Now THAT was the discussion that was. There was less bombast over it all than there would have been in years past; more amusement, really. Oh, how times change (and how they do stay the same!). Fiona adjusts herself, looking at herself in the mirror from the queen's suite in the Kingdom of the Flowering Tree. Her lips form a wicked moue that could have been on the face of her younger husband, as she talks to one of her youngest sons.
     "You're just dying of curiosity now, aren't you? Well, I might tell you what's going on, but you'll need to work for it a bit, I'm afraid. I'm the only mother you've got, and it's my job to torment you to make sure you turn out right, even if you become old and grey."
     Fiona makes a face, and with a pass of her hand, pink becomes white, and she stares at herself. "Too virginal. I don't want anyone to think I'm trying to outshine the girl. What do you think? What does one wear to a chaperonage?"

     He has been roosted on the news of this all night and well into today. Messages back and forth, hush-hush escorts into realms of shadows for quick-quick appearances. And all because of something Gruffydd was doing, or about to do, or at least was considering the doing of. Imagine the fun! O, Calamity!
     And so where else was he to go but to his mother next? As Duke of Whirling Shadows, it is his duty -- is it not -- to ensure that Queen Mother and Consort Brother-in-Law are well equipped for ...whatever the hell is going on.
     He's been cawing raven laughter for hours.
     Black talons scritch the marble as he takes his great heft off the window pane and onto the floor where he transforms himself into the grinning devil himself, a very echo of his father. Dark red hair is cut here and there, thick and short and stylish. He's clothed not in armor but in a plain white tee shirt and a pair of dark indigo jeans. Beneath the white cotton full half (the right half) of his torso is tattooed and his black raven and poetry fragments can be easily seen beneath the fabric and a full sleeve of his right arm to his wrists where the shadow markings do not end so much as they dissolve into Secrecy. His shoes are boots, solid for smashing the throats of the nine-headed beasts of chaos but with a tread that gives -- absolutely -- zero sound.
     That's got to be comforting.
     With the twenty-year old version of his father's face -- god bless him -- Bran grins at your reflection and laughs. He has Davydd's madcap grin, his lighting smile, his flashing eyes, and his cackling laughter. There are reasons why Davydd simply calls him Junior. "You know I'm keen to guess. Let's see. I'll start with the obvious, he's deflowered the king's daughter..." Bran snaps his fingers with a look of mock surprise, ".... no, wait a minute, his son. Maybe it's both the daughter and the son."
     With a self-satisfied chuckle, Bran cuts through the shadows in this chamber to simply appear to be sitting in the next blink of an eye. Boots propped up on a neighboring ottoman. "Not white, mum. Besides, who'd believe it?"

     A ball of cloth is wadded up and hurled at you. "Mind your manners. You're not so big I can't put you over my knee if I've a mind to, you know!" Fiona changes her dress to a deep red, the color of old burgundy. It becomes less a fairy princess's gown and more of a sorceress's gown; one where you can't quite be sure that this isn't a Circe come from Hellenic isles. She nods in satisfaction - it'll do.
     Turning, she makes her way to her jewelry box, lifting from it her emeralds; emeralds at her throat, at her ears, her crown atop her head, long blonde hair left loose to spill down her back. "You're giving poor Gruffy too many sins. Nobody's been deflowered. Yet, at least. No, the boy thinks he's found a girl he wants to marry, that's all, and just like his father, he's hell-bent on going about it the wrong way and making a political mishmash. Dear Tiernan," there is affection for her 'son-in-law', "came up with a very good solution. I am proud of that boy. Even if he displays more sense than any of my own!"

     "Don't lump me in with the rest of them," Bran retorts with a laugh, swinging his legs about and coming to a stand. He's eyeballing your jewelry box. "Remember, I'm the good son." He winks and laughs. As if -- you both know. But he's better than Aeron at any rate. "So, he's fallen in love then? Poor bastard," he purrs, a pinky slipping into the royal jewelry box...
     "Well, you know what they say. It's always the quiet ones. See, I've never given you cause to worry now, have I? No diplomatic incidents." No, no... just a harem and the inability to settle down. And of course his father's complicit and tacit consent to that arrangement. You know, boys will be boys and all of that.
     "So how did Iowerth make a mess of things? I love to hear stories about brother-king." There's nothing a raven loves more than taking a shite on a marble statue, after all! But he smiles at you with that adoring face and he leans in to give you a peck on the cheek. "You look regal. Father's colors and brother's jewels. Hmm... he has a good eye," he purrs out again, deep green eyes flickering to the jewelry box.

     "Bran," your mother says pleasantly, "if even one thing is missing from my jewelry box when I get back, I am telling your father and your brothers and I am setting them on you. If, of course, I don't come after you myself." She finishes putting on her earrings, then steps back to look at herself with a moue of dissatisfaction. "I suppose it'll do."
     She turns to head to the table, upon which there is fruit and bread and cheese and wine, pouring for herself a glass. "Allow me to point out that of all my sons, there are those who have settled down and those who have not." You receive a pointed eye from Fiona, and she sips from her glass with due decorum. "You don't want to get me started, Bran. Io is a dear good boy and he's done a good job. But he - as with all of this family - has let his heart steer him when his pants haven't. In matters of love, you are all doomed. Gruffydd is not in love - yet. But he may be. And he needs time to figure out if he is or not, and in a way where he doesn't either ruin a poor girl's life and future happiness, or rush to the altar. That is where I come in."

     "Yes, mum," he says obediently. He wouldn't steal from you for all the world. Such devotion to his mother! But, now, there's nothing to say he won't nip another ring from Black Jack Davy...
     "But I love to hear you lecture. You do it so well!" He smiles at you with that cockeyed Davyddian grin as he takes a bit of bread and cheese. "I'll settle down when I find the right girl, mum. Is it my fault that I have to handle a lot of melons before I know which one is the right one?" Or, dare I say, how many I might want at any given time? "Besides which, I don't really want to be doomed. Such a thing to wish upon a child you love..."
     Somewhere you can hear Davydd snickering...
     Bran takes a perch on the table, his boots resting on the seat of the nearest chair. Better to pick at the carcass of the banquet, my dear! "Allow me to escort you at least. It'll be my second trip today." He grins at that. "I won't pick on nephew-prince, I promise. Maybe he could use a little male bonding, what with all the princessing..."

     A hand goes to the back of your head - half in affectionate ruffle, half in a smack. "Allow me to point out that we're all very happy once we settle down. I could understand you needing two, dear, but a harem? Honestly! It's entirely unethical, and besides, it's greedy, deplorably wasteful, and you're utterly ruining any hope for equality of the sexes." Fiona's eyes flash, and she holds up a hand. "And I'm warning you, if you even begin to try and say the sexes aren't equal or able to be equal, I will kick your arse, so help me god. Mind your ps and qs, young man."
     You don't always even get to give the offense before you do the time...
     She slips into her shoes, then gives you such a look. "You may escort me. You may not bond with Gruffydd. He and I need to have a talk and I won't have you cluttering his head with your ideas; the boy's in enough trouble as it is, and entirely aside from anything else, while you have leisure to waffle about, he does not. He is to be high king when Iowerth's done keeping the seat warm for him, and the rules are different for him." You have gotten her on the warpath without even trying. How talented is that?
     Fiona gives herself one last look in the mirror, then nods, pinning on a cloak of ivory wool. "All right, let's get going; I don't want to be late. You children really need to learn a few things, it seems, and if I've been neglectful of my duty, time to see to it that it's done, I suppose. - Oh, drat. Well, I've decided on your penance, at least. You'll go and tell your father and Rhodri where I've gone and why, once you've delivered me. Now, let's go."

     "They're all equal, mum. They each have their own pillow and I make sure to apportion out my time quite fairly..." But before you can even counter, he's smiling to you most eager, the same little boy who once rained snowballs on cousin Gwynnie.
     "Ooh, I love penance," he purrs. "Especially the sort that allows me to deliver such delicious gossip!" He, like his brother Rhodri, and even his father Davydd, is impossible to punish. Punish him, and he only enjoys it! "Very well mother," and he parts the shadows like parting a curtain. The swirling void appears to you, but now he wears his strength and his duty.
     You could not be in finer hands crossing this expanse to your destination. Only one could lead you better -- your elder son, the Holly King himself.
     The shadows scurry from the Duke's hand and presence, and he offers you his arm. "Where should you like to land? Shall we stroll arm in arm to her majesty's gallery or your home away from home, The Draigamor?"

     There is a deep sigh of exasperation. What is she going to do with you? But it is beyond worrying about now. Your mother takes your arm, and you are nudged forward. "We are invited to dinner," Fiona answers you regally, "and shall dine with Queen Anna, her family, my grandson, and my son-in-law." Quite the rogues' gallery. "Now get on with it, before I box your ears."

Posted by rowan at July 06, 2008 09:22 PM