The sun is slowly setting on the ocean where Tiernan stands watching it. It is as if he has stood there since time immemorial; and in some way, perhaps he has, gold reddening by degrees against the slightly unkempt black curls falling across eyes bluer still than that sea.
     There was a time, and time has passed. I do not think of you often, my friend in the deeps, but I do think of you. Agapios; you were in some ways a better and more faithful friend than I.
     The thought goes out without being sent, blue eyes thoughtfully regarding the waves that roll into the harbor. There is that sadness which comes over him, every now and again; even though he is essentially happy, when it comes, there is no help for it. He is, after all, an Irishman. Even as the sun continues to go down, Tiernan remains on the balcony, clad as usual in his tan breeches and a dark blue tunic trimmed with gold. He leans on the balcony, without thought for the future or the past, now. Waiting for the sun to go down.

     Harbinger of Dreams, the raven flies through air currents, black wings not dependent upon the whims of the wind. Few ravens fly so near the shore, where oceanic air and its layers of strong currents, hot and cold, challenge even the most gifted glider. But this bird cuts through all of that, its heavy body dipping, black wings tipping against the air.
     Dark talons, strong, click-clack against the marble as a strong-bodied rook lands upon the balcony's railing. Its dark head crooks at you, looks at you as if he knows you. Black glittering eyes turn to you, first one, then the other, as he hops the distance between himself and you, his black wings arched as if he were preparing to leave.
     He is the herald of dusk. Even as he lands, the sun seems to sink as if Evening were waiting for his arrival. Powerful wings flap, feathers brushing a salt breeze against your face. And then the feathers and the shadows seem to blend. The bird seems to dissolve against the dusky air.
     But in the shiver of shadows, another figure is seen. How the time has passed already. Another three months in London, another year passes here. Another year has moved over Aeron ap Davydd, his body grown another few inches in height. Maturity has begun to settle around his form, the promises of earlier youth borne out upon his shape, his strength. His dark red hair, more crimson than auburn, is shorn close to the nape of his neck. Thick, wavy, it is cut to maximize an artful mussing, but short enough to tame the curl. His face is the echo of his brother's -- a double echo when he and Bran are occupying the same space. There is something stark about his beauty, and there is wisdom, understanding beyond his years.
     He is clothed in black leather, modern cut in an Out of Time place. He wears a doublet of leather against his torso, his arms covered fully, but the doublet is undone, leaving his chest bare. But it is not completely bare, for he is clothed in tattoos. Swirls of black -- like the outline of winds -- curl and twist against him, and ravens and poems fly across the surface of his skin. The scent of clove lingers around him like an incense.
     "Nos dda, Tiernan," Aeron murmurs, his dark eyes - blackness with a halo of emerald green, like the aurora borealis - fix on you. There is a reminiscent drollness to his quiet and deep voice. "I do hope I'm not interrupting..." The way he says it, the way he looks when he says it, you can tell he does not care one way or another if he's interrupting or not. He prefers to interrupt...

     You have him by surprise; it shows, for he is not prone to hiding more than half of himself. Surprised, questioning. Io? There is the question of it in his eyes, not quite reaching forward as he blinks, holding himself just a little aloof.
     Surprise gives way to a brief flash of wariness. What is this? And then wariness gives way in turn to recognition. I know you, don't I? Tiernan nods slowly, taking half a step back, giving you the proper aloof space to which he gives anyone who is not his Other. Even as awareness sinks in as to who you are, there is nonetheless that polite, almost deferential moving back. He regards you for a moment, then nods, one corner of his mouth quirking up.
     "Nos dda," Tiernan agrees with you. "Not interrupting, no. I was only thinking, and thoughts can wait until later." He is being surprised again. You have grown. Where has time gone when he was not looking? A hand passes back of his hair, his gaze dipping for a moment to the floor. "Forgive me, I am a poor host. Iowerth is not here," and why, after all, would you be here, if not for him?, "but if you would like something to drink, I can send for someone to see when he will be free?"

     There is the slight tilting of his head. It is the same as waving a royal hand. "I was... just passing by. I saw you and thought I would stop." No, it is not necessary to let his brother know. "I should not think to trouble the High King, but I might trouble you." There follows a slow, slight smile to go with the languor of his voice. "For a drink."
     He is nearly as tall as you are, and he would look the king in the eyes. That is a scary thought; he cannot be more than sixteen. There is a self-assuredness in his gait as he passes beside you. Turning his head, Aeron grins near your ear as he stands at your shoulder. "I won't ask the Great King to pour for me, but I will nip at his liquor."
     It is just as well that Gruffydd has joined the military to better understand the forces he will one day command. Otherwise, he might be spending far too much time with the young man before you. His hand passes over a row of bottles, the gem stoppers gleaming at his fingers. Dark eyes lift and fix on you and Aeron smiles again. "Thinking..."
     Aeron mulls upon that word a moment more, his voice deep and resonant as it washes over it, and he lifts a stopper or two to take a sniff. Finally, he settles on a choice, and he pours not one but two glasses of the kingdom's finest brandy. "I find I do an inordinate amount of thinking. It cannot possibly be to my betterment. I do hope you don't mind a glass. I make it a point never to drink alone."
     He takes a glass in his hand and he offers it to you with the slight upraise of an eyebrow. Want it?

     "You are welcome, of course." Tiernan says it aloud, but there are thoughts moving behind that pale brow. What are you thinking, Tiernan? I am thinking that this young man has mischief in his mind. He is not as Iowerth. He is as Iowerth's darker half...
     It is difficult to entirely conceal shadows from someone who lived in darkness for so long. There are still the crescents on his skin beneath his clothes; still he wears long sleeves to hide them, without speaking of them, without explanation. You are observed, thoughtfully, contemplatively. You are family, and so you receive trust which another with your shadows would not. But still - he wonders.
     You are watched with a man's eye but also with a father's eye, with the eye of a prince who dwelt among shadows of a nature not moral but evil from before you were born until before you were born. Tiernan listens to you, a smile granted with open warmth. "Thinking is usually troublesome," he agrees with you quietly. He has never been very talkative around you. There has never been any real need. "Thank you, a drink would be welcome."
     Deus, do you bring trouble to my door? Gruffydd, my son, best you not be here this night. I do not wish you breaking against this stone...

     There is an otherworldly grace, something gained from flying, from slipping in and out of shadows, from easing in and out of beds and minds. Such things that pass in the silence; so little needs to be said. He is not one for speaking overly much. He can stare with great distinction.
     The brandy is given to you, the other glass scooped up in his grasp, and the raven prince takes a perch against one of the sofas. He does not sit, but he leans there, the leather folding around his thighs, his legs, and more. Aeron folds his arms against his chest, the strength there already prominent. The black marks are Celtic in part, ethereal in other parts. There is a knowing smile at the notion of troublesome. He looks at you a moment before speaking...
     ... You are staring... uncertain... wary and wise...
     "I admit when one is prone to mischief, thought can be hazardous. But rather a sharp mind than a sharp sword." Aeron sips at the brandy, his hand cradling it as he looks at you. He gives the liquid a swish, it seemingly on fire within the bowled glass. It must be some play of light.
     He has never called you uncle, not even when he was two. He does not drop into such familiars now. "Were your thoughts troublesome tonight, Tiernan?" There is the quirk of an eyebrow in recognition of his own alliteration.

     "I have been thinking about the past. I am an old man, you know." Tiernan almost smiles. He is not so old; but he feels old. The way that time flows, though he looks only a decade older than you, though he remembers being your age himself with the acute agony as if of revisiting an old lover - he feels it, like a knife. "It is nothing you would need to worry about."
     It is not said as a closed door. He sips brandy, and moves to sit on the sofa, gaze lowering again to the floor as if to replay an image. "I am prone to remember things too sharply," he tells you, the words simple though the emotions are not. It is as he has always been. "It is like arthritis; when the wind blows from a certain direction, I feel it in my joints. Your brother," he means Gwilym, "would likely laugh at me."
     He smiles, and though there is the echo of pain remembered, his smile is a sweet thing. It is devoid of the complexity of other people's Sin; he has his own guilts, his own memories, his own crosses to bear on his back. But always there has been that Purity to him, and it is there now as he looks to you. "I have been thinking of farewells and lost friends. Foolish to think too much of the past, yes? What of yourself? I would think you would find other things more amusing than hearing me whine."

     He is beside you, perched against the arm of the sofa that you sit upon. He turns to you, his gaze intent and attentive. "Wistfulness," he utters. "I hear it is a bittersweet thing. I, myself, have never felt it." There is a smile, a grin even as you mention being an old man. He is beautiful when he smiles - ethereal and incredible. "You are not so old, Tiernan," Aeron offers quietly, evenly. "Think of the stars. How wistful dust must be..."
     Pushing off from his perch, Aeron sips his brandy as he comes to sit beside you. His long legs unfold, stretching and relaxing. He slumps with regal sloth, resting the butt of his glass upon his lean and tattooed stomach. "I do not know why you should find yourself less interesting than anything else. I, personally, have always admired you. As for the past, it is one thing to regard it, than to be stuck in it. Of course, my past is rather limited in some ways." But he has crammed a good deal of experience in his short time and it shows in his manner and mannerisms. His smile winds in sudden smooth impishness. "I find length of time, quantity, is not half so significant as quality."
     He reaches over, tipping his glass against your own until the glass rings a clear chime. He slides the glass there a moment, prolonging the note upon the air. "My brother. Oh, you mean my nephew," Aeron murrs out. He never calls Gwilym brother. With a glimmer and grin, he withdraws his glass and takes a swallow. "I think he understands wistfulness better than you think."
     Leaning back as he takes another swallow, Aeron studies you in silence. The leather of his doublet spreads, revealing his painted torso and the sparkle of piercings. "These thoughts of the past, these ...sharp thoughts... do you think of paths not taken, Tiernan? Loves not had?"

     You are there where you were not, and he goes still for a moment in surprise before he relaxes again, albeit slowly. "Dust can be wistful," he murmurs. "Even we are but motes in the eyes of the divine, yes? Of no consequence but occasionally, we manage to dazzle in our display."
     Tiernan sips at his drink, looks into it and then over at you in perplexity. Admire? Him? But why? You can easily read his confusion at the idea. "I do not think that I am very interesting," he answers you quietly. "I am not very heroic. I have always done what I have had to do, yes, but ..."
     It trails off, as if the puzzlement has simply taken over, and he looks into his glass with an embarrassment that brings colour into his face. "You are probably right, about Gwilym. We rarely exist in the same space at the same time," Tiernan admits. "There are ... reasons. Old habits, mainly."
     From a time when Gwilym's was the inability to accept, and Tiernan's habit became : to be wherever Gwilym was not...
     "Paths not taken? No." He answers you with habitual seriousness but a lack of self-consciousness. "I linger over regrets, Aeron. Loves lost. Loves kept, but," he smiles, sadness in his eyes, "wounds inflicted in love which sometimes, the memory of the ache echoes. I do not know if you will understand. But there have been goodbyes, in any life lived. I linger over some of mine."

     Aeron is staring into his glass, at the last remains of brandy. The glass magically fills, the liquid pooling, swirling and sloshing against the clear glass. He looks at you, tilting his glass for a swallow. He sees you blush, and it only makes him focus. Sitting up from his regal slump, Aeron rests his arms upon his knees, his glass dangling in between, and he turns his head to look at you. "The regrets of love lost. You are pining..."
     He does not wonder what his brother king should think about that. That is his brother's problem. Clearly, if his brother were attentive or pleasurable enough, his lover would not be pining for another.
     Aeron straightens, tipping his head back for a healthy swallow of the brandy. He gives the liquid in the glass a swirl and then sets it aside. "And what of new regrets? Regrets of pleasure yet to know?" he wonders. An eyebrow lifts as he watches you, watches where the blush stains your complexion. His mouth begins a smile. Leaning in, he lowers his voice to a whisper, is mouth near your ear: "Tell me... are all your regrets done, a thing of the past?"

Posted by rowan at January 25, 2008 07:05 PM