his ear and a half-forgotten phone in one hand glowing down at the floor. The gray suit he wears fails to make him look any older than he is, crisp and bordering into severe though it may be. He might have just stepped out of an office that's never heard of casual Fridays.
He moves from intersection into the room itself, sliding on a pair of reading glasses with narrow frames as he looks at a black and white photograph. The way he moves back a step to consider the photograph beneath the glass has nothing of casual browsing to it, and more the unconscious pretentiousness of an art student trying to work something out for himself in his head about what's going on there.
Upstairs, there is a vibrant post-art scene -- the Confessional Cafe -- which keeps this non-conventional gallery open than conventional gallery hours. It is not unusual at all for it to be open until three in the morning on some nights. The hours of operation after five o'clock are never published. It happens according to whim. Or perhaps the will of the owner...
You are not alone here, though most are in the cafe at this point, their soft laughter echoing against the marble, whispering in the open space like hidden gossips. There is the sound of footsteps, glasses tinkling together, the chiming of silver spoons on china, and further upstairs, the sound of a door closing with the requisite rattling of keys.
There is something on the air, indistinct at first. There is merely a pause of the whispering. For a moment, the quiet, canned music -- which often goes completely unnoticed -- can be heard as the Abbey takes a collective pause, like holding its breath. And who doesn't think that marble needs to breathe? It exhales only when he passes.
He comes down the stairs, stepping into the main corridor and pausing for a glass of red wine. It is offered to him by a woman who seems to appear just to make him happy. (To be honest, it is what she is paid to do.) He takes it with a smile, a simple curve of the mouth, but what a curve.
What of this man? He is tall and broad. If he has business here, it can't be good business. Or... else... it is extremely good. It will have to be either one or the other, no middle territory here. And of his face? It could be on a statue (and it well may be), Olympic in its beauty. And around him, the air changes. It is charged and he, Mr. Hurricane, the center of his own storm. Indigo eyes take a quick survey of the art -- perhaps he's seen it all before -- and land with the finality of interest on a well-dressed young man.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Except it isn't the pricking of any thumbs, but the hair rising at the back of his neck, that gives Loki reason to hesitate in the midst of his examination of art. Hesitation in the midst of standing still comes in the form of a hitched breath, and he turns to see what's turned the air towards the feeling of oncoming lightning.
What did his science teacher tell him about the warning signs of close lightning, in class long ago? By the time you've noticed them, it's too late to do anything about it but hope. There needs to be a weather service to give forewarning of this kind of approach.
Loki dips his head in the small, polite nod of a stranger acknowledging the presence of another without being so forward as to imply anything more is forthcoming. And it's difficult to speak when his mouth's gone dry, for reasons he can't quite understand.
There is a smile for that nod, and a look with both tremendous focus and nonchalance. It would seem impossible for both to exist at once, in the same expression. But... he is French. The mouth holds every slight motion with richness. It makes the most of every glancing expression -- be it Joy or Lust or Fury. "You... are a fan of Elise?"
His approach was slow -- it seemed languid as much as anything. As if the art of walking had been perfected long ago and is done with such little thought as to not occur at all. He was there. Now he is here. The accent is decidedly French, though the words were English. Just very slow, drawled English, made more poetic than it really deserves to be. It wears it uncomfortably, as most wear him. William smiles at the thought.
Standing near you, he is most assuredly large. Well over six feet, and if one had to guess, putting him near two-fifty would not be an exaggeration. The eyes are a very deep blue, an odd blue -- violet there to make them indigo. So like his mother. "I do not look at it much. Is that a poor thing to say in an art gallery?" William grins and sips at the wine. "Ah, do you?" he motions to the glass.
Caught in the intersection of interest and fear, Loki is pinned in place for your approach. "Something of a fan," he says, once he's found words again. They're such tricky things when he's trying to pay attention to what's distinctly non-verbal around him. His accent's lightly American, an amalgam of local broadcast standard and a Californian easiness of dialect. "I saw a piece or two last year--in a private collection, and the only piece I'd seen. So to find something similar here..."
He looks back at the framed photograph, a much safer thing to focus on right now. "I can't decide if I like it or not. Since art is there to do more than be pretty, that's more interesting to me than merely liking it and moving on." He shrugs, a touch twitchily, acutely aware of where you're standing. Five foot eight, maybe nine in these shoes, and slightly built beside. It is hard not to feel towered over from contrast alone, and maybe that's all that has him on edge. "Only a poor thing if you never look at any of it, or if no one looks at all."
"Oh," William says with a smile and a wince of I should have said that, he looks to the picture, and then to its neighbor. "That is good. I will have to use that." He pivots and makes a motion with his hand. The click-clack high heels of a woman approach you and on your other side, a woman with a tray of wine. "Please...help yourself. Otherwise," he looks from her to him, "Genevieve will have to follow me around all night with nothing else to do..." The woman smiles. She doesn't mind.
"Elise is good," he nods and he looks at the piece. "I am not fond of this particular one so much, though the critics seem to enjoy the contrast. To me... it is too easy. You have seen her in a private collection. Might I ask where? As a collector, I am always curious..."
William looks to you as he waits on your answer. He takes his time as he takes a swallow of wine.
Loki takes a glass from the tray with a short smile back to the woman, polite and little more. He will not be forgetting her so quickly as all that, but right now beauty has the uphill competition to keep his attention. "Thank you," he says, trying the wine as he turns back to the piece on the wall.
"It was in an estate near Bordeaux, I don't remember precisely how far away. The collection belongs to a friend of my father's." No need to specify which father, or that he spent most of that visit hiding out in the gallery sulking over the circumstances that had driven him to find family friends instead of continuing the communications blackout. Far better to consider the art. He isn't watching you now, but actually focusing on what he's answering questions about. "The other piece was better, technically and for being pleasing to look at, but it didn't hold me like this one. I couldn't really say why. Maybe it's the surroundings. I don't know enough about how context changes art to tell."
He peers at the piece and takes a swallow of the wine. "Context and mood. Tonight, I am not so much in the mood for looking at it." He smiles, glancing to you. "Bordeaux. My home away from home. Well, maybe I will inquire as to more of this. I am unsure. I want to be knocked over by something." Admittedly, it must take quite a bit to knock him over. "I wait to see what that is..."
His attention, even his body turns back toward you. "That is the thing about art and people. They are who they are in the moment. Tomorrow, I may pass by here and find I like it after all and wonder: What were you thinking, Guillaume? To have not liked it so much yesterday."
He looks to you a moment and then offers his hand. "Guillaume d'Angevin," he offers in introduction. His hand is large but it has a fineness. An artist's hand, the calluses left by swords long since faded. "When I am in London, William is good." His mouth, the essential fullness of it, twitches in a smile, and the eyes are dark... and bright all at once.
"I've been to Bordeaux only a few times. The next time I'm through, I'll have to see if that same piece seems any different for a different mood, or for having seen this one. I've heard it's a failing in art if it can't be properly appreciated without knowing more of the artist's work, but that always struck me as an overly narrow view of things."
He takes your hand with, "Loki Worthington-Smythe," and a twist of his mouth for the kind of things that his own name implies. "I am, unfortunately, Loki no matter where I go."
"I would not say it is unfortunate. It makes you difficult to forget. It is a big name. So... fill it. Here... come with me, there is a piece here that you might like." It is not far; he is not leading you to the private suites upstairs (not yet), but just down four pictures to a painting. It is a challenging work, one that would be immediately off-putting in Iowa.
"I think you will like this," William says, coming to stop before the painting. "It is one of the few American artists represented. From San Francisco. I lived there for a short time," thirty years too long in some aspects. "It is a Daniel D'ambrusco. Tell me," he moves to stand behind you, so as not to obstruct your view. "What do you think of this, Loki Worthington-Smythe?" comes the elongated English, his voice warm and deep at your ear.
He follows you without hesitation, that run away part of his mind now thoroughly ignored. And what's to fear in a walk so short? Loki slides his glasses back up on his nose, an absent motion he doesn't have to think about, and looks the painting up and down. Right to left--he'd step back to see it from a greater distance, but you're right there.
"If I were being horribly prosaic," Loki says, a hint of amusement to his voice, "I'd say it's the kind of thing I would hang in my bedroom, but not in my living room. I know I wouldn't put it anywhere near books. It's not a piece that blends gently into the background while other things are going on idyllically nearby."
The glasses come off now, dangling in his hand, while he sips his wine. "It fits the San Francisco art scene. Or the Los Angeles scene, if more tangentially. I haven't seen this artist before, but he'd make sense in any of the galleries I used to visit there. No particular sympathy for those who dislike what he's doing, is there? It's not a comfortable piece, but I do like it. Good art doesn't need to apologize for itself."
"Mais oui," William says in quiet agreement. "Nor should it apologize. It would turn that into a Hallmark card, yes?" He smiles, finishing his wine. And there she is again, hovering like a firefly, taking his empty from him and offering him another glass. "Merci, Genevieve..."
"D'ambrusco is new, provocative. It has a violence to it, but... the kind suited for a bedroom, not over dinner, I think. Unless, of course, one eats in bed." That mouth forms a smooth grin, far too smooth to convey anything other than Guilt at such a thing. "The colors, not the confusion of a Pollock. This has a different point of view. It is ... like an argument that ends in a tangle on the bedroom floor. Or... a typical Saturday night," he chuckles, his gaze wandering the work and his own thoughts. That sound; his laughter is held in his throat and in his chest, leonine, as he steps from behind you.
The glass is barely held in his fingers. Pendulous, it seems about to drop at any moment but it does not. It is an afterthought now, the taste of something else, for something else, pooling at the back of his tongue. "What is it that you do in London, Loki? Or are you visiting from America?"
Loki has not finished his wine. In truth, he'd forgotten it was in his hand, until Genevieve appeared again. "Would putting his work in a bedroom be redundant, under the circumstances? It's a fine line between setting a theme and putting up art that leaves you in competition with it." He tilts his head back, looking at the picture from another angle as he moves a step backward now that the space is freed. "No, you're right. It's complementary for that kind of action, not in competition. Not unless everything around it is so dull it has no choice but to overshadow the rest."
You get a sidelong look, as if the painting's holding onto it. "I'm in a band. Not even a respectable symphony orchestra. I think my father's still horrified when he thinks about it. It started as a visit, but..." Another of those twitching shrugs, and he has a sip of wine. "I'm not in the mood to go back to America, lately. I prefer London."
"My father would be absolutely mortified," William shares with a slanting grin. "But... this is not his life so I don't have to care." He laughs at that, quietly and to himself, but he lets you see it. A moment of actual humor and lessons learned. "London is an interesting place. Not good. Not bad. I go in and out with it," he notes. "I am in France much of the time. When I am on the island, I am rarely in London. Once a month or so," if that.
"It is good to have the perspective of another place, yes? Something of your own. It doesn't belong to anyone but you. And," he grins, "... I would hope that one's bedroom would not be overshadowed by so small a painting. It is only four feet by three feet. You are not going to let it get the better of you, are you?"
It is a rhetorical You, of course. But he inclines his head and studies you all the same. The indigo of his eyes is as palpable a touch as the landing of his hand. It pads no less as it moves. "What is respectability in music," he wonders. "Was Mozart, in his day, respectable? If he had had an electric guitar, he would have been Pete Townsend. Let the critics and the parents judge. The artist just... does. I cannot stop and think about what my father would consider worthy of my time or I would never have painted or sculpted or restored a single work. What do you play?"
"It might depend on the bedroom," Loki says, with maybe less dignity than he'd like, and a last look over the painting. "But it'd do me little credit if I were overcome and shown up by an inanimate object, no matter how well painted." Of course it was rhetorical, but he's young enough to still have that self-centeredness of youth where every question turns into a personal referendum on his own decisions.
"Some days I think classics are just the works with conveniently dead creators, so that the artists can't argue with the critics' interpretation of their works." He does not step back at the look, but he shifts on his feet as if he felt it, his own blue eyes skipping away a moment about the room. "I play the drums. Hardly music, by some standards, but it's a part of the whole."
"I somehow doubt that would be the case," William murmurs. The smile is archaic -- it puts the Mona Lisa's to shame. "The painting is good, Loki. It's not that good..."
Death and convenience. "Conveniently dead," he mulls upon the thought, the words, taking another swallow of the wine. "I'm not sure death is all that convenient. Getting a good coffee must be murder..." He chuckles. "Ah, my English is not so rusty that I cannot pun. Though... maybe I should not, hmm?" He finishes his second glass, waving Genevieve off for a refill. A third will not be necessary. She conveniently disappears. Now, that is convenient.
Yes, he knows you can feel his study. He smiles at it, and you. Your feet moved before, now your eyes, like a deer, uncertain of whether to run glance around for the safety of trees. "Care to join me for a cup of coffee, Loki." And... yes... that does sound delightful....
Does it not?
"The death's more convenient for the critics than anyone else," Loki says, and he's somewhat lost his train of thought attached to what he just said. Something about critics and classics, but right now coffee does sound like a good idea. Coffee always sounds like a good idea, and with someone like this offering, how could--
He can't even finish asking himself a rhetorical question without being interrupted. The chirp in his earpiece reminds him of a text message from someone on his call list, and drawing out his phone to glance at the screen is such an automatic response he doesn't have to think to do it.
Been accident. Need u @ my place ASAP. Pls hurry.
The first emotion to snap across his face is outright irritation. Work is supposed to stay work, and his free time is his time--and it's followed just as fast with guilt and concern, because it's not just work, is it? Loki does not say something rude, but lets out a short breath in the place of the expletives he's thinking before looking back to you. "I'm sorry. Something just came up, and I need to run."
The interruption does not break the ... focus of his attention, but rather he withdraws it. "Too bad," William says with a slow pulling smile. "But perhaps another time. Have a pleasant evening..."
Plantagenet, you are becoming too gentle. There would have been a time, sir, when you would have plucked the phone from their hands and made them forget it was ever invented. Your father really would turn over in his grave.
He chuckles and nods a bonne nuit to you. He turns and heads toward the staircase. He is going for coffee, even if you are not.
This had better be important, Bal...
Loki turns away as well, with a slightly wistful, "Maybe another time," to echo yours. And then he's striding briskly away, phone already out and pulling up the number for a taxi company. If it's all that much of a rush, the bus just isn't going to suffice.
In the dark and alone on the sidewalk, Loki is, to put not too fine a point on it, annoyed. Worried and guilty that he's annoyed when he should be more worried, but it's easier to concentrate on the annoyance rather than the worry. He thumbs briskly through a return text message to Balthazar: On my way. What happened?
He's already compulsively refreshing his email while he waits for the taxi. It doesn't help any with the irritation, but it gives him something to do besides think wistfully of coffee and interesting conversation.
There is a moment or two that passes (time needed to go between worlds) before a return message is received. On your way? Where? Is something wrong? B
A taxi pulls up, the driver's hat pulled forward over his eyes. The 'In service' light flashes green, doors unlocking obligingly for Loki's ease.
Loki stares at the message, then shakes his head and climbs into the taxi, trying to text back with one hand while he handles the door with the other. You tell me. Got your message about an accident. Pls hurry and all. He hesitates over the send, and adds, It came from your number.
Another moment. Accident? Sorry, no. Well, I'm not sorry. I might be hurt otherwise. Must have been a cross communication. I haven't even called anyone tonight.
The locks click down again once Loki is fully in, and the taxi pulls away from the curb into traffic. The windows are tinted somewhat; traffic flows around the taxi, ahead, behind and to either side in eddying swoops and swirls. Everything is very quiet. There's the sound of traffic hissing distantly, almost like white noise.
"I really need to teach you how to avoid trouble better," Gwilym muses from the driver's seat. His features melt from the bland fiftyish London male taxi driver to that of himself, in leather bomber jacket, jeans and t-shirt, Doc Martens and all. "One of these days you're going to get yourself into something I can't get y' out of. Gave me a bad scare there, for a moment."
And appearing on the headrest of the front seat passenger side is a squatting raven, his talons ruining the vinyl interior. Oh well, no matter. He turns a glittering black eye on Loki.
It takes Loki a moment to process the two sets of communication. And the visuals around him that still hit the "not really happening" parts of his brain until he self-corrects for "no actually these things do, sometimes." He taps back on the phone, Never mind. Crossed lines. Sorry for the confusion. And once that's sent, the phone goes back in his pocket.
"Either you've developed a hate-on for coffee, which is going to be a problem, or there was more going on back there than anyone bothered to tell me about." He sprawls back in the seat, eyeing the raven in return. Half a sprawl, in any case; he's not so careless as to wrinkle his suit jacket in the process. "Is it even worth asking what the problem is this time? Some terrible metaphysical danger if I discuss art with someone for a few minutes?"
"It isn't what you were discussing so much as who with, in this case," Gwilym answers. There's no trace of his usual winking mischief, no hint of his usual humor. Of course, he's got his back turned to Loki, but the one visible eye in the rear-view mirror shows no mirth at all. "And, 'course, what coffee leads to with that 'un. D'you want the long version or the short version, Loki, no man's son? Either way, we're getting far away from this spot."
It's true, he keeps driving. Traffic thins a bit; he makes a left, then another left, and then turns into a quieter part of London yet. He doesn't stop. He doesn't even look from the road, nor from the wheel. I am taking him In Between, Aeron. I see no better option left me. And you will, in a way, have your way. I will give him a choice.
But he isn't saying what that choice is, for Aeron's hearing or Loki's. Gwilym turns down an alleyway with smoke and fog shrouding the walls. "You can hate me for this if you like," he says aloud, "but asking me questions is more productive than hatred."
The Center of All Things is better than the End of the World.
The raven opens its beak and caws. Quirking his head this way, that way. He tilts and ruffles his feathers, all gleaming, all black, in place. He's not out of sorts today, it seems.
All other counsel, the raven keeps to himself.
Loki watches fogged walls through the cab window, arms folded over his chest. "I could argue about the typical productivity of asking you questions, but this probably isn't the time for it. More to the point, unless you have something new up your sleeve, I'm not hating anyone for this. I'm not even to angry. I'm just annoyed at getting jerked around yet again without explanations."
He pulls out his phone, checking the GPS without any great confidence that it'll show something of use. Habit, really. "So who is he?"
He has many names. Rogue. Devil. The Jack of Spades.
Aeron's voice comes tickling in Loki's ear. The bird balances on the back of the taxi seat, bracing with the latch of talons in vinyl.
The GPS at first shows London's streets. Abruptly it goes to resolving and then to cannot find location. "If I tell you who he really is, I'll put you in more danger than you'd want me to put you in. I know you like choice, Loki - we really have t' find you a name that's your own, it doesn't suit y' at all on its own. But at any rate, this isn't a choice y' can make yet. And I can't tell you enough that you could make the choice safely, not yet."
Gwilym pulls the car to a halt as the mist obscuring view rolls away. There is, prosaically, a courtyard; and past the courtyard, stone walls of a building on three sides. The doors' locks click up, and he opens the driver's side door, climbing out. "Come on, then. Let's get sommat to eat, oes? It'll make this easier. For me, anyway, I can't say as for you."
If he's the Devil of Christian mythology, he's gotten better at temptation than the old stories made him out to be. The phone goes back in his pocket, unceremoniously switched off. "I did say that asking questions wouldn't be productive, didn't I?" Loki says. He climbs out of the cab, radiating annoyance, but nothing stronger than that. "I'd rather have replacement coffee, if it's all the same." The surroundings get a curious look, but there's only so much curiosity that can be satisfied by stone walls.
The raven flies in a flutter of shadows and black feathers, coalescing to its masculine form, clothed in armor. He has weapons today. That has to be disconcerting. But the hostility of the other night seems nowhere to be found. He is quiet, as a rook should be in the presence of his King, and his energy is one of protection. Aeron waits for his king to lead the way...
"Coffee can be provided," Gwilym agrees. He turns and points to the car; it shimmers and fades to insubstantial shadows, then vanishes entirely. He doesn't explain; his jollity is gone, still, leaving behind a quieter man than Loki has seen before. He turns and strides to a door that looks as if it has not been opened in a decade or longer, putting his hand on it. Under his touch, it changes to a stone archway, bare of door or hanging, and he passes through it.
Beyond it are dank stone walls, a narrow, dark corridor lit only by flickering torches tucked into sconces. The way ahead is unlit, but the torches flare into life just ahead of his passing. He says nothing, still clad in jeans and incongruous t-shirt, but his mien is grave, and his footsteps make no sound at all.
Aeron stretches out his hand as he bows for the priest of his King to follow along. He'll bring up the rear...
It is his preference...
Loki follows Gwilym without further question or complaint. Maybe one glance to Aeron, before he moves. The promise of coffee ahead helps, but more of it is that he only has so much energy to give to irritation at his own confusion when the world is busy being very strange around him.
The ways behind are closed and sealed, and shadows of protection and the traps that ensure them, are activated. It is not that he thinks the Devil Himself is on his heels -- but there is more than one agent of Wickedness in this world...
With the curl of his lip, Aeron follows, his stride slow and confident. He sheathes his weapons and follows. A wave of his hand ensures that the room, wherever it shall be, shall be loaded with coffee and all manners of other desired sustenance.
It's the gift that keeps on giving...
There are winding stairs which the Holly King climbs, the festival mood having passed to one of sacrifice instead. He is silent all the way up and through, passing doors which are closed and open alike. Some rooms are empty. Some have rich furnishings, treasures beyond telling. Others still appear to be little more than collections of broken toys and dented tins. In one room, five women sleep en deshabille, a golden-haired man sprawled against the pillows, the only one awake. He lifts his head to watch the procession until they are out of sight, but he says nothing at all, his expression thoughtful but not disturbed.
Finally, Gwilym stops in front of a door and swings it open. The room behind it is a sitting room of sorts, rustic in its way. Bookcases and shelves are lined with tomes and artifacts, and a table is laden with coins and jewels and, thanks to Aeron, food beyond imagining. The chairs are mismatched, the sofa has clearly seen better days, and at least one of the paintings has doubled as a dartboard from time to time. It is no way to treat a lost Caravaggio.
Gwilym takes a seat at the head of the table, settling back and gesturing that Loki should help himself. There are bowls of figs and dates, there is fresh-baked bread rolls and freshly churned butter. Strawberries and pears, honeyed preserves, and what looks to be a haunch of venison encrusted with mustard and herbs. Buttered parsnips and winter asparagus, squash and grilled artichokes, split open with molten butter dripping down their hearts - there is more than enough to eat. A carafe of freshly brewed coffee has its own ceramic service, and pitchers of wine and brandy are also close to hand. In short, an almost embarrassing wealth of provender...
"Be welcome," Gwilym says finally, voice formal, "in the Center of All Things. Be welcome in my home, Loki, no man's son. Sit and partake of my hospitality." He isn't smiling.
Loki draws out a chair near the coffee, and sits. He has one hand curled around the phone in his pocket, a reminder of places outside of here. The table gets a long look, as much as everything he's passed on the way in did, and he doesn't touch a thing, sitting very straight-backed.
"Don't look so cross," Aeron all but purrs out as he comes in last of all. At the table, he shrugs off the leathered shadows that cover the top half of his form, revealing the tattooed musculature beneath. And the platinum hoops that pierce the flesh of the unpainted nipple. "We are only saving your life."
A cup of coffee, rich and dark -- a French roast for a laugh and for symmetry -- appears in front of Loki. There is cream, of course, and sugar. But Loki is not some tea-sipping lady. He expects he'll take it black.
Aeron takes a perch at the table, kicking back in a wooden chair, his boots at the edge of the table. He quiets, tilting his head to listen, his emerald-edged black eyes lifting to you.
"Your life was in danger. My raven is faithful to me; and he informed me of it."
Gwilym settles back in his chair with the lazy sprawl of any rock star, watching Loki without any change in that serious scrutiny. It is almost grim. "I did what I had to in order to save you. I will not apologize for that, Loki. It was the best solution available, and I was pressed for time. If you will not ask, I cannot answer, so take your time. Drink your coffee." He waves his hand.
"And ask what you want to know."
"If you won't tell me who he was..." Loki shrugs jerkily, and picks up the coffee in front of him. "I assume it goes without saying that I shouldn't go back there. I'm short on questions tonight."
He does not take his coffee black, but he does take it with sugar alone, no cream. One sip, two, and he's staring into his coffee when he asks, "Is there always someone watching? Or was it lucky timing that someone was?"
His head tilted to look at Loki, as if shyly (it is no such thing), Aeron smiles. He does not speak, though by his smile he has plenty to say. But teasing leaves off after a moment, and Aeron rocks back in the chair. "I am almost always nearby," he purrs out again. "Good thing for you. I am sworn to protect and serve. Like a cop, but with a much better fashion sense."
Lashes lift and lower in a dark red sweep. He watches you, thinking. Again his head tilts, but this time in an incline of consideration. But he holds his tongue for more.
"Not always. Often, but I have no need to know every detail of your personal life." Gwilym does not answer Aeron's reply, watching Loki only. He holds out his hand, and there is a shimmer of mist and darkness; and then there is a goblet of wine spiced with aromatic herbs in his grasp. "Aeron was watching tonight. As for who he was... to say that he was the Devil would be not far wrong, but it is not an answer which you will accept. So I will turn it around and have you examine it a different way."
He takes a swallow of warming wine, letting it pour down his throat before he continues. The goblet is set down, and he looks as sober as a judge, wine or no wine. "You have seen some of what I can do. It is, by your standards, if not miraculous, then nearly so. With that in mind, consider this : this man with whom you almost left to be alone in the company of, for 'coffee', is someone who I consider dangerous to you, not just to your mortal existence, but also to the state of your future, and to the state of your immortal soul."
They are strong words. He is not joking, now...
It's perhaps a symptom of Loki's upbringing that what catches him most in Gwilym's response is Wait, so there's such a thing as literal immortal souls?
This does not occupy the forefront of his thoughts indefinitely. Not when there's so much else to think about in here. He swallows more coffee, sitting properly out of reflex and tension. There is a little flickering glance towards Aeron in there, while he makes his way to the next question. "Is there anyone else I ought to know to avoid? Or places I just shouldn't go?" And half under his breath, "I'm not trying to wander into danger. I get enough trouble without trying already."
With the slight turn of his head, Aeron glances to Gwilym. It is a look crammed with meaning and communication. Do you wish me to speak at all? Or shall I sit here and listen? I don't want to... get in your way, my liege. A goblet appears in his hand, cut smoky quartz filled with a dark and fragrant liquid -- fig wine.
Say your piece.
It is all that Gwilym says. He sits back and looks between Aeron and Loki. A hand passes in front of him and the London street clothes give way to close-fitting black silks shot through with dim silver threads, a wreath of holly upon his brow and the heavy spotted fur cloak hanging from his shoulders. Still he does not smile as he drinks his wine. The Holly King, in his raiment.
"That is why I am with you," Aeron says after a moment. "I am there to help you, Loki. Though you might think otherwise. If we might... lay aside our mutual suspicion," he glances to his king, "... it could very well help you more. I cannot give you a map of London and of all the places you should avoid. Like any ancient city, it has its pitfalls and traps, its heroes and villains. And even tonight, you have met a hero and a villain all in the same body. There are things in the world, Loki, things that most have forgotten or... laugh off as legend. But before you met our king, did you know anyone who transformed themselves to ravens or jumped down magical wells?"
Dropping in his chair, his feet to the floor, Aeron leans in. "You're not in Kansas anymore, to quote your American author."
"There's a more appropriate British author," Loki says, looking into his coffee. "I've gone down the rabbit hole, and we're all mad down here." He drains his cup, letting the heat and bitterness give him something else to focus on for a moment. "You're right. I don't know any of these things, and you do." It's a concession not made without some trace of bitterness in his voice as well, and yet he moves as briskly past that as he can. "So what am I supposed to do? Keep walking into danger and expect you to call to have me rescued every time? Because that doesn't strike me as very practical, or a good use of anyone's time. And the only other solution that springs to mind is just--not going anywhere. Which I'm not about to do."
He turns a bleak half-smile on Aeron. "So there has to be some better way for me to handle things. Or is this one of those situations where there's nothing I can understand or do anyway, so I should stop caring that I can't?"
"Ponder this," Gwilym puts forth, without stirring or changing in any way. "You have seen, now, that magic exists. That the universe is bigger than you had thought, Alice." There, a brief glint of humor, but it does not change his words, his tone, his expression in any way.
"If you now can do magic - who else can? And what stake might they have in things?"
Aeron stares at Loki for a moment. No, there's no love lost. But the hostility is certainly muted. It is more like... disagreeing brothers in a way. "I do because I was born into this madness. You weren't. Not your fault." He sits back, tilting the chair back. "I've been a bit hard on you. But I just want you to ... ask more, hope more. Your pessimism really pisses me off. It's like taking a piss on the universe. As for protecting yourself," he purrs out the start of a question, pausing it to look at his lover-brother-king. "My King... is there a ... gift we might bestow upon him... if not to defend, at least to... be aware of his surroundings and those within it?"
He knows the reason why it was not given, this awareness. "I know he has yet to master Empathy," Aeron speaks quietly to Gwilym. "Before tonight, I would have said he wasn't ready to tie his shoes. But...I think he needs a bit more ... active assistance. Besides," he lazily turns his black gaze to Loki, "...if I'm always watching you, I can't very well serve my king completely..."
"If it's as wide-spread as all that," Loki says to Gwilym, slowly, "you might as well ask me to consider who has money, and what stake they have in the economy. It's not just big, I don't even know where to start."
He pours himself more coffee. His supply of optimism is purely caffeine-fueled. Aeron receives a look that's largely hostility-free, though there's a measure of frustration in there. "I don't much see how the universe should care whether or not I'm full of Pollyanna glee. I'm trying to do better. I just--don't know what better is."
He's lost some of his straight-backed posture as he gets more wired. There's enough coffee in him that he can almost relax, leaning back in the chair and trying to watch Aeron and Gwilym both at once.
"There's glee and then there's poisoning the ground ahead of you of possibility. You do the latter. You go in expecting to fail, so much so that when opportunities for joy present themselves to you, you close those doors out of spite and fear." Gwilym says it with the same isolated calm as he watches both men. Despite that he looks younger than Aeron or of an age with him, there is a weight of years upon his countenance in the way he sits, the way he speaks.
"It is very big, oes. Let us do a brief history lesson while I consider my raven's suggestion," the Holly King states. He opens one hand out from his chest, and the shadows to that side writhe to take form, illusions wriggling themselves into a turning globe. "Magic has always been a part of human existence. Long before you were born, it walked the earth equally with the humans who wielded it; mortals held it, crafted it, shaped it, and they shared the world with the other races."
He looks thoughtfully at Loki, sipping his wine as the shadows take on human form; they are but shadows, but recognizably humanoid now, talking, laughing, hammering at anvils, planting seeds, drinking, copulating, killing. "That is one of the things about which you haven't really thought, oes? If magic is real, then too so much be all or most of the stories humanity has told itself over the years. The bogeymen, that in the Now of mortal existence people have convinced themselves were only tales to frighten children where the fear of more normal threats might not prove sufficient, were very, very real. And in many cases, they still are."
Gwilym sets his wine aside and dismisses the shadow figures with a snap of his fingers. "Not every threat that you might encounter will be one of the Old Fears, of course. Humanity is still very good at coming up with its own demise without aid, as I'm sure you well know, and those new fears are probably what fuel your pessimism and paranoia more than anything I or Aeron can tell you or show you. But the Old Fears are still out there, and if you or any other human walks into one's den, with or without knowing they're out there, the end result will be much the same. I have not put you in that danger, Loki, no man's son; that danger was always there. What I have done is begun to make you aware."
"The one you met tonight... is one of the oldest fears there is, even among Old Fears,"Aeron interjects briefly. But it is very brief. He explains no more than that. He falls back into watching, into listening, sipping the dark fig wine.
Loki watches the shadows move, sinking back in his seat. "And anyone who isn't quite so...lucky as I am walks into these things, and takes their knocks for it, and the rest of us continue to not know any better." He smiles thinly down at his coffee. "So life's not fair. I knew that. I think this is the part where I'm supposed to say 'I'd rather know than not,' but it's going to take me a few minutes to convince myself this is true. Knowing is fucking terrifying."
"Take your time."
Gwilym rises from his chair, taking up his goblet. "I am going to see to some of my subjects. Aeron will entertain you and answer any ... not-questions you come up with, Alice." A shadowy half-smile turns up one corner of his mouth. He turns and heads for the door, pulling it open. The view on the other side no longer is that of the narrow stone hallway, but that of the room with the sleeping women and the lone golden-haired man.
There is time to note that the man is reading a book and that he looks surprised, dislodging one of the girls with sleepy protest from her as Gwilym walks through the doorway. The door closed behind him, and the door vanishes to leave blank stone wall where it had been.
Do as you see fit. The universe is seeing fit to test you, Aeron. I have faith that you will not fail me.
If Aeron is surprised, he does a good job of hiding it. He sits there in silence, staring at Loki. "Self pity isn't going to save you," he says at length, his voice barely above a whisper. "Neither is ignorance. Well, it is bliss, but only in fleeting moments. One bottle of vodka. One carafe of coffee. But... you will always wake and realize that you're not alone. Such is the downside to eating of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Anything you can imagine that has ever existed, or possibly ever existed, is true and real. Some have disappeared into shadowy legends. Others... are very much in this world. But ... how you face this knowledge, these things, has as much to do with your survival, your success as anything Gwilym could ever teach or tell you. Or I..."
He sits forward, arms on the table. "You don't know what to ask. So ask the first thing that comes to you. You have to start somewhere, Loki. The time for fence-sitting is over..."
It is easier when he stops trying to understand it. Magic, sufficiently advanced technology... And so what if he can't understand how any of it works? He can't build himself a computer either, and using them has never bothered him. So turn off the part of the brain that's throwing a fit over none of this making any sense, throw it in the corner with the disapproving fatherly voice in his head that wants him to stop indulging in this nonsense and pay attention to Real Life, and ask a question.
Easy enough right now, even if it's going to be a bitch to work through the price for the repression later. Loki sets his coffee aside. "What do you want from me?"
His lips twist in a smirk. "I didn't want anything. But... since this has been...chosen for us both... we will have to make the best of it, Loki." Aeron pushes up from his chair and comes to stand nearby you. He half-sits upon the table, mostly on the edge, but none of the food is in danger. When he's not belligerent, he is actually quite attractive. More so when his mouth is completely closed, one might imagine. Or... open but otherwise occupied non-verbally.
"What I want from you, now that I must rely on you, is a willingness to listen, to set aside fear even when fear is the most rational reaction. I need you to start viewing the world's glass as half-full. That is the battle we wage: against entropy, against corruption. We can't do it, we can't blow on the embers of this world to keep the fire going if we're pissing and moaning about having to do it. You were chosen, for reasons that completely escape me," he almost exhales that in lingering exasperation, "...but ... maybe there is something about you... that I haven't seen. I want to see it. The proof of it. That is why I need you to get off of your arse. Help those around you. Inspire them if nothing else."
He stares at you a moment or two longer. "After the King is ... refreshed... I will speak to him again about allowing you the ability to detect magic. It might make your eyes and ears bleed, but... if you are going to stay in London and join this fight, if you are going to be an active participant, then... I think you should have the tools to do the job. You need to know who to avoid. Recognizing them will help you."
"No one could have said 'Also, we're the anti-entropy brigade' a little sooner?" Loki takes a breath, trying to settle past the plaintiveness of his own complaint. Childish. Get over it, kiddo, and fast. "Sorry. Never mind. I probably wouldn't be any faster on the uptake if anyone had."
He picks up his coffee again, for comfort, and because it doesn't hurt to remind himself you've given him that much already. "Is 'those around you' the general setup, or am I supposed to be doing some kind of emotional triage?"
"Well, before tonight, if we had told you any of this, would you have even listened?" Aeron tilts his head -- the raven in the man. "Normally... I'm a watcher... a spy... not a ... teacher. So... bear with me. I wish I could tell you how to do anything. On my level, it is more clear. I work in the space between worlds. You might call it the astral plane, if you've studied that sort of thing. I believe you know what I'm talking about. It's all very... black and white there. It's not as obvious for you."
Aeron glances to the direction that the Holly King departed previously, as if he could hear the prayers of the priest. "The priest here... Romero...he is a vessel for the King's energy. He has the gift of raising power and... transferring it, restoring Gwilym when he feels he needs to be restored. As Romero is a focal point here, I believe he wishes you to be some kind of beacon on earth. To affect those around you for the better, and thus, in that small way, affecting the course of the universe. Ergo... the pissing comment. Music... is part of that. Balthazar... is part of that. I should go ahead and tell you now that he is more than he seems to be. He's smarter than he looks, too," Aeron drawls out. "He's my nephew... and he can be a resource for you as well... if you just talk to him. You are so closed, so insular. That is something you will have to address if you are going to be able to be successful."
He looks at you again, tilting his head. "I have probably told you too much. You complain about not getting instructions. None of us got a manual. We were born. We were chosen. We act in the best way we can. We do the best we can every day. That's really all you can do. But... you can't be a passive observer. Even I, this night, am learning that lesson, Loki."
Somewhere through this explanation, Loki has gone still and quiet, coffee held between two hands and forgotten. "So Balthazar already knew all of this." He blinks, and looks away. It's not unlike grinding gears, as the closing off and pulling back begins out of reflex, and he tries to push through it. The only useful route at the moment seems to be a change of topic. "Eyes bleeding, you said? Think it'll actually help?"
"We have tried to respect his request for not meddling in his affairs. He knows you were chosen. He wasn't at all happy about it, I will say. He doesn't know the specifics of what you have been told or not or what your role is. It is his uncle's business. But... given tonight's close call... I would say that... now is as good a time as any to introduce yourself to the prince. His work will have more meaning with you there, and yours will be more successful working in tandem with him. Now, if we can convince him of that... we will be getting somewhere."
Aeron looks tired. "Honesty is so exhausting," he exhales. He rises off of the table's edge and returns to his chair, pouring a large glass of the fig wine. "You should try this.... it is the drink of kings." He pours you a cup and slides it toward you. It is dark and fragrant, like figs and honey but fermented. His mouth cuts a slanting smile. "It won't hurt," he retorts. "But I can't grant you that vision. That gift is for the king alone to give you. Without it, you're traveling blindly. I will ... see what I can do for you. In the meantime, have a drink. Rest. When you wake, you will be in your own bed, I promise."
Loki looks nearly as tired, by now. "Thanks," he says quietly, leaving the specifics of what he's referring to unsaid for now. His regard for the glass he's been offered is not particularly appreciative, and more akin to that of a child presented with medicine to drink before bed. He tries the fig wine anyway. It's going to take something heavy to get through all the coffee he's had tonight.
It is pungent and sweet. It is soothing. A balm to the spirit with immediate effects. Aeron leans back in his chair and watches you. My King, for better or worse... he knows more tonight than he has known all his life. I will ensure he gets home safely. And we will see where we are tomorrow...
Posted by rowan at April 11, 2009 03:58 PM
