"That is flattering," Iowerth notes quietly and just as casually. "And it's always handy to know the price of beef."

     "...I need to stop trying to live the life I imagined I would be living right now and think about ... just... right now."

     "If only there were a market for itinerant former kings..."

     ...Seventh Day of Summer. After several short excursions to test The Wyvern and my rusty abilities, I am finally en route to the Barony of River's End.

     It is a sight that those on Philosopher's Island have come to expect. In the retreating afternoon sun, a lone, familiar figure walks from harbor, past the campus and up the hill. He doesn't stop for drinks. He doesn't shake hands or exchange greetings. They all swear the figure is the ghost of the king.

     There is a sudden, terrible wracking of emotion. It shakes his body. And like a summer storm, it passes just as quickly.

     What is, after all, to be done? Nothing. Time is slipping away, and he is ever more conscious, acutely conscious, of how little time he has left. He stands looking out the window, though he sees nothing in the evening gloom of winter. Perhaps there is nothing to be seen, as much as there is nothing to be done.

     Iowerth rises, his eyes full of grit, his throat closing with the silt of a king's guilt. He puts a hand to his eyes, pressing and rubbing. Oh, there is anger -- but it's not at God, and it's not at Tiernan, and it's not at you. It's not even directed to Fate. The sea is angry with itself.

     There is a kind of comfort in this happening now, happening in winter. You can cover yourself up in the armor of an overcoat, bundle your neck and heart in woolen scarves, and it gets dark early, providing ample excuse to turn-in for bed sooner than might otherwise be acceptable.

     He knows the water is breaching his hull. He knows he's sinking. And he can hear the thunder in the distance. The time is coming. But he'd rather hear the band on deck. He'd rather have a cup of tea. The Captain looks to his First Mate, his eyes begging, silently: Lie to me.

     As hands join from couple to couple, Gruffydd glances to his lover. It's perfect, actually. Just family. Just friends. We're all holding one another's hands. And the promise is a simple one. Love one another.

     Just now, mother, the universe can take its way and shove it up its dark matter.

     "I was hoping there'd be more time," Tiernan whispers. "Years more. Decades." It is to himself and not to himself; it is in answer to what you have said and to what you have not said.

     "I wish that I could remain forever with you. Unfortunately... my time here is coming to an end, children."

     His thoughts slap him like waves, and the spray of it leaps from his eyes in his anguish. Swift, swift salty waves: the ocean of this has no ending...

     The rocks and hazards were there, mapped out, the ones he knew. He wasn't expecting this black ice. I'm run aground. I'm shipwrecked. The thoughts aren't broadcast. They are held in his silence, cast adrift with the planks of his heart. He watches them all sail away as he feels himself bobbing in the remains. "When are you leaving..."

     "...I did what I sat here, in this room I think, and told you I wouldn't do. I abandoned you. For reasons that are no longer clear to me, actually. I'm not sure what all the fuss was about. I guess... I saw rocks and hazards that weren't really there."

     "I want to return the gift of Love that you have given me, so patiently, for so long. And Gwilym, who gave it to me so impatiently. When all I could do was take it with the promise to return it later. It is later now," Iowerth says quietly, his every syllable strumming emotion. "It's my turn to be patient. It's my turn to love with Love's Priority..."

     "About ... what and what?" Anierin says. He looks back and forth between his fathers.

     Bianca looks to each one and then to the High King. "Your Majesty, I will stand for these three -- Sun, Moon and Star -- and vouchsafe their Avalon heritage for the Crown's recognition."

     "Gin and tonic sounds good," Wes the Elder says gruffly. He nods and listens, but he isn't on ceremony. "Concerns? Mostly the usual concerns. Last time we saw your son, he was making promises to me about my granddaughter - young Madison. Now we've been told there's still going to be a wedding - to Gillian. Changes of heart happen, but this is a bit more of a change while involving both girls instead of just one."

     "...Prince Balthazar is a wonderful man of intelligence and grace, and he comes from a family by whom I consider myself privileged to be granted the honor of this consideration. I am certain that he would be dismayed if I took him so for granted as to fail to give him the opportunity to display his abilities; but I do not believe that I shall go out of my way to invent tests for him, our courtship already being secure. Fate will find tests aplenty for us both, as it will for all living beings who strive for excellence. My only hope is that we may both achieve a level of such that we may be each other's equal."

     Tanira smiles demurely, neatly unfastening her veil and setting it aside. She takes up her cup in both hands and lifts it to her lips. "Nothing illegal, I do not believe, papa. It is nothing terribly strange. I have decided that I wish to marry."

     "Hey, have fun with it. Enjoy your moment in the sun, Sun." He grins, looking to Tiernan. He holds out his hand for his lover, his husband. We should all enjoy our time in the sun...and with our son.

     He waits until Preston is safely out of the room, every single look, every minute motion controlled. And when the door ticks closed, Balthazar frowns. And every piece of glass, from bottles containing alcohol to tabletops and windows, shatters in a shock wave of emotion.

     Resting his chin on a folded hand, Anierin moved a tiny model ship, a miniature of The Draigamor along the ripples of a woven rug and over the swell of his father's boots.

     The High King stands with a sigh. "You are so handsome, so confident, so strong... it's depressing," he smiles to his son. "You are not supposed to be this...this yet. I am going to go to my room and cry." He pivots, holding out a hand for his husband to take.

     ...You are looking for someone to blame when there is no one. You blame yourself, without need. He made his own choice. And if he is happy where he is, if he is at peace and does not blame you, then why do you persist in blaming yourself?

     "Hmm..." for a moment that is all Balthazar says: a musical hmm, a symphonic sigh. He is not distracted, as he turns toward the voice. What he is, is intoxicated. But it is beyond drunk; it is past drugged. He is his own opiate, a walking aphrodisiac.

     Periwinkle rimmed with green softens as he looks at your face. His face, seemingly no more than twenty-nine, holds all of the memories and wisdom of having aged gracefully (mostly) with you. His hand brushes against your dark hair, and then your cheek. "It is time," he whispers, and he grins.

     "Soon, I'll be calling you Your Majesty. I'm not sure I'm ready for that, to be honest. To me, you will always be the little boy who crept in our bed every time it thundered."

     "Thank you for the welcome, sir. It's very kind of you to open your home to all of us. We'll try not to get in your hair too much. Right, Maddie?" He lightly pokes his baby sister in the shoulder. "We've been touring family reunions this month, it feels like. Next week: the Hatfields and the McCoys."

     "Dear God," Iowerth says, turning to you, "...how will we contain our son, the Burning Inferno come Midsummer? This ... is going to be interesting..." But interesting in the way that makes him suddenly tired.

     Home. With my family. With you, my first and most enduring love. How we have fought to be here today. "I think," Tiernan murmurs to you, giving your wrist a squeeze, "we need to set that date, my king."

     Every seat is filled in Shepherd's Bush Empire, apart from those taking a quick break between shows -- ten minutes -- to get refills on beer and visit the necessaries. The old BBC theater is packed and the murmur of the crowd, the babbling Babel of nearly three-thousand, puts on its own kind of show.

     "Tss," Davydd whispers, "..you're going to burn a hole in my fancy rugs with that temper. Go get some air. Fetch Ani," Davydd pats him on the shoulder. "Tell him it's time for supper."

     "Will we know what to do?" His eyebrows lift and his smile takes a wander across his face. "Probably not. We may sleep for a year just to catch up. But we will find it out together, whatever it is. It will be a new adventure, right? So, we will not worry. We will sail into the wind as always."

     "Once upon a time..."

     "I am glad we talked. We will continue to talk, oes?" And now he is the one with a hand on Bran's shoulder. "I am sorry, Bran, for the exile. It was wrong of me." He lightly pats Bran's shoulders and turns, leaving a stunned Bran in his wake.

     "I talked to Balthazar," Tiernan agrees. He sighs. "There has been ... a ... change of plans." One corner of his mouth quirks, wryly, and he settles on the arm of the chair, watching you. "There is a girl."

     You have kidnapped me and you have rescued me.

     "I regret nothing," he says, kiss parting. "Not a single moment. Each scar we have, we earned. Each joy we had, we deserved. Every fight, while maddening, was worthwhile -- worth it, to be standing in this spot with you, right now, the most handsome man I have ever seen."

     "...I had not realized... how much I had really missed him. I would acknowledge it, as one does with the passing of time."

     "I have never closed my door to you. It has always remained politely ajar," Iowerth notes. He speaks his own truth. "You're my brother. It isn't so much a door as it is a curtain."

     "...We are married, in all senses of that word. Our fortunes, our fate, our joys, our regrets -- they are all wed to one another."

     "I ... should let you return to His Majesty," Agapios repeats, a small smile or recognition following. "No doubt you have other matters to attend to today, other than swimming in the memories of ... old currents..."

     "I have some things which we should discuss, Io." Patient, as always. There is no sign that this is something out of the usual. Tiernan smiles at you quietly, bending to pour the wine. "Nothing too terrible. But I have been hearing from Gruffydd about his trip."

     "... I was trying to listen to Gwilym as he talked. But ... the sound of my blood rushing in my ears made that difficult."

     "Brawd." He rises and he takes a look at you. You, Your Majesty. He felt the crowning.

     "Each day, he and his husband will have lunch. A private lunch. We will eat and make love before heading back to our respective businesses. So let it be written, so let it be done. So says the king."

     A moment's pause is all there is. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. I understand your part of the argument. I can understand his regret. I ...appreciate it more... what he was going through, or I imagine he was going through, when we were young.

     Stolen moments. You and he shall have to become master thieves, plucking moments in spontaneous silence.

     His body is streaked with comets and galaxies. It is a startling sight.

     "Ask me again," Iowerth says quietly. "This time, ask me without your hands in my pants."

     "But," he exhales, a smirk trailing after his breath. "I cannot sit here while he is possibly bleeding somewhere, can I? So I will stay in the royal palace and demand special treatment from mother. It won't be a completely wasted endeavor."

     He seems ... not to remember me. I do not understand it, but I recognized him when he lowered his hood. It gave me a very bad turn. And he invited me... he wants me to join the Hunt.

     "The audience is over," Fiona says lightly. "And his Majesty must return to his duties. You will make a grand king, Iowerth. It is not much consolation, I know."

     "My life has been one drama after another, like I've turned into a stage and I've got Shakespeare on my back and Plautus up my ass."

     "My phone rang all night. Fairies, vampires, wolves, shivering nuns -- you name it, they rang me."

     "It's a good deal more goddamned interesting than cricket..."

     When they shake hands, it is like the Captain of All the Ships of the World shaking the hand of the Pirate King...

     "So if you're ordinary, Io, then I am dullness incarnate. Shall we be two grey pebbles on a sparkling beach together?"

     Iowerth looks to the heavens and shakes his head at himself. You are so stupid. How can someone so smart be so dumb? Shall I be doomed to my heredity? Really?

     "My mind is... somewhat spinning," he'll admit that to you, if to no one else, "... from all she has told me. I feel like Mohammed or the Buddha, only without the foresight of taking notes."

     "...One night, one day maybe you will look up and you will understand why. For now... just... believe it."

     "I think it is because the memories of the evening feed the fumbling fingers at dawn. Just as the evening's clasping is inspired by how the day began. It's a vicious cycle," Iowerth intones lightly.

     "Would I be happier in knowledge or ignorance? Let's ask Adam, shall we? I believe that is the quintessential question of the universe, my brother. For now, give me the illusion of ignorance. If you are still seeing him in a year, then... come confess, my door will be open for you as always."

     It is rightly thought that this is the last winter of my youth. The last season that can pass lazily by as uncomplicated as a child.

     Putting the hearth's poker back in its stand, Iowerth turns to you. "It is an outer cold," he assures. "Winter is a season for contemplation."

     The explosion consisted of his foot, the private quarter's door, and a round of darts. With short swords.

     He sees you and he smiles with a rascal tilt. He doesn't say anything before he pulls you in for a hug and kisses you in fine Italian greeting. "Buona notte," he tries Italian on for size. "How was that? Is my accenting off?"

     His smile is as lopsided as yours and your brother's usually are, but it is there; and then he releases your hand and looks away. "Here's hoping we can keep the news of your mother's cat's pregnancy from her better than we did the news of our relationship, yes?"

     Iowerth smirks. "Worried, Distressed and Confused." His eyebrows arch up and he exhales. It does sort of suit him at the moment...

     "I told you I was moody." There; there is a faint quirk of a smile, and he sighs, turning and sliding his arms around your waist. "I am overreacting. I don't know why. Just ... it hurt."

     "...Duw... you look...I don't know that I've ever seen you this way," Iowerth remarks suddenly. "You are in your own power. You are radiating strength and confidence."

     Until the time that this island teams with life, you and I will have the full freedom we deserve. And once the crowds begin to press, then my brother...you and I will simply have to... put our heads together and devise other solutions. I have no fear... for we are clever...

     Gwilym rolls his eyes, his hands lifting to scrub at his face. "He looked ... almost Arabic, or Greek, or - something. But not quite. And I looked at him, because he was looking at me, and he didn't look away when he saw me looking at him. And his eyes reached out and hit me. And oes... oes, my ears are still ringing..."

     But what's he to do? Force his way in? Reveal the forbidden relationship out of jealousy? That is not his way. You wanted to be with your General, he understands that. And your General wants you -- he can very much sympathize.

     "She offered me a game of chance. If I won, she would grant to me access to a realm beyond my imagining; if she won, she would get me to do with as she saw fit, her slave forever. My soul, essentially. And we played at dice."

     "With so much complexity, the more one struggles the worse it gets. I struggled, quietly and not so quietly. I'm sure I shall again. That's the nature of life."

     If I'd known that the last time I saw you would be the last time I would hold you, the last time I would be held by you, I would have done so much differently. But if I'd known, I wonder, would I have had the nerve to leave...

     Iowerth's eyebrows quirk up a little at the casual mention of his mother's nipples at the dinner table, but such is the conversation of new parents. "I'm starting to feel a little faint," he drolls. "Is this what I'm in for then?"

     I am your Star, oes? And maybe, just maybe that is part of the problem, Io. Your boy ... you made him your chamberlain, your seneschal. But what is he to you, in that sense? It isn't enough to love, sometimes. Sometimes, it needs to be given a name.

     "I was angry. I swam out to sea. I became ...the dragon I am and opened my mouth for a great roar. I swallowed the pirates whole and coughed up treasure for about four hours. My throat is still sore. But.... it is what it is."

     "It is like you are ...preparing me for your not being here. If something is inevitable, I should rather face it than to convince myself it will never happen."

     "But ... I have confidence that an inquiring disposition and an attentive mind will make up for many sins, your highness. I might not be able to get half the attention of young men that my sister does, but that's alright; if all they can talk about is the color of her eyes, I grew tired of that conversation half a decade ago."

     "On the contrary, I think you are doing your father very proud. You seem to be an intelligent young woman, crafty, capable, able to carry on any number of conversations. Why should that cast a negative light on your father? Rather, he should thank you for making his kingdom seem learned and accomplished..."

     Princess Mirvayna Aristide is a small creature, with large, silver-grey eyes set in a pale face framed by raven hair that curls lustrously as it makes its way down her back. Her mouth is small, a cupid's bow painted pale pink; she wears quite a bit of pink, and it flatters her complexion. She knows that it does, for she has been told so by so many of her admirers.

     He hangs his head with a moment of exhaled resignation, then sits back. "Not the birds and the bees speech, I hope," he murmurs and he smiles a little. No, he knows what is coming. For weeks, he's been preparing himself.

     "No no, Gwi, you're working too hard," Iowerth drolls low and wry, "...you should slow down, brawd, before you pull something."

     It has almost been a temptation to ask you to meet me on the material plane, brawd. Back at the apartment over Black Jack Davy's. But just as our mother now is reluctant to come here, so I am reluctant to go there; the noise I have in my head, I do not know if it will come back or not. And with you...

     Without you, I do not think I could have survived. Hells; I know it. I would have been on this plane, not that, when she died, and it would have taken me with her.

     Maybe that is what this is. He realizes it suddenly, even as he gives the sea back to the sea, salt tears finally falling as you kiss him. One gives oneself to the sea, and there is no turning from that. Everything else is worn away by the sea; the ocean will have its due.

     I gave the command. I won my own battle, and I felt the life ebb from her. She was dead before my men ever reached her kingdom. There were losses, I'm sure - it was a battle, a minor war, even if won overnight. How many people are celebrating because of me, today? How many mourning?

     Sitting in the chair, Iowerth lingers in his unsilent quiet, his weary brain pulsing with conversations and consequences.

     My head is swimming. I have navigated the worst seas imaginable and have kept my head while doing it. Only to lose my head on land.

     Taking his pack off the table and shoving cigarettes back into his jacket, Davydd narrows his eyes. "Llew, good on ya lad. I'll see you. Ah... and if you see the boys..." a pointed look, that, "... tell them..." Davydd pauses a moment. "...they should come up for air."

     After the call, brief as it was, came to an end, your captain showed himself again. Lift that pillow, tote that blanket! What had been efficient tidying before, following several hours of complete and utterly decadent dismantling, now had to be the very spic of the span.

     "You are important to me, Io," he says quietly. "Y' are, oes? But ... I need to learn this, this thing. You - are going to go off in other directions. I've been ... using you for balance, all my life. And now ..." You have gone off in another direction. And my equilibrium is suffering.

     "... And he's cloaked himself in shadows. Shadows take a toll on him. Maybe," she sighs again, "maybe we were wrong to raise you two so much over there. It would have been different, here. But - I was selfish."

     "The realtor told me the previous occupant was ...quite artistic. He said the whole ship's painted rather fantastical, with blinking Christmas lights strung up year round." His mouth cuts a wry slant. "I'm not sure about that."

     I am the sea and the dreams that move them. I am the storm and the center of the storm. I need someone to stand with me, against the waves. To swim to me out in the middle of the ocean. When I stretch out my hand in my father's raging challenges, will yours be there to clasp it?

     He crosses to one of the other tables, sitting on the edge of it, letting his legs swing. "I'm scouting for an apartment over one of the little clubs. Music in the evening, cheap vodka, easy women - all the things mother'd warn me against. I don't plan on avoiding you, Io, I just ... I don't know. I have - things to figure out."

     The perpetual gargoyle, Edward sits upon a ledge, smoking the last of his current case of cigarettes. Soon it will be time for another, and he'll have to leave his perch to find the nearest corner store for a top up. The other option is simply to go home, and he's not really sure he's up for it at this instant.

     I'm lost, and I don't know how to find myself again...

     "An angel's feather falling, I have such, from the Plains of Chaos, the Outer Rim of The Great Marches." She makes a motion to the other woman. "It will be very dear indeed," she smiles beautifully, "... the most expensive item in the entire City, I should think. Second only to a night with me."

     If this is the seduction, if this is the information you wish, my spy... you will have it. More than you need.

     You will be the prince's favorite...the first courtier of his fledgling court... a prince of your own standing... it's our way to freedom, Tiernan. The hold of his arms tighten around your waist.

     "Brother," he drawls, "I do love you dearly, much as it pains me to say it, but what pains me more is how everyone keeps insisting you're the smarter of the two of us. The obvious escapes you."

     "We will have to conspire against her for your freedom or your joy, I'm afraid. And will likely need assistance doing it. Either you betray her with subterfuge or direct defection. But either way, Tiernan, to love me is to turn away from her. There's no avoiding that..."

     The ship pitches and rolls, even as you and he pitch and roll on the bed. It sends you deeper inside his mouth, it makes his weight land on you, it rocks you back and forth into one another as it rolls upon the skin of the sea.

     His hand had already fallen away. If it hadn't, it would now. You receive an astonished green-eyed stare. He doesn't move; not even to drop his jaw. You're kidding, right?

     We shouldn't here. It is risky. But ...Life is risky...

     And despite the fact that his new lover has gone, despite the fact that the way is dark and full of potential, dread dangers, Iowerth's mouth begins to twitch...

     My compass. It tells me where I am, constantly where I am. But where am I with you?

     He relaxes, very slightly. Ah, so he's not to be immediately tossed to the curb; though what answer should he give? The truth? There are shades and shades upon shades of truth. "I can accept being a Leon Tamer better than some slurs," Tiernan murmurs, his hand shifting to scoop up the little clockwork lion.

     For all his droll humor and his reserve, even his stubbornness (and he's most stubborn about the topic of love and all you have had to say. It'll take a while to sink in. Like father, like son. Poor boy), he comes to you with a look and he bends to give you a hug and a kiss. "I'll keep my eyes on him," a nod back to Gwilym. "I am my brother's keeper..."

     "What makes you think I am wild? Those who know me would laugh to hear you say that." His lips make a twist as he holds still -- all but his mouth and eyebrows. You'll have to forgive him that much expression at least. "Edward Drago," Iowerth adds, anglicizing his name. "Or Captain Drago if you prefer."

     "I... treaty with older women," your twin continues, "... but they're not icy fingered death maidens sittin' in a dark room with cowls," he inherited this ability to rant and rave from his father, "...you must be mental..."

     Now, the corgi is rigged to the contraption just like a horse would be, and he trots as proudly as if he were the queen's own prized arabian, decked out in Christmas (alright, Yule bells) and grinning madly.

     It is the kingdoms of fairy and dreams dotting the Imaginary Landscape, with the dark oceans of future dreams dotted with heavenly stars and creatures. There, the plains of chaos, roiling midnight blue clouds of Unknown Possibilities -- both Good and Evil -- both unformed and waiting for God... or the dreams of Man... to shape them.