There must be something I can do. There must be. If there is not...
     If all my hours and work have been wasted...
     I cannot sit by and watch the torture of my brother's heart. Not now. Not again...
     Gwilym's mind is not racing. His footsteps are no more hurried than their usual pace; his agitation is worn all on the inside. He is not breaking and entering tonight, even. What's wrong with him?
     He presents himself in black, the shining wing of red-gold hair blocking his right eye so that he looks through the world sinister. And he waits for your guards and your defenders to decide if they will convey his greetings, his request to speak with you, or no.
     He believes you will see him.
     Right now, that is all that he has faith in, and nothing else in the world...

     It is winged Jibril that appears, his beautiful face obscured by a silken veil. "Family of her family," he salutes you, "Zafirah awaits you in the star garden. Be welcome." He motions the other guards, those visible and not, and steps aside in a show of good faith and grace.
     The star garden is an observatory built for stargazing. There are beautiful telescopes set in place, golden and highly stylized. There are softly chattering fountains and an uninterrupted view of the sky. It is sheltered from the lights of the nearby Philosopher's and main island, so her view of Heaven might never be dulled, and she never homesick.
     Zafirah waits there. She is clothed in white silks, her hair unbound but covered by veils. Her face, apart from her cinnamon colored eyes, is covered also. She stands in observance of the sky.
     Behind her, there are two grand sofas with ottomans. A service of tea is brought for her; for you, a service of whiskeys and liqueurs.

     "Thank you." He is on his best behavior - well, all right, good behavior. For now. Gwilym follows Jibril's lead, stepping past. He is not foolish enough to try to pick a fight, and he has no reason to fight - yet. There will be time enough for fighting soon enough.
     He approaches you, and he bows, fluidly and sincerely enough, but without the humility Tiernan would show. Instead, there is strain visible, even upon the Holly King's too beautiful and too smooth countenance. He rises after a moment. "You know why I've come," Gwilym says bluntly, though not rudely. "At least, I imagine you do. You've felt it, I'd think; we all have. I'm here because of Io."

     Zafirah turns and lowers her veil to you. Her mood is subdued. Yes, she has heard the cries of her children and the joined cries of her spouse. "I was about to leave for the Flowering Tree when I received your call. Please, Gwilym, be comfortable."
     Zafirah joins you, gracefully moving -- do her feet land on the stone? -- and then taking a seat upon one of the sofas. "I do not know of the specifics. But I do know that my family is upset, and that includes my brother-in-law. Would you care for a drink?"
     She pauses in her courtesies to pour herself a cup of tea, flavored by a thin slice of orange muddled in the bottom of the cup. Zafirah's gaze is serene but not without emotion. "I know you love your brother well. Please, speak your mind and your concerns. I am not a flower that will wilt."

     "Thank you." It's awkward; he's not sure what to say. How does he tell you of his concerns, when he is the master of secrets, most especially his own and his twin's? Gwilym looks around himself, then back at you. "Tiernan is ascending, they say. To join the ranks of Heaven, leaving his family behind."
     That might be enough for you to understand what he is saying, what the problem is, but it is not enough for him. He draws in a ragged breath, and he ignores the offer of tea. If he's drinking anything, it'll be something a damned sight stronger than boiling water flavored with sticks and leaves.
     "It is destroying Io. It's destroyin' Tiernan too, from what I've seen and felt. To this day they can't bear to be separated." Gwilym watches you through that one visible eye, resisting the urge, the need to pace, to move, to do something, anything except be helpless. "I realize you're not in charge of everything that Heaven does. But this is ... there has to be some compromise, Zafirah." His voice is raw, and he presses his hand to his mouth. "This isn't right."

     Her expression is one of great sympathy and compassion. "It is difficult. Painful. As any birth and rebirth is, Gwilym. But it is not a matter of being right or wrong. This is not a matter of justice but of transcendence. His soul has suffered and learned, achieved and loved and has been shown love. And after so many centuries, he is finally able to move on to the next circle of existence." She pauses. "Enlightenment does not mean abandonment. But in every and to every enlightened soul, time must pass where the loves and the possessions of one world and one time must be set aside in order to ...understand more of what God has to reveal."
     She rises from her sofa, to join you on yours, exhaling as she sits. She reaches for your hand. "But that doesn't make it any easier for those loved ones who will be left. Like any death, it is not the person who is moving on who feels the pain of grief; it is those he or she has had to leave to make that journey. Dearest Gwilym, there is no one in charge of Heaven. This is no one's journey but Tiernan's own, even as your paths are...your paths. You must walk them. He must walk his own. Heaven is neutral. It is... what each man and woman and child and flower or beetle make of it. His eyes will open and he will see a new sky. It does not mean that this sky was not beautiful, not worthy, or still not loved. He will love more fully, I dare say. But," she places a touch upon your arm. "Philosophy and grace are not comforting. This I realize. Tell me how I might be of help. I will do all that I can for my husbands and our family. And that includes you, Gwilym."

     He watches you, and what you say is just so alien to him. "I want my brother's heart not to be broken," Gwilym answers quietly. "This is destroying him, Zafirah. It's destroying both of them, and the children. He doesn't even want to go, to move on. Tell me how I can make my brother happy, how I can lift this from them. Tell me how this 'path' he doesn't want to be on can be remedied so that it doesn't diverge from Io's."
     He watches you, and he is tense. "You can't, can you." Gwilym looks away. "There is nothing I would not do for him, Zafirah. I need ... there has to be some way."

     "I know this, Gwilym. And I do not want for Tiernan's or Iowerth's heart, or those of my children, to break or to be bruised. Neither does Heaven. But what birth is without pain? We are all stepping into the Unknown," she tilts her head to look at you. "But... even this doesn't have to be The End. Am I not of Heaven and here?" She smiles to you a little. "Are you not holding my hand? How do we all know that Tiernan will go do far as to never see his children again, for all time? Tiernan does not know that. I do not know that. Only God. Perhaps Tiernan's calling will, for a time, take him into parts unknown, other galaxies not tied to this one or any particular one. But no one knows what forever means. These things are not necessarily revealed to us all at once. God gives only what we may handle."
     Zafirah sighs softly to the notion of helping Iowerth. Her eyes look to her tea cup as she frees your hand to take up the tea once more. She sips at it and ruminates, her thoughts steeping silently. "Ultimately, you cannot make someone happy. Happiness is a choice each of us must make. But you can be there to remind him of the goodness of the universe, of how much he is loved, of how much he has yet to offer his children, and their children. You can love him. But you cannot fix it, Gwilym." Zafirah sets her tea aside, her hands returning to fold against your own. "You want to take his pain, their pain, Tiernan's pain, all of this and banish it to the shadows you hold at bay. You are brave and loving," she smiles a little to you. "There is nothing braver than loving."
     Her fingers clasp yours lightly but with a solidity, a firmness. While ethereal, she is not ephemeral. "Tiernan does not have to choose to move on. He can turn away from enlightenment. He can lock himself in this world and in his flesh. But what good would that do him, his husband, or their children and loved ones? Is that not, in essence, what the living dead have done? But his life would become a prison, and his existence, their existence would end in greater pain."

     "They are convinced they will be parted forever. Or for too long." Gwilym's voice is bleak. "I would do anything to build a bridge, find a door, anything, Zafirah. What good is being the best thief in this world or any other if I can't find a door to jimmy open for my brother and his lover?"
     He knows you're not wrong. But there has to be something. How can he stand there and endure his twin's pain? His voice is raw again, thick with emotion. "Can you promise me that there will be ways of them being together, after? That this doesn't have to be the end of them? I'd offer myself in his stead except I know it doesn't work that way and I'd make a pretty bloody poor sort of angel. The quota on omnisexual drunkard kleptomaniacal angels has to be pretty damn' small." He sobs, a dry sound that is like a horrible laugh, turning away and standing still. "I'll see what I can do. I can't sell ice to the Eskimos, and Io's half-Eskimo himself. But ... I suppose we'll see, oes?"

     Zafirah rises as you turn and your emotion sounds so clearly. Her white wings softly enfold you. And for that time, it is as if the universe itself were comforting you. The pain doesn't go away, but it is understood.
     "While I cannot promise they will easily be in the same place, in the same state, in the same time, I can promise you that Heaven is not cruel and that love does not have to end," she murmurs. "When Iowerth's time comes, Tiernan will be able to find him. And I, too, shall be there with him. I will lend my aid as much as I may, to both of them."
     Her wings draw away and her fingers press a touch in your palm. "You will make a fine angel when you are ready. Or do you think there are no angels in all the heavens that steal?" She smiles a little. "They are convinced, because it is what they know, Gwilym. I cannot promise what connections there will be, or how they can be made. I do not know where or when or how Tiernan is being called. He is not being called by the Angel of Dreams. Or I would have more to say. I should expect that the Angel of Invention would make allowances. But I should caution against putting too much on continuing what has been. What has been, my dear, is and must end. What Will Be? That has yet to be determined."
     She frees your hand. "May the Lord bless you and keep you, Gwilym. May He shine a light in your heart to show you the way. Please carry my wish to enter your mother's kingdom. I should not like to arrive unannounced. It may be that neither husband would wish me there just now."

     "That is too long..." He says it aloud, and he looks to you, over his shoulder. "I'll tell them you're on your way if they're willing," Gwilym answers you gruffly. His emotions are running high. He clearly does not believe in the notion of himself as an angelic being. He is thoroughly rooted in this mortal coil; give him a happy hunting ground, a chance to sail into the west.
     He is, at heart, a pagan. He wishes to earn rest, not enlightenment...
     "I'll talk to Tiernan if I have to." One way or another, Gwilym has to do something. The hamsters in his brain are getting heat exhaustion from all the pointless spinning. He shakes his head as if maddened by bees, stepping soundlessly away.

Posted by rowan at August 14, 2010 01:15 PM