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

     "...They should be thanking him. They should be rewarding him. Papa might always have been destined for great things, but he wouldn't even have lived so long to produce us if it weren't for daddy, and nainie, and taid, and my uncle, and ... anyway."

     "...There are mortals who have passed and arrived here and who have lived here now for many years who have not progressed as far. The transition isn't easy."

     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.

     You can't kick the throne of God but you can kick me. You can't shake your fist at the stars, but you can beat upon my chest. Duma accepts it. I love you, and I will be wherever you are.

     "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."

     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...

     "We have something to confess..."

     "First of all, we have both been laboring under misconceptions, and I think we have been talking past one another, misunderstanding the other's viewpoint. This is something I would propose to change, if you are willing."

     Gillian sits up, examining you while you are still asleep, for however long it lasts. Her gaze moves over you; her blush intensifies. She leans in, just a little bit. It is so tempting, to try to get a closer look! After all, with Bran, she took all those pictures - but he was drugged. You are merely asleep.

     "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..."

     "My occasion is... the chef threw me out of the kitchen. It's the last day he can really do that. I had to let him get one more in. My brother appears to be sweating out a ... fever..." He nudges his brother with a toe. "Naked..."

     ..."I wish love would come on our terms, but we don't run it. If we did, we'd have no poetry..."

     "You are not sure about me." His mouth forms a smile. "With the exception of frustration and ... perhaps a little contempt." Duma leans in toward you. "Yet you have not dismissed me, so there is room for me to hope..."

     The restaurant is quieter than it has been in days, what with the competitions finally over; there's a sense that the city's now resting up for the coronation. It has not stopped a cluster of young sprigs of the nobility from gathering; why not? Where there is good food, and good wine, and good conversation...

     "...It is a pleasure to meet you, children of my children..."

     Balthazar reaches out to nudge you. "Time is not short. You put too much pressure on it. Let it be. You can't control it anyway. Learn from my mistakes. I make so many good ones, it would be a shame to waste them."

     She hesitates, then gives you a covert, discreet glance. "You realize, of course, that this will make the women and some men attempting to get into your bed go into a frenzy, I hope?"

     "So...where was I? Oh yes, magic. I can see that now: you do favor both of your fathers, which of course would be impossible otherwise. And though I have never seen your mother, I suspect that is because of the beauty that you surely have inherited... see?" He grins. "I just heard myself say that. And it sounds a bit thick, something of a line. It isn't. I'm awkward. And you're beautiful. Has anyone but everyone told you that? To the point that it's difficult to think...?"

     Around here, ask the universe a question, and one is liable to get an answer back. Duma appears as if from a carnival, holding (and enjoying) a caramel apple. He is dressed in dark denim, a white t-shirt and a black blazer, his shoes a brushed charcoal suede. The shirt says: No, your other left.

     Ladies in beautiful gowns and men in their very best court attire linger in the great halls of the opera amphitheater, meandering and mingling during the first intermission.

     "...Who knew it would be so difficult to fall in love?" he smiles. "Or to want to. I suppose I would have better luck if I were a baker. It's a lot of pressure, don't you think? To find someone who is right for you and a kingdom? I understand your weariness."

     And as the sun begins to draw downward in its afternoon stations, word is being filtered and sent, whispered and gasped, blurted and bemoaned from street to street, from Den to market. By tomorrow all this will be known. A storm in the streets. A tryst on the balcony.

     Conversations do resume nearby, but there is a lot of energy given to the two newcomers. Who are they? How are they sitting at that table? But there are also those here who already know of you, Lady Gillian. One such is Stephen of Rose. He actually makes eye contact and holds it a moment, before looking back to his group.

     Zillah pauses as you counter. For a moment, her body reflexively moves to argue. But then she stops. And then she sighs, waving her hands as if waving away the flies of her thought. "I don't know what I was thinking. Of course. Well, I am very proud of her for continuing her education and for getting into the academy. Her grandmother will be so pleased. And," she sighs again, relinquishing a modicum of control. "I shouldn't be so hard, so critical. I just want so much for all of my children."

     "...And I remained out of my head for months. I think... two fire-aligned people just...really shouldn't be in a romantic relationship with one another. Now, not in it? I can see it for what it was. When I was in it? I couldn't see anything, Arian, but fire and smoke."

     "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."

     And though he doesn't hold it against them -- who wouldn't rather be doing what they are doing? -- what he does hold (against himself) is an icepack full of crushed and frigid cubes, stuffed down the front of his drawstring pants.

     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."

     After all, every girl has trouble letting go of her first love, even if she has class to get to.

     "The road to Hell is always paved with good intentions, little brother. You should realize that by now," Tanira answers you lightly. She draws the cloth down a little. "Close your eyes."

     "I pretty much knew something like this was going to happen sooner or later. She's younger than he is and she has no idea what she wants to do with her life. She fell for him based on Gillian's letters and when Gillian dumped him she moved in right away to try snapping him up for herself. But it doesn't work like that, that smoothly, outside of books and movies..."

     The universe parted and there was Gillian. I made an honest go at it, nainie. And however I might have felt about her there is still one irrefutable fact: she is not and never was attracted to me. Now, I don't know what this deal with her and Bran is. I'm trying to stay out of it. I have problems enough on my own. But as far as fate is concerned? Fate can take a flying leap.

     "I have been in the shadow of a star all my life," he smiles a little. "And I have made choices, being your younger brother, being the one to come behind you, to avoid competing directly with you. You are... an incredibly difficult act to follow..."

     Not really. I'm learning the Art of Faking It. His mouth, blushed as ripening fruit, curves upward as he cracks open a solar eye. Faking it though he may be, his humor is at least true -- and returned.

     No sooner do I think I have myself together when something happens, and I am thrown into confusion. Now, mind you, I am easily confused so... take it as you like it.

     He sits heavily on the first couch he comes across, staring into space. He is shell-shocked, a little. There's nothing he needs to do about it, and, in fact, little he can do about it, and so he just sits there.

     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.

     "..."They're watching for weaknesses in the link that they can exploit. If they don't see any here, they'll move on to find something more exploitable, or they'll turn to make a weakness, through political imbroglio, through violence, through disruption of trade, through a bit of everything..."

     His professional demeanor melts slightly into humor. "I was hoping that pain would be a deterrent. However, he is a ...very determined man." A kind way of saying that he is a stubborn pain in the ass.

     "...You are putting too much pressure on yourself, sweet. That is that West Affliction," he smiles a little. "Way too much pressure."

     "Is it really necessary to have ten medics? Aren't there wounded people down the hall?" Balthazar glowers, his head tipping back in pain (his pain evident in the tightening of his jaw, the sharpness of his gaze, and the way his other leg bounces up and down on the ball of his foot). "Bit of overkill..." he pauses, gritting his teeth as they prod his leg.

     Tilting his head, Davydd looks to Fiona. "Sounds familiar doesn't it," he grins. "I'm getting misty with the memories."

     Balthazar looks to you, a sigh fresh from his mouth again. "I think I've talked to everyone at this point. Father. Papa. Gwilym. Gruffydd. Maria, Preston, Maddie," he ticks them off on his fingers. "You. Yep, I think the only one left, really, is Anierin. And he's in school. I'm tired of talking, nainie. Nothing seems to work. I only end up more confused. Everyone has an idea. No one has an answer."

     ...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?

     "Yes, there is another way out, Preston. You can take a flying leap off the balcony," Balthazar calls out. Strike one for Mister Nice Guy.

     It will disappear, just like everything else does in Time. Footprint, fingerprint, fine art, and memory. I just want to be alone...

     "Have a safe trip, Gillian West. The woods are wild and thick with thieves." It is a snippet of a poem, a part of a riddle, a realization spoken with bittersweet softness, a sadness for a brother, and sing-song truth.

     "This too shall pass," he sighs. "It doesn't make it any easier, of course," there is a smile for that. "I would recommend speaking with your sisters after lunch," he gently says. "I find that the less time something like this has to sit, the better. Generally speaking."

     "There's a dozen of them here. Try asking different ones and collecting answers. Make it your personal Pokemon," Pres deadpans. "Gotta catch 'em all."

     "Well, whatever we're going to say, we better think fast," Pres mutters, slouching down again. "Here she comes." Maddie turns, eyes and lips rounding as she spots their sister.

     "You can always choose to quit, Loki. If you do not wish to be a priest, then you will be doing my king no good with your service. You will tax his energy, and your own. And you will both be less for it. Be honest," Aeron murmurs as he takes the 8-ball and rolls it down the length of the table, sinking it into the left corner pocket.

     Really, the most unexpected part is that it's in Wales, in a castle, and not somewhere more expected for a scion of Prep such as Preston Oliver West III.

     She stares at the open box with disbelief and almost with dismay. This makes it all real, it makes it serious. She cannot pretend otherwise; she cannot deny it or disregard it. And, despite herself, she has to admit - she is intrigued...

     What's behind the curtain, Jack? Choose door A or B.

     "I'm not sure how to talk about this, period. I thought maybe it would get easier once other people knew, but..." Loki shrugs, and slouches back in his chair. "I wasn't entirely fair to her. Other people's problems always look easier than your own."

     Maddie's in the back seat, lazing on the cushions and staring out the windows. Both Wests are a little bit unusually quiet, but eventually Pres speaks up. "So, Mads. Loki. Magic."

     "What would I do without your wisdom and love. I should wander more than forty years in the desert complaining of the heat..."

     You're so good to know that there's always a Story.

     The air is alive and alight with his energy, but he is taking it in as much as he is expressing it. He feels it, for himself, and through music attempts to find his center. He is dazzling, in his appearance, in his motions. There is an open yearning there. The world longs for love; and the embodiment of Love yearns for the world.

     There is connective tissue between you, the meter of music like a heartbeat you share. He moves with you, supporting, dashing ahead to circle back to you again. The voices of the violins sing in counterpart. Yours, the steady melody. His, the wandering, circling flourish. The raven that circles your path...

     "You do not have to feel weak. The power to feel strong is in your grasp. It is up to you. You determine your self worth. Being with a man, intimately, emotionally, sexually, does not make you a girl anymore than it makes you a banana."

     "It's not true, of course. People are born with talent, they get ahead because of their families, all the usual inequalities. But it's what everyone wants to believe. Here--your entire family is vivid proof that it's not true. People are born naturally superior to everyone else, with inherited power that matters."

     It is the morning prayer, you with the water in your hair. And in each droplet's bouncing, the water turns to sunlight, turns to honey, turns to pure gold to his senses.

     As Serendipity would have it, I believe there is a young man who may be capable of filling a role. He desires to learn, to do something meaningful with his existence. He yearns for that meaning and to find himself a place in one world or another. Perhaps this is what his destiny had in mind for him.

     He drinks his coffee slowly. "Working backwards--magic still exists because it has no reason not to? I don't know, but even allowing for fun with entropy, things don't just stop without a reason. So there'd have to be a reason for that to change, and all you need for it to keep going is a lack of that reason."

     "I am doing a little light reading on encampments and villages on the city's north and west side. Care to pull up a chair and share a sip or two of tea? Join me in a little rebellion, maybe?"

     "I have an impending sense of doom myself at the moment. Maybe it's contagious. So... what's yours? Maybe we can trade..."

     But he's not worried about Loki just now. He'll visit him later. Aeron's gaze and Aeron's thoughts are on his king. "Brother-king," he murmurs, "...you are too hard on yourself. Do not do the Universe's work for It."

     He is a narcotic, an aphrodisiac, and a stimulant all in one rather delightful package. Balthazar kicks back on the sofa, sitting in the opposite corner to face you, allowing him to stretch out like a languorous sultan.

     Maddie shoots Balthazar a look that wavers somewhere between you didn't tell me! and you're a WHAT?. She blushes as the applause and murmur both move around the room with their rhubarbing rumble, and she hastily - very hastily - takes a drink. A large one.

     Balthazar smirks as he sips. "I suppose it has to be good for something..."

     "How can I assume they will understand any of this?"

     Loki watches the bird a moment, then turns away, taking his cup with him. Whiskey goes better with coffee than alone, especially at this time of day. If you say so. There's only a faint undercurrent of the weary adolescent, Whatever.

     Loki slides back, dragging his foot away. "Sure." And on tonight's episode of Seventeen Synonyms For Yes... He stands up, momentarily shaky for reasons that have nothing to do with general ability to walk.

     It is spiritual, it is uplifting. There's herself and the board and the ocean, and if she isn't singing, it's only because her lungs have a different job to do right now. It is sex and philosophy, religion and nature, all rolled up into one package

     One hand comes off the door, held out to you for an American four-square handshake. Intelligent grey eyes meet yours over the rims of her glasses challengingly and thoughtfully. What do you say, Professor Davies? Do you want to play with me?

     He smiles. Your seriousness tickles him. Even on vacation, you cannot truly escape.

     "...You could have been Adonis and Casanova rolled into one, Balthazar, and if it wasn't what she wanted, she'd still have run. I know because I've done exactly that, in the past."

     She smiles at you, in quiet sympathy and affection, her hand lifting from your knee to cradle the top of your head. "You need to let her go," Tanira says gently.

     "Actually, it seems like I was having a perfectly good picnic in the middle of a city park, with a nice girl, and then all of the sudden it was fucking Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds. That's what it feels like, uncle. And the girl's chosen the birds over me. So at this point, I really just don't care."

     "Well, that presumes you really are driving, and that changing stations isn't better done by the person who isn't supposed to be keeping his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel," Gwilym answers promptly. "No man's an island, Loki, no man's son."

     When he exhales, it's like the wind has blown through and taken his breath away. He says nothing for a moment. He sits there.

     "...As for provenance and publishing," he exhales a touch at that, in consideration, "...ethics don't really enter into it. After all, if you find something that hasn't already been located, then no one's really missing it..."

     "They both have a problem with doing. One is doing well, but thinks he does not do enough. The other does too much and thinks that everything he does is suspect. So... through doing... they will learn. You were right in throwing them together. The future Oak King must know the ways of the Holly King if he is to take his position."

     "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."

     "You know," Gwilym tells you, his face upside-down relative to yours at the angle he's bending, "this isn't satori you're building for yourself. It's not even a very good escape, is it? It doesn't defend y' from feeling a damned thing."

     "I'm not anticipating this show selling out fast," Loki says, and out comes the phone again for another quick note. "It doesn't conflict with any scheduled shows for the band, either. Greek gods interacting with Celtic characters almost sounds interesting now. Not enough that I'd get between the two of you and some Shakespearean bonding."

     Gwilym smiles again, and he stands straight, moving to your side of the table, moving towards the corner behind you, looking over his shoulder and down at you. "So. Now what, Loki, no man's son?"

     "...I think we can ...work around one another. I will be sensitive to what you need with Loki. And... I will just... work around it. Whatever it may be or mean." Balthazar smirks, his hands returning to his pockets. "It's just rock and roll, uncle."

     His scar is vehemently visible - an actual indentation about half an inch deep in his calf, about four inches long and a quarter or a third of an inch wide. "It's just so stupid," he mutters. "...I shouldn't need help."

     "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 had no idea that they were," he frowns deeply, "... set against us. I do not like being treated as a criminal. What have I done but give my life for their kingdom?"

     And his eyes go from cinnamon to amber, like the embers of resin popping in a brazier.

     Okay. So this isn't precisely what usually happens. But the principle is the same. Candy, strangers, see "Do not take" and go from there.

     "Caustic," he notes with something of appreciation to his tone. "I don't know who the Lakers are," he drags on. "But I do love a good decimation. That is why god invented rugby."

     "My father would kill me if he knew I were taking rides from strange men I met in clubs," Loki says, either oblivious to any potential innuendo in what he said or prepared to pretend he is. "Let's take your bike, save the cash for the good drinks."

     It was a fantastic night. When the set was done, the last encore given, Balthazar Davies returned to his table to find a boot left behind and a drawing. A glance at the clock confirmed the hour. It's midnight, cinderella.

     Balthazar and Reggie share a look as the woman at the nearby table -- she's not British, Australian perhaps? -- proceeds to unpack her bag at the table. Cell phone, notebook. Who does work in a pub...?

     July, 2017. The West family's research vessel is moored for the time being at the marine institute near Long Beach, while Fore West (IV) is helping with research on long-line pier fishers' effects on local shark populations...

     "...You exist," Aeron posits philosophically, "...merely because we think you do, and thus in your reactions," he glances back to the healed wardrobe, "...do you find solidity. You are the shadow of the shadow, brother."

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

     "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..."

     "Why is he treated as an adult, when he has a far more reckless history than I, and I am treated like a child asking my younger uncle May I, Might I?"

     Up above, a squat raven settles on the Crow's Nest (where else?). Ugh. Romance. I think I'm going to be ill.

     Fresh off of the shower-inducing hug given by the squealing young girl -- that's going to keep him up for hours -- the shock of seeing is grandmother (and grand-aunt) as the offered chaperone is enough to send him reeling. "Nainie?" he proclaims in shock.

     Tiernan steps back, looking at you with quiet pride. You have faced a hard truth. Now you are ready to begin.

     Affectionate blue eyes look at that sleeping form, the note left where he will find it. No emergency, but something's come up. I've gone to see to it, will be back. I love you, always and forever. - T.

     "I like you," Maria tells you crossly, making an accusation of the words. "I did not want to like you, Gruffydd ap Iowerth. I - I will get you to my mother. I will think about what you're asking and tell you once I've thought about it. Take it or leave it!"

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

     For a moment, his smile moves a bit in his eyes. You are growing up. But not that much. You are a boy still. "Being crown prince makes it difficult. It was so for us. Do you want my advice on what you should do, or just to listen?"

     A hand comes up, tugs lightly at your hair, and she sighs, going quiet. Love is a son of a bitch. Remind me, if I ever run into that fat diapered freak that's Cupid, to kick him in the balls...

     "...I can't go on pretending to be Saint Peter to make all of you love me, or forgive me, or need me. I'm collapsing under the strain of it..."

     She's suddenly shy, taking the paper back and setting it aside. "I have a lot of faith. I mean, it's not religious faith; I don't know how you'd explain it. It's not religion, though. I just, I do believe there's something more to the universe than atoms..."

     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.

     Who am I, to be here? What will I say? I must trust in myself. Trust in yourself, Hansl, I say, and I look in the mirror and I wonder, Hansl, I really wonder, how well can this possibly work out?

     Here we are, two refugees from the old Axis of Evil, evil things ourselves. Or maybe you are not, Hansl Arnaul. But I am. And I am content with this, my lot. Which was not much more than a gutter from the time I was born. And now look at me! Dining with princes with my pinky raised as I sip from the neck of the world.

     ...But I will be your escape when you need it. That's what Black Jacks do best...

     Here stand two kindred spirits, bound by family, blood, bad habits and emotion. But though they speak the same language, and though they stand not ten feet apart, there's a chasm between them, these men, neither of them a bridge-builder.

     "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."

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

     He stands there, waiting for you to move to the sofa as instructed. Who's the servant here anyway? "Would you like anything to eat while I work?"

     "His family here has grown, but the family he has had for the last six centuries is struggling, Fiona. We are... I am," he counters, "... grappling with trying to understand why. Why .. in that moment... he sacrificed one for the other."

     Though my head is bowed, I look to my son. I find his eyes are already on me, those strange periwinkle eyes. I smile at him, and it takes everything in me not to scoop the new king in my arms and hold him till he chokes.

     "Well, I have a heart like a raisin. A prune. But... I will tell you something," he whispers now. "When I am with you, I can feel it growing plump again with blood, Gwilym. I can almost feel it beat again, like it did when I was young. And alive."

     "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."

     "You are in my blood," he groans, "... like Caravaggio's disease. You burn there, and I find no rest from my want, amice."

     A guitar pick rolls and flips, finger to finger, leaping, effortlessly leaping, faster. And faster. It is a blur of motion, faster and faster until it becomes a streak of red and blue hovering above his hand like an aura. The pick, a guitar. Are you playing me, shadow-lord?

     "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?"

     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?"

     It is a leap of faith; a gamble. But it is a calculated risk, based half on intellect and things-remembered and things-not-quite-said and not-quite-heard, and the other half on the desperation that a pair of eyes, a pair of hands outside these two plus two might make sense of something which he, Tiernan of Winter Diamond, Prince, aka Terry Winter, Esquire, has to admit to himself he no longer knows how to solve.

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

     "If only we poor human creatures could be guided by the Logic and Reason we crave. Your solutions are not new, they are simply not acted upon. Not so quickly. They say things are changing, more children heard playing in Venice these days. I hope it is so. At night, late," that mouth of his spreads in a smile as he lights up his cigarette, "...you can almost hear the collective breath of the city being held..."

     "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...

     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.

     "...You? Completely different. Sleight of hand, hide the heart. You have the concerns and the questions of a master spy. The Thief King. Your brother is the drowning waters that fill the lungs. He daily seeks to avoid drowning. Himself. Others. You..." He narrows his eyes in studying you. "I believe you are in danger of making yourself a figment of everyone's imagination. Including your own."

     "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.

     "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."

     And the feeling continues. One spasm becomes two becomes ten becomes twelve. Gold eyes glance to Edward as he grips his own sire. He cannot speak -- his throat is closed, his ability to voice cut off. It is a Mexican stand-off, ami. The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.

     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.

     Davydd rolls back, landing on his back with a mighty groan. He looks at you then at the ceiling. "I used to be a wretched thing," he murmurs. "Just between you and me," he murmurs. "I used to be quite wild and wretched. An untamed creature. Strong, mighty, full of confidence..."

     "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."

     At your mention of calling someone, the door flies open, steam pouring out and green eyes sparkle in the hot fog. "Fucking hell, no. I don't want to talk to anyone right now. I just want to finish my shower, fucking go shoot someone or start a war or sommat manly activity."

     There's a nod from the Primogen, his hand adjusting the lapel of his dark suit. A kindness to the decorum of the court. "Saarbrucken," he says softly. That was the place. Lips purse and a slight noise escapes as attention's given back to Greydon. "Your problem, Trevelyan," Edmund says by way of acknowledgement. He doesn't want to hear anything about it.

     "...All of this, it was built for you. For us. And we will invest in these things that make sense in a new age. For us. For me. So...that is what we are celebrating, oui? The start of a new day. The culmination of all my work, here and now. And the start of ... something new."

     Al'alim taps away the brown and grey ash, "I do not think you sound foolish. Young," he grins at your call on that. "Not yet lacking hope in self or in others. If you can hold onto such feelings, then... who knows," another shrug, "...you may be the better philosopher..."

     "Layers and layers deep. I fall in, he falls in..." Valan's voice trails off. "We fall in."

I know you'll miss me
I know you'll miss me
I know you'll miss me blind...

     William exhales slightly. "I know...we have been more open since returning from America. And I have needed that. And I appreciate how difficult it is for you." He adjusts your towel around your shoulder. "There's a part of me that ... wants to take the Directorate by storm one night. You and I... secret marriage... not so secret anymore."

     You may be remade for your service if your Heart is True. You must be willing to give up your very identity in this, your very being. If you cannot submit, the metamorphosis will rip your being apart and you will not survive. This is spoken with reverence. For the Hellborn, it is the first time they hear the full power of the Symphony. But for the two of you, those once Fallen, it is a return Home."

     The rare few plan to be a harpy or become The Harpy because they know the true path - poise first, influence second, power follows. Only then will the crowd point and say - That is the one you need to talk to. That is the one you should impress.

     But this December, where water was expected (and by one particular visitor, actually anticipated) there is instead snow. And not just a dusting of snow. Several inches of snow hide the stones of the Piazza San Marco and icicles hang from the open mouths of St. Mark's golden lions.

     Davydd lowers his head, red hair vibrant against your ivory skin as he bends down, kisses travling southward. "It doesn't matter where," he breathes between your breasts. You feel a sudden unhooking as his fingers make the fabric give way. "Here is good," he chuckles.

     It's been a long time since there was a king. Not a king of mere kingdom - someone who could merge with the land, and more than the land. Someone with the power to command souls. Too long, mayhap. I don't know that we're still what we were, when we were, then.

     What you two have always told me finally sank in, I suppose. You need me. Both of you. You aren't just saying it - the three of us, we move together or not at all.

     "I fought my demons literally. My selfishness, my fear, the nine-headed beast of Chaos. I even burned in the sun once. Unpleasant, but you know... I needed it. I needed to just be... reborn. So... I was. Again... and again...and again...sacrificing myself over and over, only to rise again the next evening and assess my state." Dark eyes lift to you. "It was my bridge, I guess."

     The folded towel is set upon the rock beside him and he looks out to the surf. Lastly to you. "It has been good to ... put my head back on my shoulders. To replace the noise with the sea. I needed this."

     The silence is reassuring. Out here, there is nothing but me and It. We can both forget our crammed souls, the ocean and I. It can forget the fish swimming under its skin. I can put aside these thoughts that have been swimming in my mind.

     I coughed my way onshore like an asthmatic seal, gorging up sand and gagging on sea water. The sun baked the liquid off my shoulders. I could feel it igniting each strand of my hair. I have become the roman candle I always seemed.

     She sighs, going silent, tipping her head back to look up at the sky. "I once told you," Fiona says finally, "that there would be a war coming. You didn't believe me, then. But there will always be wars, Davy. Right now, your war is with yourself. I can't win that war for you..."

     Davydd both chuckles and sobs to hear that. Turning his head to his friend, he gives a vipered grin, his eyes creasing in the corners. "Now that's the William I know and love," comes the croak of his voice. "On my ass to the end of time."

     "You attuned to the Outcast," Madian says dryly, with only that momentary pause to signal his surprise, "and you spoke to him. What did you do, firstly, to make this happen - to, as you say, the best of your abilities?"

     There is a new story in the images that sail at you. A man with a face of terrible beauty when angered pours himself a drink in the back of a limousine. The bulletproof glass installed as a modification to the old limousine holds up to the throwing of a glass as his temper erupts. His scotch-stained hands go to his head as he sits forward.

     "Don't look like I just gave you some bad tasting medicine," the waitress smiles again, with sparkling blue eyes that don't look the least bit reptilian. "Let's call it a brief respite from Purgatory," she drolls, "...and an opportunity," such a word! "...for you to reclaim that which you believe is lost. I believe the word you're looking for is credibility."

     "Both of your children are healthy. And growing." Both. Two. "As befits a queen with two husbands, you are having two children. Two boys. An heir, my lady, for each king. Because you cannot choose between them, your heart a matter of loving two equally, now you do not have to choose."

     "Mind my delicate skin," William drawls, preparing to step out after you. "I bruise easily."

     "Oh my god," Hwyll finally says, "... that means we have less than nine months to plan a fairy wedding. I think I'm going to faint.

     Rhodri chuckles. "You are so uncomfortable with intimacy. Are you certain you're pregnant? It could just be a case of bad gas, you know."

     Oh well, you say, sitting in the comfy environs of your room, reading over the fucked up details of my life, you are fucking mental Davydd -- everyone knows that. Everyone knows that but you. Only I know it. I've always known it. But then, no one's immune...

     His hand comes out to take the scotch as it is handed to him. Neat, as it should be tasted. Unpolluted. "At least the first year, I still remembered how to use a telephone," he nods to you with a smile. Yes, it is three years. Tempus Fugit.

     "Lookie cos, I just spent a shaky time with Davy. I just called t' say - and you'll never hear it again - that maybe you were right. When we were up there with you and Dunross. Maybe you were right about everything."

     "But our future is out there," Edward's head rolls to the sky again, "...somewhere. Sometime." It's not here yet. He doesn't know what it is, but it does not lie with London.

     His hands rest upon his thighs, his head bowing a moment, and then he looks up to the sky. "Yes, I am ready, Cosimina. I ... must hear it. There is no point running from fortune, fate or time. They will always catch you." Dark eyes turn to you, his face shown to you and his expression.

     "But you are the most amazing wife," Cesare explains, "...on a horse, with a sword, with food, in conversation, in politic, and in bed. This is no shame," the knight remarks. He grins and feigns innocence. A sigh follows as the diversion ends. "I do not know what to do, bello. Not yet."

     But he expects it shall cause no ripple whatsoever, this night at the De Ville, his appearance in the sumptuous halls of his own Clan. Why should it? Would they not have to care first, in order for there to be such a thing? And when have they, exactly. He came in a Plantagenet to a Capet party. This he knows. And as long as he is a Plantagenet, it shall be so.

     It must be why her shades are pulled down, her windows shuttered, the daylight pouring within the chamber subdued and tea filling a cup instead of espresso. Albizzina wanders from the backroom to the front room, kettle in hand and pouring yet another cup of orange tea. In it, she grinds nutmeg and drops three drops of vanilla into it.

     You speak. He writes. "I do not think it is so simple. Your gifts are your gifts. Your skills, your skills. You should not compare yourself to Nathaniel," the way he speaks that name. An obvious attempt at being civil, but he does not hide the partial frown.

     There is no greater rejuvenating power than that of blood. And yours, so magical, moves though him as powerfully as the act of taking it affects you.

     "You know, it's not too late," Fiona mutters, fiddling with her cellphone in her lap. She opens it, closes it again, opens it and watches the glow of the screen. "We can still cancel. We can have a flat tire, we can run off to Mexico, I don't know..."

     "Hindsight is clear-sighted," Davydd exhales, cigarette crushed and the fire is out. "And all the things I have done, there's not a single one I'd repeat but one, and that was lodging the king's sword in Mithras' chest."

     Davydd ap Owain moves within the white void. What has he to fear? If the floor falls away, he will become a bird. If it rains water, he'll become a fish. If it turns to fire. Well, if it turns to fire he's fucked, but at least it will be quick.

     You give him license to ask and he goes quiet. He seems to mull over his question as he looks at his biscuit. He takes a bite of it and washes it down with cooler (though still very warm) cocoa. "Are you happy, Fiona?"

     It is a plate of crow, son, that's what's on the plate, the fork's in your hands, and you're the one eating it, Llywelyn.

     It is the first time he's discussed it. Perhaps it is the safety of this cove, the liberating waves. "Which is the lie and which is the truth?" Giancarlo shrugs. "Is this truth?"

     "Do we know what freedom is?" Giancarlo wonders softly, stepping ahead and taking a seat on a rocky outcropping in the water.

     This was once the great hall. We had our Christmases here, our battles here, he would stand at the fire there and not eat his dinner and never see me.

     The luito speaks. I listen. Through its strings, it reminds me of songs that I have sung. Things I have done, all the good things. All the righteous things.

     You know, it isn't you, amours. I do not need to impress you. I am not trying to impress you. It is worse even than this. I want a ghost to be proud of me. And it is something I shall never feel. A validation I am doomed never to receive.

     "...Whether it wears the veneer of art or the cloak of insurance or shipping conglomerates. It's the same game. And you know ... how I play, oui? I ... do not have a business such as I do, and control such as I have it, because I am good-looking and lucky."

     The crowd parts slightly as a figure, rather stocky with blonde hair, is tossed backwards into the throng. A couple catch the victim, affectionally yelled at as Hock, and push him, unceremoniously, back into the central fray. They move around to complete the circle once more.

     "...I've learned a lot about my own choices recently. They haven't been the best. The trick is not to repeat them. There's only the potential of forever. Forever... really only exists if you're God. And I'm many things, but I'm not God."

     "The Never...has no place here," Edward begins, not really sure of where he goes with this.

     There are but three events that have meaning, and when I think of them, I am moved. All three of them are in this house.

     "...What other arms should I want to be in, but Edward Meurelle's? Where is there a better man for Valan Montague... where is there... a better man..." Period.

     ...Where once there were oak trees, holly trees sprout suddenly upon the earth both wide and tall. Branches spring with taloned, evergreen leaves, and the forms of living dragons surround the roots and trunks, etched even into the skin of the trees. Same as he.

     Ian nods, then looks in the mirror again. Hand lifts to adjust his collar, but then he sighs, lowering his hands. It'd be the fifth time he's made corrections.

     William looks from the sky to his friend again, this time his gaze remains there. "If you cannot remain in Our World, and we ... cannot go to yours... shall there be a middle country? Will Earth do, Davydd?"

     "This mean anything to you?" It's a simple enough question, but the image held on the page is far from simple... there is a figure of a man amid a myriad of threads or strings.. perhaps even within a web. Some strands are cut. Some are not.

     "It did take me longer than it should to realize that though I have been consigned to darkness I do not need to remain in it. In the end, the curse is only as good as the belief one puts in it. Same as faith..."

     As garden parties go, it went rather well. There was a string quartet set up on the paved stone area in front of the chapel, allowing for those who wanted to get in a waltz to do so at their leisure. But, in general, the gathering was more low key.

     Paolo looks to the passengers in glances timed with the stroke of the oar, in rhythm of the motions that make the gondola sail forward. "Ah... so you, too, are bound by a destiny, a fata," Paolo says.

     Two gentlemen sit inside a cafe, the windows giving view to a northwestern American city still glistening from the last rainfall. For this moment in time it could be any city on earth, or no place that has ever existed.

     Perspective... there's a splinter of it here, after all...

     "That's not what has you upset, dear Victoria. That's not it at all. What has you upset is that that decision is so far out of your hands, you can't even imagine what it would take to make it come about." Mick watches her evenly.

     "Anything strike you?" comes Raymond's voice from nowhere. He was not in the shop before the staring into the cases. And there was no alerting of his presence. He simply, suddenly, Is.

      "I think it is self-fulfilling prophecy," Ian begins in medias res, "...that We," the vampire sort, "...are doomed to destroy any chance of contentment in our damnation. What little fire there is, we snuff. I - I will admit - am very good at such. And I've learned to realize it. I did not expect it to see it today."

     "When you talk like that, Davy," Edward murmurs, turning his eyes back to the punching bag, "...it happens like that. Is that what you want?"

     "I guess we call a Toreador we trust." A pause. "The list is short. Girault..." He pauses again, corners of his mouth upturning. "It is a short list indeed when Il Gatto di Firenze floats to the top of it."

     "What will El-Adar mean for you? What do you think it means for Edouard?"

     I am heading into the Caliph's Land. Or to quote the Unnamed Poet of the tome at my feet, that sun-kissed land, rich in dark-eyed girls, and water that springs silver from the golden ground. I have never been to this part of Espana. Only the vineyards of Castile, the exclusive villas of Madrid, the discos of Barcelona.

     Shite. You immortal fuck, I forget you can't move. The light is so bright. I can feel it. I can see it with my eyes closed. Now I can't tell if they're opened or closed. There's nothing but light. Shite. And heat. Oh shit, this is what it feels like. I'm going to be a pile of ash on the carpet. The fucking cat's probably going to use me as a sandbox. Fucking cat. Fucking exploding in sunlight vampire curse bullshit.

     She leans her head back and chuckles, finally murmuring aloud, "When I find him, I'm going to duct-tape him down so he can't wander again. Or maybe I'll chain him up and just never let him leave."

     William inclines his head again, his eyes drifting over you. "You wish to see. You fear what you may see. Tell me... is the price of seeing more costly than the price of being blind?"

     "I'm over 600 years old," he murmurs, the warmth of his hands on you, as they have been all the while. The touching does not end. The fingers curl and uncurl against your skin. He wonders what you shall do. "I was a knight, a... guardian of Pope Clement V."

     Nothing that shall cause him harm, surely. For that I could never do. Even if he turned against me. I should rather be struck down by his hands than to harm him.

     He has been quiet since Ibiza. Barcelona. Venezia. Content to practice his hand at watercoloring, still his favorite. There were a few sudden phonecalls, he suddenly rising and heading within quarters upon loud, flat steps.

     "I'm no different than you," Davydd murmurs, chin lifting in the tipping of his head. An inclination of strength, and in those green eyes there is little mirth.

     The West Wind can get a bit blustery too, you know...
     "Why are you so obstinant anyway? Were you a slave? Did you have to serve a master, shackled in chains?"

     "He should not be trailed and watched like an offender, while in the other hand, he is made Sentinel?" Come now. It is insane. "If he should be Sentinel, then the others should know and it is there that conflict be reslolved. Why hide his honor? Would it bring divisiveness? If he is honored then he is not some...criminal."

     "Maybe... we have been... because I had to realize it. Sometimes..." his voice goes soft. "...sometimes I have heard it happens that way, Brother Hope. Would it be wrong of me to say I was hoping for something a bit more... dramatic?" Kit tries to laugh, but he cannot. It's not funny.

     Brilliance has left Venice. Soldekai off on Heavenly errands, those as archangels have -- whatever they are. The sun hasn't been seen in days, and all of the record-breaking snow has turned to rain.

"If you wanted to go to the church I would've taken you there in the morning, Christopher. This cloak and dagger shit isn't going to fly..."

     I have taken the back ways, the maze of small walkways and smaller bridges. Past the smell of bread baking -- truly, the very best definition of 'warmth' -- and the sound of a television set as I move past a cafe. I have come to speak with the ghosts of Monteverdi and Vivaldi. And to listen to the dreams of children. This way... the only way... to find my own...

     ...The lights of candles sparkle in multi-colored glass votives. Surrounding a window overlooking a small canal. The sounds of the Grand Canal are not far off, no. Wafting like the wind through the narrow passages of this old city. This old 14th Century gothic house, now separated out into various flats and spaces for rent, boasts some of the loveliest arched windows in all of the city. They are opened now, to let the breeze flow in.

     How long was he in Michael's comfortable prison? Guarded on all cardinal points by the four-headed lions of gold and brass? How long did Dominic's questioning last? How late did he sleep in Blandine's quarters before he decided he could not sleep to avoid it forever...

     "I.... don't ...remember..." comes the melodious voice. There is a soft laugh to that. "It is... too much to remember, perhaps? God... Prince Brilliance... is ....Merciful..." An Archangelic joke. I don't remember, Soldekai. There is... no story to tell. Only... Peace... and so... It Is True. Where else could he have been so long? And to remember nothing?

     His Being swells, his wings outstretched as he is now within your Light. A Master of Night and the Archangel of Brilliance and Lumination? "I am.. very proud," he says, angelic tongue as Song. "Of you... and of the Healing of Our Father's Heart that he should set you thus. I am proud of This Heaven..." Molten eyes of stellar matter look to you and the Herald nods. "This Heaven pleases me...."

     "All the information's in that there card," she informs Erik, Jared, and Dei in a tone which for her, is amiable to the point of mellowness. "I'm a reporter, I can ask you set questions if you like, or I can make it up as we go, or you can tell me to go get stuffed." Her own accent is London punk, with a hint of something a bit better educated creeping through underneath. "I'm Drancy."

     "I will have what you are having. You look very good, doing very well. You are... beautiful and strong and in the fullness of your Word. I would be proud of you, Julian, except that we are both damned. It is hard to be proud of that..."

     "So basically, wot you're saying is that you can't be bothered to commit, so you stick with people you can use and toss away without worrying they'll come after you with a shotgun." She turns to look over her shoulder, her smirk having more real warmth in it this time, even as her eyes are challenging. "Funny, that. I always thought that's what Kleenex got invented for..."

     With every muscle's motion, no matter how slight, they seem to shift. Celtic, the patterns of interlocking, eternal lines that become the interlocking forms of Celtic dragons. Cobalt. Blue royal. Deep and brilliant. Bright. Brighter than they should be...

     "You are Blandine's," Soldekai teases, even as the space between you is covered. He smiles as you near him and opens the necklace out so that your throat would walk into it. "From me," he says, "...personally."

     The Mad Danes consist of four musicians. All coming from very divergent backgrounds -- jazz, celtic traditional, classical. Only two ever sing. Hotspur Hal, the bassist -- and Kit Marlow. Guitarist and violinist.

     His green eyes look at the whelps. Boys is a good word. Soldekai nods, "Milk might be good," hair on the chest, "...with a whiskey chaser, huh?" And as Yisun turns, so does he. Jonathan. He'd smile if he didn't feel like going nova.

     "No, no, I don't know..." then a spin, "...okay, yeah, I was prepared to knock you on your ass. But not in a bad way..."

     This is the nature of art. Art, the sphinx. Art, the oracle. Inexplicable and full of meaning...

     "Either of you seen the boys?" Soldekai asks, the hint of his nature never departed. Red-blonde hair is cut close, but it is much too alive. Where Gabriel is the Primal Force, her Sol is the center of this universe, the Sun itself. "They seem to have...gotten away from me." The Firemen. Lost. As usual.

     Violet fire and amethyst flames. These, the eyes of the Faithful Fire. This, the gaze of Urfiel. Piercing, like a sword to the skin. Strong, like the faith of children. Captivating, like a soul in song.

     "A poet voyeur," William chuckles, and he lifts the glass to his lips, another sip of Bordeaux. "Tell me, would you be sitting in the corner singing my praises as I sinned, or would you, like some poets, have to experience the ...inspiration as a participant?"

     Have I won? After a thousand years? I think so, but it is hard to tell. We have such a long way to go.

     "Well... I'm not sure what else to do, Edward," he murmurs. "She chucked my belongings out the window and onto the lawn and is fucking another man on my prized leather chair. It's not like we argued over finances. She wants something I can't give her..." his hands are animated again. "I mean obviously. Or she wouldn't have done it. She was a good confidante... I don't hate her..."

     "Your rights to Poitou actually come through my mother... and my grandmother's name was also Aenor. Eleanor's mother..." And suddenly the universe makes sense. It is right to tell this story. It is right that this becomes Truth. Known. Tasted. Swallowed.

     "I'm scared, Will," he gets out, despite the aching tear that threatens to rend him into two. What does it mean...to me? Will I become...ah...there you are Liam. What is a young man who serves another...but a whore?

     Ice-blue eyes flicker back and forth at the scenery passing by, taking in every tree, every hill, every blade of grass, it seems. To a Toreador who's never set foot in Scotland in her life until now, the passing countryside is a living, breathing portfolio of artwork.

     William is quiet for a time, holding his cup in both hands...his elbows resting on the arms of the chair that holds him. His head rests back against the chair's own backing, and with a smile lingering he looks to you. Studies you. Beautiful.