Hell and teeth, there's a lot of work to be done...
     Gwilym stands amidst the wreckage of a tumbling-down keep, ignoring the setting sun as he looks off into the distance. It took most of a month before the outer defenses had crumbled - OUTER defenses, mind you - and longer to clear out the last of the insurgents. It's been safe for a week now; likelihood seems to be it's finally, really over. But he is taking no chances.
     Mind, they don't tell you how the real work is after the war's over. Gwilym walks a few feet forward, armour still dusty with having ridden from camp (more comfortable than here by a damned sight) to the keep, fists at his hips as he scans the horizon. There - over there will be a watch tower, to watch land and sea. Over there, the new town will be built. It will be a port town; he can see it in his mind's eye. But first, other things need to be done.
     I need to recharge. Duw, I need more energy than I have. It is as if nothing is holding me together right now but the piss in my bladder. Ha!

     There is nothing like a slaughter...
     Nothing like a slaughter or an orgy...
     There are two things that follow an army: caravans of whores and murders of crows. Birds and buzzards, harpies and other vagabonds and scavengers swoop and plop on the ground and on the scattered remains of the obliterated field.
     Two corbies drop upon the field, landing upon the fallen tower's stones. They caw and lift their talons to scratch their raven heads. They are adolescent rooks, not quite as fat and squat as mature rook -- lean and young and powerfully hungry.
     A murder of crows lands somewhere off, the cawing cries shouted out to the trespassers. But the two ravens aren't intimidated, or impressed. Not in the least.
     "Hello, King Nephew," their voices sound in unison, Aeron's and Bran's, as they shift forms sitting upon the stones as they do. They've passed two years since you've seen them last (it's been only six months since Christmas on earth, the year now twenty-twenty-one). My how time, like a raven, flies. They are a good deal taller than when you saw them last, their lean forms starting to gain the first signs of adult musculature. Their hair is cut short, dark red with copper flecks that frame their identical faces, a rapscallion combination of Fiona and Davydd. The smiles, mirroring one another like their voices, are pure Davydd, however.
     And there is a newfound understanding behind the wickedness of their smiles. Now, they've experience to back their mischief up.
     "You've made a right mess of a perfectly evil tower," Aeron says, leaning back with his hands propping him upon on the stone.
     "I don't know," Bran waxes, his head rolling back and then against a shoulder as he looks between his twin and his nephew/brother, "... a few pillows here and there, some new curtains could brighten up the place..."
     And now, together in perfect unison: "So what's all this then?"

     Gwilym does not even need to turn his head. He knows you are there, the two of you; there is nothing to distract him from being master of his surroundings, like any perfect thief. And he smiles.
     "Nephew," he growls, amused as he turns, eyes flashing emerald, hair glinting red and gold as if the sunset turned it to blood and metal. "Bah. I'm older than you both and don't you forget it!" His fists prop up his waist, making him look a trifle bulkier for his armour. "What drags you two out to the arse end of nowhere?"
     He walks towards you both, chuckling and shaking his head, coming to a halt some yards off. "War has a way of making messes. It'll all sort out; we took this place a couple weeks ago. Cleared it all out." Gwilym's smile remains, but with a thoughtful, distant look for memory of battle and plan for future. "Last stronghold there was, oes? My scouts've told me there's nothing left. Nothing but this spit of land, the bay beyond, and the open sea. Which means two things; I'm done, and I'm starting all over again."

     "We're avoiding mother," they say, and they grin that grin, that very one that is a predecessor to your own, birthed as they are from the same fount: Davydd ap Owain. "Would you rather us call you brother?" They smirk and think not, by their looks.
     "When are you going to call us up?" Aeron wonders with an upraised brow.
     "We're getting rather bored waiting around to be useful," Bran continues, a hint of a droll tone reminiscent of Iowerth but laced with Bran's own brand of sarcasm.
     Dressed in black shirts and black trousers, they cut rookish shapes as the sit their on the ruins of the castle. On their biceps you can see the hint of shapes -- tattoos already? The shapes are black. Maybe it's just dirt. They are fourteen, after all.
     We roam in shadows already..."
     "We already command armies of crows..."
     Yeah, their faces seem to echo, what are you waiting for?
     Aeron and Bran smile in a slant, knowing something you don't know. "We're ready to be your dukes. Are you brave enough to ask us?"

     Avoiding mother. Oh, that brings back memories. Gwilym cackles, shoulders shaking. "Duw. So you're hiding out with ME? Don't tell her, I'll never hear the end of it and I'll just turn it back on you." He strides over to a well, cranking up the bucket and peering into it. "What'd you do - no, don't tell me, I don't want to be an accessory."
     He pours the water out, examining it, then nods. Not poisoned; good. "Well, if you burn to be useful," he drawls, "I imagine I may put you to use. I always have work to be done, you know."
     He turns to the two of you, letting the bucket splash down into the depths. "Brave?" He smiles, and for a moment, he wears the Holly King's mantle in fullness. "Laddie-bucks, it's not me who needs to worry about bravery. You're young and I remember when I was your age and will spare you the I remember speeches apart from that. But there's some things you need to know about before you're ready to be dukes. Start at ground floor; work your way up. There'll be perks and nepotism, never fear, but you're going to have to work for it."
     He leans against the well housing, folding his arms over his armored chest. "There's still work to be done, and there always will be," Gwilym tells you both, smile pulling sly. "And you're going to have to learn to dart through dangers you've no idea of - while ducking mum and keeping her from knowing, too."

     "Ground floor?" Aeron seems positively repulsed. The very idea, starting at the bottom. "What's the point of having position if one can't use it?"
     Bran laughs at his brother, much as you once laughed (maybe you still do) at yours. "We're suited for the ground floor. We're suited for the basement," Bran cracks. "Down in the dark...in the shadows... besides, I've recently developed a liking to bottom feeding." He grins wide and wicked, the comet streak inherited lock-stock-and barrel.
     Aeron smirks suddenly. "And top feeding for that matter." Bran and Aeron share laughter that most fourteen year old boys can conceive of. Whatever they've been up to, it was perfectly evil to be sure. They quite nearly giggle in their shared glee.
     "We're rather good at darting..."
     "And avoiding responsibility..."
     "Particularly that..."
     "So," they say in unison again, "... what shall you make of us, Brother-Nephew? We've laid waste to two brothels and are ready for adventure."
     Oh good lord...

     His eyebrows crawl upwards, and he shakes his head, seized with the urge (as he sometimes is) to knock your heads together. He doesn't, but he could. He's quick enough. "Oes, well, as much as you think you know about my business, I lead the Wild Hunt. You'll both have to join - and their membership requirements are strict." He smirks at that, turning, reaching through shadow casually, snagging a bottle of wine for himself.
     "They will teach you more finesse with your powers. I'd teach you myself, but kinging is hard work." The bottle is opened, and he drinks thirstily, then gasps. "Ah. So, you'll learn to be sneakier than you are now, duw help us all. And you'll keep this from mum," he points at them warningly. "She's delicate, and besides, you don't want her angry. Brr!"
     Fiona in a temper. No thanks. He adds dryly, "You'll also learn about fighting. Battles. I aim to keep you two out of the thick of things, but there you go. You never know what might happen..."

     "We can keep secrets..."
     "Especially our own..."
     Where have you heard that before? But when they say it, they really mean it. Aeron smiles at you while Bran's face goes amusingly blank. Though they torment you, they feel a kinship with you -- on e they do not have with most of their extended family.
     "We'll be in touch," Aeron says it like he's forty, slipping off the rock and transforming into one of the adolescent rooks.
     Bran grins, "We'll have Our People call Your People. Nephew King." His laughter becomes a caw and his clapping tone becomes the flapping of black wings.
     The two rooks take to the air, and behind them trails a murder of crows...

Posted by rowan at January 16, 2008 11:42 AM