"If only the Moody Blues had more sex and violence involved, they'd have had the right idea." Gwilym is explaining this absently and primarily to himself, having left all companions behind at one or another pub some hour or so ago. He still has a bottle, but the scenery has dwindled away from being that of his mother's kingdom to a lonely sort of setting - something out of Wuthering Heights might compare. There's a long and barren road before him and behind, a few sepulchral trees dotting a landscape of mist and moors.
"Still, it's not far off the mark." He continues, strolling on foot, taking a pull at his bottle. It's thick red wine; not the most expensive stuff, but fortified, tasting plummy, almost of raisins. "The long and winding road - the long and wandering road - something like that. I'm no poet, thank duw."
He is not weaving, though he's not entirely sober; not entirely sober, and not entirely drunk, either. He is dressed for the highway, even if he has no horse. Black leggings, black shirt, black boots, black armoured jacket, black gloves, and even a black cloak; his hat spoils it, being grey with a scarlet feather. "Eyes I have seen in dreams - who said that? Teasdale? Very probably. Duw, when did I start /reading/ poetry?" He makes a horrible face. "The only thing worse than being a poet is to read the stuff. The offal of wistful nostalgia and melancholy - listen to them, watch them spew out all their emotion in a regurgitated sea of listless passion!"
Gwilym stops, looking down at himself. One corner of his mouth tugs upwards, almost imperceptibly. "Bah." A nod, and his clothes change; jeans, motorcycle boots, a turtleneck, black leather jacket. Only the hat remains. James Dean instead of the Count of Monte Cristo.
"If I must whine," Gwilym drawls, "let me be in time for it..."
He had not had the intention on being seen. It is wholly in his power, as it is for the best of thieves. He has moved between the worlds of shadow and the worlds of light. No ordinary pickpocket, Rhodri ap Davydd has wandered this night in pursuit of the routes of Despair and Decay. They move so effortlessly, these abstracts. Bodiless, formless, but they can be tracked as any creature if one has the ken for such.
He hears you (the deaf wraith that haunts the farthest spectral tree heard you) as you wander drunkenly along a road that is treacherous enough to cross when sober. He peels out of the darkness, visible when he moves from his cover and he looks at you from where he crouches by the road.
It is with a conscious decision that your father does not lecture you on the dangers of drinking while driving through primordial darkness. He knows you know. You will lecture yourself for being caught by your father, no doubt. There, punishment done. Rhodri rises slowly. He is armed with a crossbow but not of mortal design. What it fires neither you nor anyone else really wants to know. It is small, mounted on his gloved hand. What is clothing on earth is merely shadow here. They wrap around him like cloaks. He could (and shall) become invisible with such. Even from you.
"No whining on the astral plane," comes the intonation of his voice. Rhodri looks at you, cocking up an eyebrow. He saves whatever other commentary he may have for later. "What are you drinking?" It is not the voice of recrimination. More it is that of a man who is looking for a drink and ... wonder of wonders...one is strolling by. His left hand reaches for the bottle to take a swallow. If he drinks, your inebriation shall be held in check. There's a method to everything he does.
"Da!" Both eyebrows go up - then down again, as if chiding himself for his surprise. Well, really, his eyebrows seem to say of their own accord, who else would be wandering by? "Here, help yourself. Just a bottle of port; I'm told it comes from some dream of Portugal. It could come from Israel by way of Shadrach, Meschach and Abednigo for all I would know." Or care.
The bottle is handed over, all the same. It's wrapped in gold wire; the better to keep it from sliding through numb (or drunken) hands. Gwilym sweeps off his hat, raking his freed hand through his hair. "What're you doing here, anyway?" he wonders, not with any particular belligerence; indeed, he seems a bit muted now, as if having been airing his voice so loudly, now he belatedly reins it in. "Trouble afoot?"
"I always did like a good port," Rhodri mulls out as he takes the bottle. This is likely not a good port, but any port is better than none. He takes a swallow of it and offers the bottle back to you. "No more than the usual. There are two abstracts that have taken root in London. It is easier to see the patterns here. But I do not want to follow Despair and Decay too closely." The corners of his mouth upturn.
His clothing seems to be both modern and without time. He wears a long black coat that reaches his calves. Everything else is too dark to really tell what it is. A simple shirt, simply trousers. The shoes he wears are boots, well-worn soles that barely (if at all) whisper as he moves.
"And you?" Your father's expression is a mix of curiosity and amusement. A bronze eyebrow quirks slightly and he peers at you past the longer forelocks of his hair (the red-bronze of it shorn short in the back). "Nice hat," he notes blandly after a moment, giving it a bit of an inspection. "Are you off to London, or just off for... whatever it is men of your youth and vigor do." His mouth curls a smile at that. No, he wouldn't know anything about that.
"Men of my youth and vigor." The older of your two sons 'in hand' smiles with a faint bitterness, and he takes the bottle back from you, tipping it back for a long swallow. It's as well Iowerth's gift of endless bounty isn't his. "No, not off for London. I just got back from London. I've just seen Io for a bit, and now..."
He shrugs, folding his arms over his chest, not looking at you or at anything else. "Having been chased by witless wizard-children, conked over the head by a teenaged witch and 'rescued' by the opposition - let's not go into what happened next, but I'm not feeling much like being in London, just now. I went home for a bit, set Iowerth straight on the path to happiness again, and came here to be alone with my envy."
Gwilym spins the bottle between his palms, the hat surrendered to you for the moment. "Like it? Keep it. I can always get another if I want. How's mum and papa and Peter?" Ah, the good old change of topic.
He takes the bottle, sticking it his coat's pocket. He disarms the crossbow and places it back in what appears to be a special holster inside that coat. Your father comes up to you, an arm around your shoulder. "Have I ever showed you my glade of the shadow road? If not... I have been long remiss..."
He does not question you (immediately) about your envy. He will get to it, but not on the road. Instead, his arm around your shoulder, he holds you easily, not expecting you'll dash from his affection. It is warm, his heart. A step off the road and you find yourself in Black Jack Davy's grove. It is a circular space of trees with a flowered meadow. The stars are bright and the sky is clear. Above the circle is the full hunter's moon, glowing orange-ish gold.
His shadow steed is chomping on the grass, same as he ever did in the darkest parts of the forest. "When I was on the run from the law, be it in England, Wales..." what-have-you, "... I could conjure myself here. It's a good place to drink in peace." His hand pats your back and he exhales.
"One should never be alone in envy," Rhodri murmurs to you. "Though I am glad our brother is happy, I do not like to see my son unhappy. What is troubling you." He does not ask if you want to speak of it, he simply speaks of it himself.
Pulling the bottle from his coat, he takes another swig, offering it to you for a swallow. "Your mother is doing well," he murmurs gently. "She is with your papa tonight and Peter is with his nanny. We had a good day. He's a very quiet child. I fear what that means down the road," he drolls. That same tone that his other brother has from time to time.
"So," Rhodri exhales, gesturing for you to take a seat as two leather chairs appear. Between them a leather topped table with several decks of cards. Well he understands the thief's need to have hands occupied at all times.
He lets you steer him, half-drunk as he is, not even objecting (or perhaps knowing shrewdly just enough not to object) when you pocket his bottle. You go and he goes with you, hands now in his pockets, hat replaced loosely on his head.
"He is happy," Gwilym murmurs, voice lowered. His gaze is in shadow now, the brim of his hat casting thus; you get a glimmering green glance, and then shadows fall again. "He's very much in love, you know. He and Tiernan..." He shakes his head. Going on seems to him perilously close to breaching his brother's secrets, and while his own secrets can be broken by himself - that is a sin which takes more than drink.
You swallow, he takes the bottle back - gratefully, whether you see it or not. Gwilym tilts it back, port flowing back his lips and down into his gullet. "...As long as Peter isn't harmed," he says quietly. He still feels a burden of guilt, though you do not know - or do you? "I tried, da, to make sure, but ..."
His shoulders roll in a shrug, and he drops into the chair you conjure, the bottle set down midway on the table. "I don't know what there is to say. Io and I are very alike - and very different."
Rhodri's hand surrenders the bottle easily enough. He reaches for the cards, shuffling them idly. His hands so quick. Perhaps you, a thief of renown yourself, can see him placing the cards precisely where he wants them. His fingers are so quick, faster than a dealer's, surer than a common gambler's. "He is in love," he acknowledges. "And you wrestle with the very nature of intimacy. Can you or can't you," he surmises.
Rhodri looks down to his hands, watching his fingers, knowing their machinations. "It took me many years to allow myself that luxury, allow that risk to my essential nature, as I perceived it then." Emerald eyes glimmer and his mouth slightly quirks. "But we're talking about you." A reminder to himself.
"I understand the fear and envy, perfectly well," your father notes quietly. "What is it you wish for yourself, truly? And don't try to impress me with your answer. I will know when you're bullshitting me." The slight smile becomes a sudden grin.
As you speak of Peter, he peers at you. Inclining his head, Rhodri files that information for later. One topic at a time. And he is not easily side-tracked.
"Can I? I know I can. Should I? Ha. Depends on who you ask." Gwilym slouches down in his seat, barely watching you as he rests his forehead against his hand. "He and I had to wrestle it out - more than a bit. We have reached a point where they are as settled as they can be. He would give me anything I asked for. I know better than to ask."
It is the nature of the thief to be greedy, isn't it? Maybe that is why he holds back. Or perhaps it is something else. He inhales, exhales, reaches for the bottle, tapping the gold wire with a fingertip and setting it to thrumming in low-key vibration. "What do I want? Fuck, how do you even put it into words without sounding like a bad writer? It is uncomfortable in words."
Which does not mean there are no words. He is leery of them; once he begins speaking, it might all come out. He might by one wrong word, lead to a dozen; and a dozen wrong words could be fatal. Not for the words themselves, but for what they lead to.
A dozen outed secrets...
"I don't know," Gwilym murmurs, suddenly quiet, suddenly still. He looks down at the cards without really seeming to see them, his face gone white. "It's all gone wrong, hasn't it? Everything I do, I do it a little wrong. And then I have to spend my whole life chasing after it to fix it - as much as I can. Io thinks I exaggerate - maybe I do. I don't know. I can't have a sense of perspective about it because I'm always right in the middle of it. Even in someone's arms, all it does is muffle the noise for a little while. I find myself wanting things which I know can't be good - but I want them anyway. Logic hasn't got a damned thing to do with it."
He inhales, creeping further down in his chair and letting his head tip back. "Sex - well, there's always that. I can do without it, but I always want it. While I like women as much as the next bloke, I find spending time with them to be like candy - I always feel like they rot my teeth and go to my hips, or would if I let them. Men have more substance. Doesn't much matter a bit; the only one I've ever met who grasped me on anything like a cellular level's Io. And, like I said, he'd give me anything I asked for, but... even if I could ask for more of his time than I do take, I wouldn't. He's too generous by half, he needs me around to keep him from giving away the store."
He watches you dance. He listens to you bob and weave. You don't want to be caught. But the more you struggle, the tighter the trap gets. Your father gives you all of his attention. The cards in his hand is merely a meditation. A pack appears before you to busy your hands should you choose. His eyes blink slowly as you continue. "You are not the best judge of your own character. But then, no man is," your father speaks plainly, his voice quiet, warm. He hopes you can take comfort in that.
There is sympathy as you struggle with words. "The words are not a trap, 'm ab," Rhodri murmurs. "Not with me."
You are here in my glade. You are here with me. It is safe here, if no where else.
"You seem to be ...desperately fighting. Yourself, your perceptions of yourself, your connection to your twin, your connection, therefore, to anyone else. Your actions will be colored by that, and if you have made a wrong move... floundering, flailing... will do that, son. Have you considered that the best way out of the trap within which you find yourself is to stop moving?" Rhodri lifts an eyebrow to you. "The more you move, the worse it gets. There is no escape through motion. Only stillness."
He realizes he may be somewhat abstract at the moment. He shuffles the cards, cutting them, then starting again. "Sit here... and talk to me. I think you will find that the vines that have wrapped around your legs, your arms, your hands, your heart, will begin to loosen." You are tangled. That much is quite clear, even to you.
"Da, there's nothing to say." You can recognize that despairing tone of voice; you have heard it. In your own father. In your wife, his mother, the mother of your other son as well. It isn't a lie; that doesn't make it automatically true. "It isn't whether it's a trap or not. I just..."
He is flailing, but it is in himself that he is so bound. He grips the cards tightly, as if to tear the entire deck in half at one go. "I don't envy Io his happiness. I'm glad he's happy. Glad he and Tiernan've worked out the problems they've been having. Truly, I've never seen them look this happy together."
He saw them on the docks. Radiant, that's how he'd describe it (if he were talking about it, which he's not). "It's not that I've never loved anyone, or that I don't love anyone - I know I'm not incapable of it. But I know what Io's got. I know what I want for myself. And it itches at me and drives me mad, da. It's like a toothache."
He lets go of the deck of cards, reaching for the port and tapping the bottle again - as if he could diminish the level inside, transport it directly to his stomach just through that touch. "I find myself wanting things," Gwilym says finally, "which ... well, half of my life, if papa knew, he'd have my kidneys for footballs. And the things I want would just add my pancreas to the list."
As with your mother, the more animated you become, the more still and calm Rhodri becomes. He doesn't argue. In fact, while you are jerking about (literally and figuratively), he simply listens, his hands just slightly and only occasionally moving the cards in his grasp. His expression remains placid in opposition to your animated expressions. "What is it you want, Gwilym? If you cannot say it, if you cannot admit it to yourself, then you can never have it. It is as simple as that."
Rhodri's expression turns amused as you mention his father going after your innards. "Your papa... likes to make empty threats. I'm sure he wouldn't have your kidneys or your pancreas. And whether he would want to eat them should have no bearing on you living your life. I think he would be the first to say that."
The cards rise and fall in his grasp, shuffling back and forth. Occasionally he turns over the Jack of Spades -- the black jack's card -- his fingers finding it easily no matter how many times he shuffles. "I wouldn't let him go for your innards," your father smiles with sly humor. "I am not trying to press you, son," Rhodri offers quietly. "I am here to listen to you. To help you untangle yourself from the vines that are almost visibly wrapped around your legs. You've been ... wrestling for a while. I know. So... free yourself. What is it you want and why do you think it will destroy you? Why should you not be happy instead of mad?" He raises an eyebrow. You do know you're doing this to yourself, don't you.
The scowl you receive from your son is the same one you receive (not infrequently) from your wife. Heredity will tell. "I want the same as any man," Gwilym states majestically. "Life and liberty, someone else's money. And," he sighs, crumpling in on himself like paper, "love, of course. Da, you know. I can't - I can't..."
He is struggling mightily; it is something so difficult for him that words, one of his careless and casual weapons, have utterly deserted him. He is left shaking and pale, white-faced in fact, powerless in this misery's grip. I can't give of myself to someone who doesn't know me, da. And I can't pull back the curtain to show myself, either. If they can't hunt me down with the few clues and bread crumbs' trail I leave, then my heart may as well be made of stone. Lead, more like; stone might have something other than base metals.
The cards are tossed loosely down, and he closes his eyes, lifting his fingertips to his forehead. Io knows me, da. He recognizes me, knows who and what I am without my needing to spell things out for him. Others... see bits of me. But I need more than recognition. I need to be hunted, past the point of my own endurance. It's all tied in there, sex and blood and love and pain, and it's a knot I can neither cut nor undo. Io can help, but ... I could drink a river dry and it wouldn't be enough. I stay away as much as I can.
Gwilym lifts the bottle, pressing the mouth of it to his lips and tipping it back. He drinks as thirstily as if it were the river he's mentioned; his shoulders are tensed, for all his posture of rakish and youthful elegance. "It's like the hunting of the Snark," he mutters, staring into the tinted glass. "Or King Pellinore's Fabulous Beast. If ever I find what I so desperately seek, it could well be the death of me."
He is listening to what you do not say as much as what you say, think. "Your brother knows without have to ask. He understands without having to seek. And he would never betray you, or your confidences." And what those may be, he does not inquire after. "You are right, anyone else will be a risk. But you cannot love without risk. Do you not think it was a risk for me to admit my feelings to your mother? Your mother was involved with my father, and yet I spoke. And here we all are. It was a huge risk. I risked angering a very powerful entity," he smirks, "...and a man with whom I've had a relationship for over six-hundred years. And it took some convincing on all sides. But I had to follow my heart. And you must as well. If you are to have any joy at all, you have to allow risk. You cannot control every outcome -- not in a card game, let alone love. You do not know and cannot know if the person you approach and allow to know you will be worth the risk. But how is it any different, in that way, from walking around the alleys you walk at night, playing cards in the spy quarters, or any other risk one may take on a given day or night? That is what life is, Gwilym. If you lock yourself too tightly away for fear of losing or because you cannot control the outcome, then you will not get what you want. It is that simple."
Rhodri sets the cards aside and leans forward, his hands clasping in front of him. "But neither should you just unpack all your heart as soon as you meet someone. You meet someone. If you find them interesting, then you give a little bit more of yourself. See how they respond...he or she," and he doesn't care, "... and you give a little more. As do they. Your brother risked his life ...and that of his family, to be honest... when he paired with Tiernan. But look at how it has developed. You cannot know that in advance. And if you could, it wouldn't feel the same, son. I promise you that."
Rhodri is quiet for a moment, waiting to see if you are absorbing any of this or not. Or if you are too busy fighting to really comprehend what he is saying. "You can choose to protect yourself, or you can fully live. You cannot do both at the same time. No man in history has been able to do so. And though I consider you a very smart and more than capable young man, and readily admit bias," he grins at that, "... I doubt you will be the first to manage it."
His hands unclasp and come to rest palm down on the table's surface. "You are not meant to untie those knots," comes the dark and quiet voice of a man who knows. "Those are for another's fingers to loosen. You are seeking someone who will find you, see you, and then free you. But also capture you. I understand, Gwilym," he chuckles. "More than you want to know, I'm sure." Leaning back, his hands stroke upon the leather as he goes. He is quiet for a moment. "You do not have to tell me if you do not wish, but is your brother ...the one whom you would prefer to untie you? It is a sensitive question," he follows softly. "... but it is wholly natural given your situation, Gwilym." There is sympathy there, for what you do not say, almost say, dance around saying.
"They met each other and there it was," Gwilym says quietly. "It changed him, in a way. I didn't understand it at first, and I was jealous. We almost got into a fight over it at your wedding, da. That's when he told me he - liked men, and that there was someone. No details; that piece of information alone was enough to knock me halfway to Cairo, that that was the case, and he hadn't told me."
Perhaps you can imagine; the hurt, resentment, anger, shock. Not so much that his brother liked men, but that he hadn't been trusted enough to be told. It was a few years ago now - fewer for you than for them, but a few. "We worked it out," Gwilym says aloud. He sighs, an expulsion of breath that seems almost intended to summon up a wind for all its violence. "But ... they recognized something in one another the minute they laid eyes on one another. And I envy that; I envy them that mutual pull, that feeling of rightness. We're all touched by it, da. This entire family seems cursed as well as blessed by love."
Whether or not you deny it, he seems certain of it. He lifts a hand, lets it fall against his thigh, glance darting up at you; how much do you know? How much have you guessed. "Io and I ... have our own peace," Gwilym says finally. Not mistrustful of you so much as not knowing how you will react, he keeps a covert and wary gaze upon you. "He'd asked me to watch out for him, and I told him I'd be keeping an eye on Tiernan whether he liked it or not. Marginally more diplomatically than that. Which resulted in my," he grimaces, "being trapped under their bed in London for, oh ... six or seven hours."
He can tell stories on himself without shame, especially when they are diversions from truth. It is true; but it skirts the edges of a more perilous truth. Folding his arms over his chest, he leans back, eyes closing. "Io could untie me," he says finally, another indirection, "but even if he were willing, I wouldn't let him. Wouldn't want him to. It's not something people could accept, and - I would drink him dry, as I said. He needs someone who can give as well as take, and what he needs to be given, it's not what I've got to give. We're too alike in that in some ways. We'll always need each other and be part of one another. But I think we'd destroy the world, if we were tied together like that for long."
"I don't want to lecture you. I pride myself on the fact that I have not had to lecture you. I am no voice from the mountain. I am simply your father. I believe in you, and I believe that ultimately you will find what is the right path for you to walk. That is your journey to make, not mine. And unlike your mother I don't want to protect you from it, or from your mistakes when you make them. How else will you learn? How else will you find out who you are and what you are capable of doing? I do not do so to be cold or distant," your father quietly explains. "I watch, I listen, I hope."
Rhodri looks at you. You knew that was a preamble for something. "That said," he smirks a bit as he sits back, his hands reaching for the cards again, "I am quite certain that Iowerth didn't love Tiernan immediately. Iowerth never does anything...immediately. I am quite certain that what he had on his mind was seduction and conquest. His mother thinks he's an angel, but his brother's no fool."
Rhodri is grinning now. How much he knows, he does not say. "So, do not build him up so high that you put yourself on the ground. He knew no more than you know right now. He had even gone so far as to eschew such connections. Until he found it after a few weeks, a month, two or three. Who knows how long he was seeing Tiernan before he told you. I do know it was more than a day, my son. I do know that. Love at first sight does not exist. Attraction, possibility of love at first sight does. And those are different things. The first connection is strictly chemical, electrical. Only Time proves whether or not the connection will be Love."
Your father is quiet again after speaking. He considers your words, he listens to you when you speak -- whatever the topic may be. He is rather more like the General in that regard. Perhaps it is a skill that comes with Age. "How long did it take before you regained your hearing after that," comes the slow intonation of his humored voice. "Or the will to hear," he chuckles. Six hours. Who knew that Iowerth would have such stamina. Both eyebrows lift slightly and his amusement, though it remains at the fringes of his expression, withdraws for something more akin to sympathy. "I imagine there has been a good deal of internal conflict." He says it hypothetically, but he knows it actually. "But you are wise, I think, to consider the health and the feelings of the world. I doubt you would make Creation implode," his mouth twists, "...but one has to wonder how healthy it would be for either of you. What people think is largely immaterial. But what it would mean to you, the quality of your life, whether it would be beneficial or damaging. Those are the meaningful questions to ask, Gwilym. If you would swallow him whole, if it would make it impossible for him to be the king he must be, then... no. If in so doing you damage yourself, you become addicted, or whatever the negative energy of such might mean, then... no." He waves his hand: and so on.
But he does not place a value judgment on you. He does not react and say it is wrong. He does not become righteously indignant. It is a matter of energy for him, pure and simple. "He could untie you," he repeats you with a slight nod. "But perhaps that is the easy way out. He knows where the knots are, he knows the fabric of the twine that binds them. But isn't the challenge, the enjoyment, the delight, and even the grand frustration of love to help someone who does not know learn these things? Would it not be more rewarding to have someone blindly finger those knots and learn the secret of undoing them?" You can tell by his expression that he has found it so much more preferable. "My father knows where my knots are. He put them there," Rhodri snorts. "But what's the fun in letting him untie them? That is not where the benefit of that energy, that connection can be found." Pause. "In my experience."
"Io is more of an angel than I am," your son mutters. He rolls his shoulders, sighing as he settles himself forward in his seat. "I don't think he is one, no, da... but ..."
But what? It doesn't really matter, does it? He is listening to you, even as tangled and tormented as he is. One hand rubs at his cheek, and he closes his eyes. "Duw," Gwilym mutters. "I was avoiding him - them both - for a week or so after. Io finally hunted me down because he was upset - felt I was being disrespectful of him and Tiernan, wouldn't let it alone until I told him what was up."
And don't you wish you'd been a fly on the wall of that alley? Even recollecting it, he flushes just slightly, faintly uncomfortable. "I keep my distance," Gwilym murmurs, "and I'll go on doing so. Until there's a counterbalance, da. That's why I do, oes? But it's ... hard."
He rests his chin on his hands, groaning a little. "Da! I don't want to know what you and papa ... ugh. I'm going to have nightmares now."
When your father cracks a smile it is at once beautiful and thoroughly wretched. He saves those smiles for when they're really needed, when they can be their most devastatingly amusing. Such as now. He rarely laughs out loud (though his is always amused), but he does so now, his hands coming together with a clap. He makes no comment. The laughter and the smile are sufficient.
They fade easily, as natural as the wind, the amusement hanging upon his face a moment more. He nods, approving of your logic it would seem. "I think you need to have balance...yes... before jumping into something anymore complicated," Rhodri quietly offers. "I will agree with you there." He pauses. "Was it really six hours or did it just feel that long?" His mouth slants as smile and he settles back in his seat.
"I know it's hard, son," he says softly, sympathetically. "I understand the ...particular path of the thief. I understand how lonely it can be. And how ... unnerving it can be to open yourself up or even consider doing something so... reckless. It seems counter-intuitive. But then there is much about love, about relationships that flies in the face of logic." Rhodri sits forward, hands upon the table again. Leaning in, he reaches to pat your shoulder lightly. It is just the skim of his fingertips. "You can't force it, Gwilym. I would concentrate on finding your stillness... your balance. Stop fighting the notion, stop flailing. When you want to run from these feelings, I would stand still in them. Know that no matter what you do, you can't control every outcome. And you are going to make mistakes. You aren't perfect. You aren't meant to be. So, lighten the pressure on yourself, oes? Can you at least try to do that for me?"
"Hide under Io's bed," Gwilym invites you, a sardonic lilt to his voice, "and find out. All I can say is, I don't know how he gets through state dinners. Or ever has sex again."
The mood has altered; just like that, it has changed by degrees, almost imperceptibly. It is how he is - how he always is, these days. Manic depressives have nothing on him. "I'll be fine, da," Gwilym sighs. "I'm just - tired, oes? It's been draining. But I told Io I'd stick around a bit this winter, and I'm going with him when spring comes, to have a look around his kingdom. We'll see what the change in seasons brings."
Behind his eyes there is still that glimmer of furtive wonderment, as to what spring will bring. With the flooding of the island marketplace with people, who will come; who will buy, who will sell. Who will he see; who will see him. But he does not voice it.
"You worry too much," Gwilym says lightly, leaning back in his seat. "I know I'm not perfect, da. I'll be alright. Aren't I always?"
The look on his face is similar to the one you wear when you think you hear something along the lines of a dare. But he leaves it alone, inclining his head and looking somewhat dubious. He'll take your word for it.
And he sees you change, your expression, body language, vocal tone. You are setting it aside for now. He has said his piece. There is nothing to be gained by beating the topic into submission. "I will have to visit the kingdom myself. I've heard a little bit about it from Tristan, but have not yet been there. I will have to visit sometime in the summer."
He smiles a bit as you lecture him now. He lifts a hand in a slight gesture -- Maybe I do -- and then sits back. Rhodri looks at you, he even goes as far as to study you. "You are," he notes. "I trust you to be able to pick yourself up should you fall. But if you need to talk, if you need a hand, if you just need an ear of someone to listen, I hope you'll remember that I am here to do so. I will not judge what you say." And that much you know. He hopes you know it anyway, as it has been demonstrated. "I will not worry. You've never really given me cause to. I simply want you to be happy. It is what parents do, I'm afraid. Wish happiness on their children."
"I'm not resistant to the idea of happiness, da. I leave that one to Io." Gwilym smirks slightly, gaze dipping down, to the table with its leathered surface. "I'm just - not very good at finding it, or holding onto it for very long; it slips through my fingers like water. If I had as much trouble with money, I'd expect you to disown me."
But that, mercifully, is not one of his issues. Your words have been heard. How much they have been observed and memorized, time will have to tell. For now, it is as if the dial of his thoughts and emotions has inevitably turned; he cannot hold onto that despair beyond its time.
Posted by rowan at October 20, 2006 03:43 PM
