Sixth day of summer...
     Amigo...
     I have sat down to write this letter a thousand times over the years. I have always stopped myself before now. I will not say how I come to write it now, or why; not in this letter. But I will say I am emboldened to do so partly by my own circumstance and partly your own.
     It is funny how lifetimes can be so easy to roll off the tongue but that when one wants to write an explanation or inquisition, the words are simply not there. There are things I want to say that I must say to your face. But here are the things I can write to you:
     I forgive our past...
     I do not know, truly, what transpired then. I have lived a life of confusion. I wish that I had fought harder. I wish I understood you better...
     I have loved you for the whole of my life...
     We are both kings now. I ask that you meet me half way. I want to see you to discuss the rest. I will be in the Capitol late summer for the trade summit. I trust that you will know how to find me from there. If you wish to find me.
     I wish to be found...
     Your amigo,
     King Prospero I of Catalonia, Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos.
     It came from a private emissary who refused to deliver it to the High King's own keeping. Folded thick parchment, it was sealed with thick wax, marked with the royal seal of Catalonia. It has taken it two weeks to find you...

     He has read the letter countless times, over and over again. The creases have worn flat and sharp, then soft again, until he is afraid that the paper will come apart. He could recite it from memory by now, and yet every time he reads it again the words are fresh and new and surprising.
     And frightening...
     I will not say how... Why has this letter come? Why now? Why not five years ago, or ten, or twenty? Duw knows it's been long enough. He doesn't understand, and what he does not understand, Gwilym tends to fear, or at best, distrust. Right now he is alone, for the moment, in a cheap set of rooms in a cheap part of town. The furnishings are forgettable, as cheap as the rent, but there are touches here and there of home; of the Holly King's expensive tastes and demands.
     I wish to be found...
     He whispers to himself soundlessly, lips tracing the syllables, the vowels and the consonants of the letter and of his own reply to it. "I have run from the day my feet first left the earth, and run, and run, and run until running became all I knew. I've hidden myself, in plain view, and wanted nothing so much as to feel the warm red blood flow out of me as another mask that would be final, and finally even that running became too much for my bones and my body and my weary soul, damn my eyes..."
     Gwilym pushes from the mirror. It is whole, and reflects him wholly, but everything is in pieces, now. It is in splinters; he is confused. And he is not used to being confused, puzzled. The folded letter is caressed as he sets it on the dresser, and he runs his hands idly over himself. The shadows lengthen and grow thicker, and then dissipate, leaving him clad in princely raiment; a black uniform festooned with the ribbons and medals he usually laughs at and ignores, black boots polished to perfect shine, a jaunty cap at a slight angle atop the sleek gold-red hair with one emerald eye visible to the world and the other hidden. "Well," Gwilym tells his reflection judiciously, "it has that Nazi Stormtrooper flair, but once a villain, always a villain, oes?" He sighs. He has no idea how to do this. He'll wing it, like always. "Time to go..."
     The note fades as he wraps himself in darkness. The landlady won't find any trace of her tenant, nor any signs of who he really was. From the tenements of Eastcheap to the Capitol he goes, traveling the between with a hand on his sword, begging Chaos to give him a reason to stab something, an excuse to mess up his uniform or miss this meeting. He travels to make things right, no matter the cost to him; he has, he believes, a heavy price to pay. Forgiveness? There is no such thing. And when Gwilym Gwyn Garu reappears, it is in the foyer of a certain Catalonian taberna in the Capitol. Anyone who is anyone comes here, and only royalty or higher may enjoy overnight privileges. If you are not staying in the palace, if you have not kept a villa, you are staying here. And even if you are not staying here - he is sure that word will spread quickly. You are not naive. By now, he is sure, you have your own spies and informers. Didn't you always?
     "A table for two, please," Gwilym says airily, tugging gold coins from the air to offer to the dazzlingly beautiful hostess, ignoring the young sprigs of the nobility who he's so rudely just cut in front of. Rank hath its privileges. "Royal tier, if you'd be so kind, oes?" He bows to the young woman with a flourish. "Quiet day, what?"

     The adolescent nobles are put out, until there are whispers of: Gwilym Gwyn Garu. Holly King. King of Shadows. The whispers are like the hooves of the shadow horses you ride: Gossip and Infamy.
     "Of course, Your Majesty," the woman bows, her hoop earrings of gold tinkling in the motion. She rises, smoothing her hands over her black trousers as she straightens. She cuts a modern figure, strangely, as if someone has gone to New York and taken notes...
     "I believe the games in the stadium are where everyone is today. But it will be busy soon. You know how it gets." You are led up the grand wooden stair: one, two, three, four levels high. The royal tier is removed, exclusive, and guarded by two very large men of Catalonia. Today, however, these men are armed. "Gentleman of Catalonia, might I present to you His Majesty of Holly, Gwilym Gwyn Garu, uncle to the High King, brother of His Most Royal Highness, Iowerth Rhudd Draig." The two men look at you and then step aside as they open the doors that lead to the tier itself.
     She does not follow you in, though the guards do mark you, if politely...
     The vast, comfortable space, like a royal living room, is made comfortable this high summer by open doors and overhead fans. There are multiple tables, dining areas where royal guests may sit on sofas and upholstered chairs to enjoy their breakfast, lunch or dinner. But today, there is only one inside: His Majesty, Prospero Maximo I, King of Catalonia.
     He looks the same, the sun-kissed complexion, the fine features, the finer dress and the easy manner that has always marked him. But the dark curls of his hair, shorn neatly, show the evidence of silver. He is dressed in scarlets and browns, in light cottons that breathe easily. At his side, a service of orange spice coffee and tea, with the usual Catalonian tapas.
     At the salutation, at the opening of the door, Prospero stills his hand upon the writing of a letter. His heart jumps to his throat, but he hopes he is the only one to know this. He looks up, his tiger's eye jasper eyes still soulful, now with just the hint of creases at their corners. And he pushes away from his table, rising.

     There is some enjoyment, privately taken, in pushing the noses of self-important young nobs. As how could it be otherwise? He is the embodiment of surprises, of the arrival of humility. All must bow their head and bare their neck to the Holly King, to the Winter, to the End of the Year. Even the Sun.
     Of course, that goes the other way also...
     He follows the hostess, smiling at her outfit in shrewd recognition. There are always holes between one place and another, and those who know how to exploit them, if they're willing to pay the price. Gwilym winks that one visible eye as if to say, it's fine, I won't tell. And he mounts the stairs, nervousness in his stomach like a rising tide of nausea that he keeps entirely out of the public view, grinning at the two men. He doesn't bother to look harmless. Nobody who knows who he is would believe it, anyway, and he isn't here for those kinds of games. Not this time, at least.
     It occurs to him to wonder what they've heard. Is he an enemy of the state in Catalonia? Do they still hold Romero's defection, his 'kidnapping', against him? Latin tempers and memories both can simmer for years before coming suddenly and violently to the boil. The thought makes the corner of his mouth curl up in a faint smile. This, after all, is what moves his life along.
     But he is being shown in to find you. And there you are. You are older, and it is shocking to him to see the silver in your hair, the proof of how long it has been, truly. He goes still; motionless, as if to avoid being seen. But it is sunlight and summer today, and Gwilym sighs soundlessly. What do I say? What do I do? What do I want? In the absence of other answers, he bows to you. "Your majesty wished t' see me," he says aloud, finding his voice quieter than he'd expected. "...I'm here about a debt..."

     Prospero is just as still and shocked as you. You are the same. Of course you are the same. Dios mio. But the composure is quickly gained. "Maria: Ningunos otros pero el Alto Rey, comprendes?"
     Maria bows to her king. "Si, Majestad." She closes the door. You can barely hear her through the wood giving the marching orders: no one in unless ordered by the High King himself.
     Prospero motions to you. Look at you. And then he waves off all notion of debts. "No... no, no debt," he says. He motions for you to take a seat on the sofa. "We are past all this, you and I. I've... never wanted anything but..." He smiles. Nervous, he makes fun of himself in silence a moment, shaking his head and rolling his eyes to God.
     He takes a moment to pour you a cup of the orange-infused coffee. "I should end the mystery, so you do not feel the dread. You have a mole in your family. He's not a bad man. Do not punish him." He sets the coffee down on the dark wood table and then looks at you, stands close to you. "I have been... I have wanted to talk to you for many years but did not know the way. I did not want to bother you. But ... this man... said that you ... might like to hear from me. And so... I took a chance, si? I did not know how you would feel after I had tried, unsuccessfully, to court your niece. It is a touchy subject."
     Prospero halts himself. He realizes he is rambling. He laughs a little. "We are stupid men. We are so, so stupid, you and I. Come," he exhales, and he waves at your drink, "...join me in a drink. Let us... drink to our stupidity. And we can talk of the past and put it to rest, and any notion that you owe me anything. For it is not true, amigo."

     He moves slowly, not until Maria has departed, but moving the way Birnam Wood began to move - a little at a time and then catching up to himself all at once until he arrives at the sofa and dumps himself onto it, still looking at you. He is hungry for knowledge, everything he has missed out on for the last more than two decades.
     A mole. Who? He considers the question and dismisses it again almost immediately; he'll worry about that later, work on it then. For now, he is focused on you, and that one emerald eye is turned up towards you as you stand there, close enough to touch. One hand closes against his palm. "Tanira knows her own mind, and I wouldn't hold your seeking her against y'," Gwilym answers you, voice still quiet. He studies you, drinks in the sight of you, analyzes and dissects every atom and puts the pieces somewhere for later further examination. "If your heart was injured in the pursuit, I'm sorry."
     He is sorry for so many things. What's one more apology when he has so many to give and so much crow to eat? He picks up the cup you've poured, and finally, he blinks, then looks down at the floor. "...Why stupid? And I feel I owe you things - Prospero."

     He still smells of oranges and cinnamon. Though he has aged more than you, some things remain the same. "My heart was not in it," Prospero explains as he takes a seat. He makes the first move, hoping you will sit also. "It was what a crown prince transitioning to King had to do. I am still without a queen. I have named my youngest brother as my heir apparent. Succession is not an issue anymore."
     He takes his cup of coffee. He looks into it a moment as he gathers his thoughts, but he can't help looking at you. "Why stupid?" The question surprises him. Prospero smiles, shaking his head. "I could have written you twenty-five years ago. I could have demanded you change your mind. Demanded to see you. We are stupid because we let time pass unnecessarily. You... for your own reasons. Two grown men, who loved one another, should be able to talk, no matter how their affair ended, don't you think? And yet neither of us did. You don't owe me anything that I don't also owe you, Gwilym. And that is why we are stupid men."
     He takes a swallow of the spiced coffee, sitting back. One hand balances the cup on a leathered thigh; his other rests against the back of the leather sofa, propped up to further prop up his head. He stares at you, quite openly, examining you in that way he always has. "And now we have to play catchup," he murmurs. "That is where we are. It no longer really matters why you left. I only want you to know that I have always loved you. I love you to this day. And I would have understood your duty, your needs. The only regret I have, apart from the unnecessary exile, is that... I didn't get the chance to show you that. That I could be trusted to know you."
     Prospero pauses. "And I regret that I did not fight harder for you. I do regret that. Not a day has gone by where I have not wondered what more I could have done or said. I went into exile instead. I should not have let you go so easily, Gwilym. So... if you are to ask me to forgive you for something, you must allow me to ask you for forgiveness also."

     He closes his eyes with a spasm of pain that echos on his face; a rare thing. He's always struggled with saying things, with revealing himself - you have always made intuitive leaps past his defenses that have left him shy in ways no one else ever has. His hands come up, and he rubs his face.
     "I've never stopped being in love with you," Gwilym admits, the rough accent falling from his voice as he speaks quietly, eyes hidden from you by his hands. "I've regretted what happened, how it happened, so many times over the years, Pros. But ... what could I say? It was inexcusable, unforgivable. I couldn't see a way of explaining which ... didn't sound like I thought you a fool and worse."
     He looks up, and his face is red with emotion, both eyes briefly glimpsed, too bright and wet. "I went somewhere nobody could follow," Gwilym tells you softly. "Not even my family, oes? For a long, long time I couldn't even put it into words, and then it seemed like there was no point. But I didn't want to hurt you. Didn't want to shame you, and ... I'm so sorry."

     "Thank you," he murmurs. "Not for the apology," he adds that after a moment. "Though, I thank you for that, even if it is no longer necessary, Gwi." Prospero exhales, sitting up. What divide there is, he crosses, stepping over the threshold of it like striding across Time. He takes a seat beside you. "It is not unforgivable," he softly counters. "Because I have forgiven you. To me... it was always more confusing, than anything. We were nearly engaged and then... you were gone like a phantom. Certainly, after I heard that Romero was with you, there were feelings of confusion, still, rejection, certainly. I gave you your space. I didn't want to make it more difficult, whatever it was."
     "How much time could we have saved ourselves," Prospero wonders suddenly, "had we had this conversation nineteen years ago?" He looks at you. "I want to put the past back there, where it belongs, amigo. I would like to have a new friendship. I don't care about Romero. I don't care about... any of that," he shakes his head, not getting into it. "I care about you. I would like to..."
     He is quiet a moment. He looks to his hands, and then he looks over to yours as his hand comes to cover them. "If you love me... and as I love you... can we stop being stupid, stop running, both of us. Can we ... perhaps... see what there is to be seen, felt. I want you, amigo. I want you back. And if it is unseemly, then so be it. If it is pathetic, so be it. I will live with that."

     I want you back...
     They are perhaps the last words he ever thought you would say to him. Do you see it in his face, in his shock, his surprise, in the grief he still carries around with him? It is heavy on his shoulders, and he does not know how to put it down.
     Gwilym lifts his hands, wrapping them around yours, squeezing gently. "Nothing in my life's ever been seemly, or smart. You've always been the least pathetic person I know, Pros. I ... want to say oes, you know?" He gives you half a smile, then squeezes your hands again, squeezing shut his eyes as well. "But you need to know the truth before we do that. About the Holly King, about what happened... about it all. It's all related, y'see? And as King of Catalonia or as just Prospero Maximo de mumblemumblemumble, lord of the names, I'd still need to tell you."
     He opens his eyes again and exhales, and Gwilym stares you in the eye. "I want to do right by you. I want you to know the truth, Pros. You can't make a decision about this based on secrets."

     "Tell me the truth," he says. With a returning squeeze of your hands, he releases you to do so, leaning over to take his coffee. He settles back with that look that hasn't changed even if his curls have become peppered with silver. "I will listen."
     We are finally stopping in our places and in our paces, to listen and to understand. His gaze is steady and he waits, giving all of his attention to you. His coffee barely knows his lips, only gets the introductions, only the occasional sips.
     Though his hand has set yours free, the proximity of his body to yours can be felt in the ambient warmth of what little air there is between you. That almost contact is maintained, his leg close to your leg, his shoulder next to yours. Prospero looks to you, searching out the truth on your features. It will appear there first.

     The opening is here. And he doesn't know what to say. He's never thought this moment would come; never thought it could arrive, so he's never rehearsed for it, never gone over it in his head or in front of a mirror or on any level or any plane. He looks at you, and he lifts a hand to caress your hair, running his fingers with feather-light touch over the silver there, feeling hot tears prickle at the back of his eyeballs. He closes his eyes and he swallows, trying to push down the hard knot of grief and loss and despair at the past. At the time that you and he have lost.
     "...I was running from my destiny, a destiny I didn't want, didn't ask for, but which was mine," Gwilym finally answers you. He doesn't begin at the beginning; where is the beginning, after all? Isn't it close on to a thousand years ago, when a gang of fairy women raided his da's skin with their magic needles and turned him into a hero and champion, when a vampire grabbed his da and broke the pattern of the way things were meant to be? He picks up the first thread he can, and picks up with running away. But he's here, sitting next to you, and his hand falls to your knee. "I didn't want it; didn't want any part of it. I knew it'd mean responsibility and work and change, and I was afraid to death of it, and I ran from everyone and everything until I ended up with you."
     He opens his eyes, and he smiles at you, expression wry and rueful and tender. "Never knew why you loved me," Gwilym admits quietly, in a voice fit for the confessional booth. "But I loved you, and I ... stayed in one place because of wanting you, wanting to be with you. And the Holly energy began to build up. I wasn't doing anything to expend it, the way I'd been doing up til then, acting on instinct, running away, sabotaging myself, doing dark an' dangerous things, chasing my own tail and chasing death with both hands. So it built up, and I was starting to get antsy about it, but I was blind about it. And - well, Romero had a crush on me, and was dutifully doing something pretty similar - pursuing a set course which wasn't true to who he was. It was a conjunction, of sorts; the magic found the pattern, and used it, and it took over."
     This part is hard for him to say; hard for him to admit, guilt stamped in his heart and on his face as he finally looks away from you. "It took me over," Gwilym says after a moment. "It blindsided me, hit me in the back of the head and used my body and put me on the Holly King's throne with your cousin as the willing sacrifice in the darkness that night. He never stood a chance. In some ways, it freed him to be true to who he really was - but it bound me, and bound him into my service, the Holly King's high priest. Truth be told," his wry smirk makes itself known briefly as his eyes dart to your face, "one of the reasons I've never gone to Catalonia, avoided you so assiduously, is I knew his mother and yours both wanted him to join the Catholic priesthood. I've always half expected there was a price on my head in your land."
     He sighs, then, and he rubs his face, releasing his touch from you. He would not blame you if you didn't want him anywhere near you, now. "...I had to leave, then. Not just because of what'd happened with ... with Romero ... but because I wasn't in full control. I was the Holly King and still am, but the Holly King's power rode me more than I rode it, and there was no way for me to predict where it would take me or what I would have to do. I set Romero up in a position of safety and comfort, and I went to the work of taming the Broken Lands, and for the next five years I spent almost all my days riding up and down those plains, building armies and driving the robber barons and villains out. My road was soaked in blood, and for the first few years, until my younger brothers turned fifteen, I went it alone. There's things I did then which I've forgotten, and things which the Holly throne won't let me forget. It's important, you see, for even the Holly King to know an occasional taste of humility."
     In his eyes, the dark and thorny woods rustle as he looks at you again; and Gwilym looks away, opening and then closing his fists. "And there are things I've ... needed, because of it. Because of who and what I am," he admits, more quietly again. "Things I couldn't burden you with. The universe needs there to be a Holly King, oes? But the Holly King's energy has its own price, and I've often wondered if it wasn't a mistake, it coming to me. I - couldn't ask anyone to put up with it, but putting up with me means exactly that. I know; I've not said much, for all I've talked. Ask what questions you need to, oes? And please... know I won't hold it against you if you change your mind, and want me to leave."

     He doesn't ask you to leave. He doesn't storm or rant or throw his coffee on you. He takes your hand. He covers it with his, holding it to his knee. He doesn't tell you that you should have trusted him, should have told him. How could he say such things? You cannot turn the wheel of time's clock backwards. He cannot precisely know what he would have done. He, like you, can only guess at a past that was not lived and grieve for what was missed.
     "I never thought I would be king," he says softly. "I was the second son, like you." Remember? We talked about that once over coffee. "It was chosen for me when my father and my older brother died. I understand how fortune moves. If you can call it fortune. The magic...that you speak of, I cannot speak to that personally. But I can see it in you. I remember what you told me that day. You did try to protect me from what you couldn't control. That is quite clear."
     His fingers slide against your own, clasping your hand to his. "I do not hate you for Romero's sake. And there is no price upon your head. I am sorry you suffered. I wish there were something I could have done at the time. I realize... it is a vain thing to wish. As if I could understand it then any better than now."
     Prospero looks ahead, in space, in the past. Things that were confusing are stitched together more clearly: the picture becomes more clear. "That must have been very frightening for you. And you are still alone. Saving everyone but yourself." He looks to you. He always did seem to understand. "Do you think you could trust yourself and trust me to allow yourself to love? If you... still need Romero for this work... " He pauses and he nods slowly in thought, "... if it is for work's sake and not a relationship, I have no problem with its existence. I would not want to interfere in a relationship, however. It is why I ... just ... it is why I didn't write. When I heard he was with you. I thought perhaps you had loved him all that time. I didn't realize it was part of business."

     "I came closest to letting you in, of everyone," Gwilym answers you, his fingers tightening around yours. His head tips down, eyes closed as he fights the wave of strong emotions that threatens to rock speech from him. He is not letting himself off lightly. "I let you see when I was afraid, Pros. I ... some you saw without me letting you. But you saw more than I allowed anyone else, d'you know?"
     Do you know what that means? Do you, can you understand how important a distinction that is? Even with Aeron - Aeron saw it without being shown, without being permitted it. With you, it was chosen. Now he looks up again. "I'm not in love with Romero, never have been. I try to - to make sure he has what he needs, what he wants. He was swept up in the same wave as me, and it's as much my fault as anything that it worked out the way he is. I don't think he has any regrets. But I do."
     And he looks at you again, and he squeezes your hands tightly, as tightly as the band closed around his heart. He is afraid of what you will see next. Of how you will react. He cannot even begin to speak of his dark and dangerous needs. "I trust y'," Gwilym whispers, his voice hoarse with it, eyes still too bright. "It's me I don't trust, Pros. I trust you. Duw, I wish..."

     "Trust me to trust you," Prospero says. "Trust that I have never really left you. I've only been in exile. There are things you fear, it is quite evident. Fear... each one of us has our fears, our shadows. You live in them, do you not? For everyone's sake. Who lives in them for yours? Let me," he offers. "Your magic seeks a sacrifice. I will place myself upon the stone. I do not want to lose you: not to yourself, not to your fear, not to the running, or to anyone else. Let me... tell me what you need... when you need it... trust my strength and my intelligence... to be able to give it to you, or... if need be, Gwilym... to stand out of the way and let you take what will answer it for you."
     Sliding off the sofa, Prospero kneels before you. "Your power calls. Let it. Let it call me. Do not deny it. Let it come." He bends, his mouth brushing at your hand. "Let it come, Gwilym. Allow me to protect you as you protect us all. You give your body. Someone should give their body, their heart to you." Lifting, he places both hands upon yours, his cinnamon-colored eyes lifting to your face. His face is flushed with the expectation, the fear you will deny him to protect him. "I love you, amigo," he whispers. "We will do whatever needs be done for you. Together."

     You call upon him, and more than upon him, you call upon the Holly King's power; he groans, and turns his face towards the ceiling. "You don't know what it is that I seek," Gwilym whispers, clenching his teeth behind the words, after they've slipped out. But he knows; remembers, all too well, with that mixture of shame and defiance and furtive arousal the long nights in dark rooms with leather and slings and more.
     But he does not pull his hands away, even if he cannot put it into words. His hair falls to hide one eye, that shining wing of red-gold hair, short in the back, long in front the way he's worn it for so many years, since his return from the broken wastelands he once conquered. "I love you," Gwilym groans the words; they escape him, and he leans towards you, not by choice but by longing and by instinct. "I ... I am afraid, Pros. I do not want to hurt you." He swallows, freeing one hand from under yours to touch your face fleetingly, stroking your hair. "I ... I do not want to see disgust in your eyes when you look at me." And his voice breaks, and he blinks, tipping his head down to rest his forehead against yours. "...How much time do we have?"

     "What more can be hurt," Prospero insists quietly, forehead to forehead with you, "... that we have already done to ourselves? In our solitude, have we been free of pain? No, we have not. And so... whatever it is... whatever you need... would it not be better for you to have love in the midst of it... to know it is returned...until the call passes?"
     His words are whispered, accented like dancing fire flame. "I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid of this. I am afraid of being alone, loving you alone, being unable to see you and being alone. I do not fear you. I do not fear being with you."
     Prospero lifts a hand to your face. "I will not look upon you in disgust," the vow is a hush. "I love you." He lifts his head, brushing his mouth at your mouth just barely.
     Cinnamon eyes lift to yours. "Time: I will be in the Capitol for a week. I can arrange my schedule as I see fit. I am the King of Catalonia. If I am needed longer... I can stay longer." He shakes his head. "What good is it being king if you cannot set your own schedule. My time is mine. As always."

     "I mean... how much time." Gwilym swallows and strokes your temple, brushing his fingers against the silver streaking your hair. "So much time has gone by. For me, the clock's stopped; unless someone gets the drop on me or I give in, I'm not going anywhere. But you, for you the clock's marched on, and ... when your time comes, well, we'd go to different places, oes?"
     He has watched his brother's despair over it. It is much in his mind. The matter of how much time there is, how much is left, has taken on a renewed and deeper significance. But he is not letting you go. And you brush your mouth to his, and his eyelashes lower in that peculiar way of his; he responds to you without needing to think about it, jaw going heavy. "Do you want me to show you the Holly King, then, or do you want me to be as I am?" Full disclosure. Now or later.

     "You cannot predict where I will go, mijo. No one can predict that. I go to the sea, who knows, maybe to the depths, maybe to the throne of whatever god there is. I do not know. That is tomorrow's problem. No path is predetermined. I do not believe it is so. And who knows... perhaps there is a way to stop my clock. I have heard of such things. But if we cannot, we have twenty more years before I become an old man. That is better than nothing, no?" He laughs at himself and if that is his fate, he laughs at that too.
     "Show me, whatever it is you feel you must. I am not worried, mijo." His hand lands upon your thigh with reassurance. "Now or later, it is the same. I am here. I will be here. Nothing you can show me will dissuade me." He remains balanced, shifting from his knees to the ball of his feet. His arms rest against your legs and he looks at you, watches your face. "You wish to show me now, show me now. I leave it to you. You know your power better than I. I can only promise you that I will be here before and after."
     And that is resolute. Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos rises to his feet. He stands before you, a hand moving to your red hair. "I swear this to you, on my life, on however many holy books you need, by the depth and breadth of the sea: I will be with you."

     He takes your hand in his hair as a benediction, and rises slowly as you make your oath. "I believe you without vows, y'know," Gwilym whispers; he drapes an arm around your waist, bringing his other hand to your cheek. He leans in and kisses you slowly, savoring it as a treat he's been denied for years and needs to make last in case the supply should dry up suddenly again. It is real, it is not a dream, not an illusion. It is real, let it be real, not another way my mind has come up with to torment me.
     His eyes are wet, and he ignores it. "I have become a cold-blooded killer while we were apart," Gwilym tells you quietly. He strokes your cheek, then your hair. "I've ridden across more worlds than I can tell y', duw, more than I remember, and I've stolen and I've killed and I've built things up and broken them again, all in the name of a greater good. You begin to wonder, making such grand and terrible decisions, if there's any good to be found in it - it's hard to follow the trail of intestines and see a garden of virtue beyond it."
     He remains where he is, lips close to your ear, drinking in the warmth of being so close to you, of touching you. "The Holly King has his price; his way is a bloody and resolute path, and those who follow it are as marked by it as he is, himself. Some knowledge changes y'; some things can't be washed away with water. I don't pretend to be a good man, Pros. I just do the best that I can, and hope that it's enough."
     He halfway smiles at you, almost shyly, and with an exhale, he steps back a little bit, taking your hands together in his and bringing them to his lips. "It builds up in me, bit by bit; the cost of what I do," he tells you quietly. "It's my biggest secret and my biggest weakness. If my enemies found it out, they'd be able to track me down in my weakness, and - well, I don't know if they'd be able to kill me or not; like as not they'd be caught up in what happened next as much as I am, then, myself. I can unleash it, and show you, but for that there'd need to be bait. It's quiet now, and the wolves are sleeping, and they'll not wake up without the scent of blood. What I become then, it can be blindsided - you're one of the few, very few people in this and any other world who could drive me from it, but you'd need to know what to do. It would be in your hands, and I'd need to be as well. I'm not being very clear; clear as mud, oes? Do you need me to write larger the letters of my curse?"

     He is your tiger, still. Time has done nothing to temper the boldness, nothing to mellow the mettle or stamp out the fire. He kisses you with all of that and everything you remember, salt and pepper notwithstanding.
     His fingers brush your lips. "Then we should go where the hunting is better, out of this taberna, out of the Capitol and into my vineyards and woods. Show me, tell me what you need. It is not a curse, that which can be shared."
     King Prospero clasps your hand. "I remember you in moonlight," he murmurs. "I remember you so drunk you could not stand. I was there. I folded your clothing. I cared for you then. I will care for you now. Show me."

Posted by rowan at November 04, 2010 09:42 PM