By the time that you reached the stadium, shopping bags in hand and lunch a more distant memory, the races had already transitioned to pitched battles. Organized like American football matches, each team had a set number of players and a general (coach) who, on successive tries, attempted to outthink, outmatch and outmaneuver the general on the other team. On one side, there was General Polaris, one of the High King's finest generals, and on the other side there was King Balthazar, General of the Armies of the Sun.
     It was a test not only of a general's acumen and strategy, but of his ability to communicate with his men and of his own fighting skills, on the ground and in the air.
     The first round, hard fought, was won by Balthazar. The second round was won by General Polaris. But in the final round, the victory was far more decisive and far more lopsided. The armies of the North Star surrendered, but even in defeat their general smiled. He rose and clasped the hand and arm of the Champion of the Kingdom, and his own future liege, King Balthazar.
     Zillah, a noted sports enthusiast when it comes to things like polo, golf and mah jongg, quickly got into the excitement of the battles. Surrounded by the ultimate luxury of the royal luxury box, it would be hard not to. An additional cocktail certainly didn't hurt.
     The battles now over, pick-up races and challenges begin on one side of the stadium (the size of three football fields), while dancing commences on the other side. Zillah turns from the view of the stadium, still holding her third cocktail. "So thrilling!" she says. "Do they have games like this frequently? It's like Ben Hur and the superbowl combined..."

     "They have some regularly," Maddie replies; she's been there longer and is more attuned to the way of things, after all. "Ones of this level only happen infrequently; this is in part battles to see who will be named the new High King's Champion. Generally you're the King's champion until you stand down or are disgraced or someone successfully challenges you for the role and the High King acknowledges the challenger, from what the others in my classes have said."
     She is lounging back, much relaxed, with a campari and soda in one hand. It's dryer than she usually drinks, but she doesn't seem to care, or even notice. She watches the games with only mild interest. After all, she no longer has as personal a stake in it, although she does still cheer for Balthazar.
     Gillian is drinking another wine spritzer, settled in to watch closely. "I hope he wins. But I imagine he will. He knows how I feel about winning," she says blithely. "So are you enjoying yourself so far, mumsie? I know it's not much like home, but that's what makes it interesting, isn't it?"

     "They must make a fortune," Zillah croons, "... there's not an empty seat. It's a pity I can't take pictures to show to investors," she laughs. "I love it here, honestly. I will be telling your father, should he argue, that he's ridiculous... and grandfather, too, for that matter... if he attempts to make either of you return to Boston. I am behind you both one-thousand percent. If I were younger," she sighs.
     She holds that thought for the swallow of another bit of her martini, then sits straight and forward. "Oh! I think he has won, darling. There's gold confetti everywhere. Now, which one is he? It's so hard to tell from here when they're all in those metal cans..."
     Down on the field, the dancers and additional runners and racers part and disperse, the victors taking the field once more. Gaming seneschals hurriedly put together the podium, like a pit crew, and the crowd stands, leaning forward wherever they may to get a good view of the crowning ceremony.
     The Sun King removes his helmet, his men following his lead, but he steps to the side, smiling and waving them to receive their honors before he does. Golden eyes look in the direction of the royal box, but then move around the stadium. He lifts his hands in acknowledgement to the cheering. Are you up there, Gillyflower? I'll be there soon. How are things going?
     She sits back, your mother, setting her glass aside. "Ah, there is the future King. He's gorgeous. This family. If they weren't here doing this they could be on any runway in the world..."
     Down below, the Crown Prince, himself a king in only a manner of days, smiles as he congratulates each member of the winning team, each one quite familiar to him but none so much as the general of the victorious team, the Sun King... his brother. As Gruffydd places the Champion's medal around his brother's neck, declaring him the Champion to the raucous cheering of thousands of spectators, there is a moment that passes between the two men. The future king's hand comes to clasp the back of his brother's head and he smiles. Whatever is said between them is kept between them.
     "Excuse me a moment." Gillian stands, blushing, and she takes from her bag one of the silk scarves she's bought. She ties it quickly but competently and neatly into a sailor's purse; wrapped round the vial of melonflower scent multiple times and tied securely so that there's little risk of the contents falling out or breaking. She goes to the window of the royal box and slides it open, leaning out as she winds up and with just as much competence, pitches scarf and contents at the winner's podium. Hopefully it won't bean the Crown Prince or Sun King; that would be an ill omen. But her aim is spot on enough that it's unlikely someone else would be beaned...
     Maddie snickers quietly behind her. "God, I hope they don't think it's a terrorist attack. But then, considering how much crap's probably being tossed onto the field right now, they're probably just as glad it isn't panties."
     Gillian laughs at that. "Girls do seem to like him, don't they?" she agrees, both amused and proud. "He knows I'll stab any of them who get too close."
     "Oh, you wouldn't," Maddie retorts. "Stabbing? Please. Stabbing is what I'd do. You'd do something Rube Goldberg-esque involving a hundred steps."
     "You might have a point," Gillian concedes, but she flushes a bit, embarrassed. "Oh, by the way mumsie, the man standing with him is Gruffydd, the Crown Prince. That's who Pres is, um, working for."
     Maddie clears her throat, swallowing what she might otherwise have said. And under.
     Gillian answers, meanwhile, silently: It's going better than I'd feared. Maddie doesn't seem inclined to kill anyone. I didn't hit you with my favor, did I?

     "I've met the Crown Prince. He was at the parents' dinner. Wonderful young man," Zillah says. "His wife is equally charming. They both seem highly intelligent. Are you both acquainted with Maria? She's quite witty. So what is Preston doing? I've heard rumors, but that is it. Future Chancellor? Is it a diplomatic position? It seems to be of some importance. The King speaks so highly of you all, actually. Of course, I know my children are highly competent and brilliant..."
     Down on the podium, the trajectory of an item catches Balthazar's eyes as he parts from his brother's hold. He bends, taking up the favor and lifting it toward the box. No and it seems intact. Thank you, love. I'll be up momentarily. I need to rinse off. Badly. He thinks that to you, as he waves once more to the crowd. He turns back to look toward the royal box, bringing the favor to his lips. For you. My sweat and effort. Every sore muscle, which tomorrow will be screaming, is my dedication. With a press of the favor to his mouth, Balthazar blows a kiss to a woman waiting. (Though there are several women who will swear that kiss was for them.)
     "And well... what girl wouldn't," your mother chimes in as Balthazar makes a motion toward the box and then descends the podium, mounting his horse to ride off the field. "I think I should get your father a gym membership for his birthday," she says suddenly, her hand fiddling with her string of pearls.

     "I'm not sure what the title of the position Pres is getting actually is," Gillian murmurs, blushing and smiling as she receives tribute for tribute. She closes the window and goes to sit again. "I know he's quite close to them both. And yes, I've met Maria. We've talked a little bit about the wedding. I think Maddie knows her better, though."
     "A little bit better. Not loads." Maddie shrugs, then looks discerningly to her mother. "Mumsie, if you want, I can tell you what you and dad should do. Because I do know what you should do, if you really want life to improve. I know you're probably going to think it's impertinent or bratty of me to say so, but honestly, I do see more than people give me credit for."
     She sips her drink, then puts it down again, lacing her fingers in her lap. "You should let daddy sign up for one of the hands-on projects somewhere - in the Caribbean, maybe, or the Mediterranean. He's got the clout to run one of those projects. And you should put your heels and your diamonds in storage, and you should get granddad to build a small ship only big enough for the two of you and maybe a couple of grad students, and you should go with him, and help him the way you used to before we were born. It'll be better than any gym membership you can buy, and if you're involved in his work then he has to pay attention to you, and you know more about his work and how to keep his project on kilter and under budget than any number of grad students."
     She shrugs and stands up, going over to refresh her drink. "Or you could just propose to him that you and he do exactly that, only without grad students, and in these oceans, mumsie. And then it'll be just you and him, and you can explore all the port towns along the way, and learn about things neither of you've ever seen before. It won't do his career anything, and it won't be anything you could tell the bridge club about... but aren't you both bored with that by now anyway?"

     Martini is sipped and thoughts are tasted. The suggestion passes her lips along with the vodka. She looks at you both. "I'm sure you don't need us here getting in the way of things. But... maybe..." Her exhalation is an admittance of fear. "It's not impertinent. I don't think it's any secret that we've been struggling. He would kill me if he knew I even uttered a hint of that out loud to you both. But I'm really quite past being able to keep it all to myself."
     Zillah smiles to her youngest. "That's a valiant idea. And one that I will consider. I'll mention it to him. Though, my luck he'll decide to take a boat for one and I'll be tossed overboard for a book." Not to mention a grad student. "I'll mention it to him. Who knows? Maybe he would like to explore the oceans here and I could extend my stay a bit. I do like it here. It's as if one were able to go back to one's childhood here, and answer wishes that one neglected while growing up. It feels... nostalgic but full of possibility..."
     And date cakes and baklava and rosewater and spiced lamb pies...
     Suddenly the tabletops are bursting with food! Steaming spiced lamb pies fill the air with the flavors of cumin and saffron. Date cakes answer that with a sweet and honeyed fragrance. Plates of baklava, soft white cheeses and fresh, rustic breads appear. And where food erupts, the men of The Royal Family can't be far behind...
     But... which one will it be?
     Zillah gasps with surprise as a cornucopia unfolds around her. "Is it always like this? It's worse than a cruise liner!"

     "Balthazar has to be on his way," Gillian declares happily. She's blushing again, turning towards the door. She is sure it's him. Why would it be anybody else, anyway?
     Maddie looks amused, but lets the topic shift itself away. She goes and nonchalantly helps herself to one of the lamb pies. "It's always like this. Good thing I'm a dancer. I can't get fat." She rolls her eyes a little at her sister's blushing, but grins to herself. I've got a secret...

     "I would have to take up jogging," Zillah jokes. "I don't think there's enough jazzercise in the world for me to work off those wonderful smelling cakes. Do you think he'd mind?" she asks Gillian as she rises to peruse the various desserts.
     She doesn't really wait -- they're simply too delectable. Zillah lifts a date cake and a piece of baklava and pours herself a glass of the rosewater. "I keep wishing we had brought your grandmother. Do you think they would mind if we brought her for the coronation? It's not as though we've been gone that long in real time..."
     Some fifteen minutes after the first bit of food began to appear, the door opens, allowing the noise of the crowds and nearby boxes to filter in, and reflected sunlight from the stadium's glass bursts upon the floor. In that golden light, stepping upon the reflections as if they were flowers tossed to his feet, walks Balthazar.
     He is dressed in a suit, not of armor but of fine wool blend, the fabric a deep midnight, richer than black and paired with a white button down shirt. In the pocket of his suit's coat is the scarf (and favor) tossed to him but minutes ago. His golden hair is still damp from his shower, but the short strands are already beginning to dry, curling and waving. He seems all the taller, his energies raised for battle lifting on the air around him -- and he's already tall...
     Balthazar smiles to Gillian, his hands lifting to his collar. He lifts the broad ribbon the bears the medal of victory over his head and places it around her neck. "To the victor, go the spoils," he murmurs to her. In a moment of quiet between them, they may as well be alone. Golden eyes lift to Maddie and the other familiar woman. First, to Madison, Balthazar smiles, a hand lingering at Gillian's side. "Hello, Mads," he says warmly to her as well with a lingering smile. "And it is good to see you again, Mrs. West," he says to Zillah, turning toward her, his hand drifting away from Gillian's side to extend to her mother.
     "I hope you don't mind," Zillah says, plate showing the evidence of cake and baklava.
     Balthazar smiles, "Not at all. I can't eat all of this myself." He pauses, looking to Gillian. "That's a lie," he says to her, "...isn't it. You can vouch for that," he grins to Maddie. "But no, please, help yourselves. Are you enjoying your visit?"
     At Zillah's hesitation to sit, as if waiting for him to do so, Balthazar chuckles quietly. "No, no... don't wait for me. If I sit down, I don't think I'll be able to move again. Please..."

     "We could probably get here. I think it's more the explanations that're hard, more than anything else. It does change things," Maddie tells her mother. "It's easy to pretend it doesn't, but ... it does."
     And then there he is, and Gillian has eyes for him and him alone, moving towards him, smiling and blushing again as he settles his medal around her neck. "Congratulations, Balthazar," she murmurs, voice low and intimate. "I'm glad you won. I knew you would, though..."
     "You should give him a massage later, Gilly," Maddie teases. She gives Balthazar a knowing, impertinent smile. "Hiya, Baz. Grab yourself some of your wine, why don't you?"

     There is awareness that his ex-girlfriend is here, and the mother of both his recent loves current and former, and so there is no kiss at the settling of the medal around Gillian's neck. There is, however, a look that more than conveys it and the emotion that would have been expressed in it. "My rivals tell me they wish I were less inspired," Balthazar murmurs back to her, his mouth pulling into a warm smile.
     Kiss or no, the air around and between them has all the humidity of a summer's cloudburst. "Thank you," he says, grinning to Gillian. Credit given where he feels it's due. He clasps her hand, his fingers interlacing with her own.
     Zillah halts her half-rise, smiling. "It's nice to see you again, Your Majesty. Congratulations on your victory..."
     "Balthazar's fine," he notes warmly to her. "Or Baz," he adds quickly, a smile tossed to Madison.
     And she is a woman: she responds just as the girls in the stadium do. With a little pink and a smile. "Balthazar it is then. I am glad we're finally getting a chance to visit! Are you certain this is a good time?"
     It is only hunger that motivates him to let loose of Gillian's hand. He gives her fingers a slight squeeze and then proceeds to pile food on a plate at his self-made buffet. "It is, as long as you don't mind my eating," Balthazar says, glancing up from the banquet line. He looks to Maddie at her suggestion, eyebrows lifting appreciably. He chuckles at that. "I think my Aunt Mahasti would allow it, so long as it stayed to the shoulders." He gives Maddie an amused look back. "It would be nicer than Thalin, I do have to say. Very good seneschal. But I prefer masseuse to masseur." He glances to Gillian. Yes... he would like that very much.
     "Gillian and I were talking about the ceremony at Powis..."
     "Mmmhmm," Balthazar sounds with an ever-warming smile.
     "... With Gillian working at two universities, I will be handling most of the logistics with your grandmother. I want you to know that nothing will be decided without Gillian's or your input. I don't want to be one of those M-O-Bs."
     Balthazar glances to Gillian and Maddie. M-O-B?

     Her blush tells all, and Gillian smiles, touching his hand just a little bit. "I'm sure you gave them hell," she murmurs, leaning in just a little bit to Balthazar before she draws back. She smiles but does not pull her hand away until she's reaching for a slice of fruit. "I'm not very experienced at giving massages, I'm afraid. Except, um, to girls. Sports teams and all-girls' schools, you know. Usually we just booked the local spa..."
     Maddie's impertinence is clearly here to stay. "No time like the present to learn, sis." She translates for Balthazar. "Mother of the bride. You know. The kind who decrees her daughter is going to have the wedding the mom always dreamed of for her, never mind what the daughter wants. 'Course, Gillian's pretty traditional, so it probably won't be too hard." She nonchalantly bites into her meat pie, grinning mischievously. "Hey, Gilly, do I get to plan your bachelorette party?"

     Balthazar glances to Gillian, his look carrying over to her sister. And for the first time, Balthazar feels what it is like to be completely surrounded. He smiles -- these are not bad odds -- and glances to Gillian at the buffet. They stand so close, and were they any less principled, the food would be on the floor and they would be on the buffet. "They're your hands, your fingers. They're all I need," Balthazar murmurs to her, his smile slanting. He bends and, despite being surrounded, kisses her temple.
     So chaste. At least one in this room knows how difficult that must be for him...
     "I think," Balthazar says, as he takes his plate and heads to a sofa (there's enough room for Gillian next to him of course), grabbing a drink along the way, "Pardon," he says, taking a bite of the spiced lamb pie. He chews and swallows before continuing, "... that as long as Nainie... I mean, grandmother Fiona," he smiles a bit, "... is involved and Gillian is happy, that's what's important." He's not sure he wants to get too far into wedding planning. He's still working on the asking her part. "We have time, which is good."
     Zillah looks between her daughters. She raises her hands, "I don't want to know about the parties. Just so long as everyone is where they need to be on the day of. Now, I am happy to see, and will certainly convey this to my husband and father-in law," she notes (as he devours another lamb pie), "...that things are amicable here," meaning with Madison. "At first, when we heard, we weren't sure what to expect. Mostly we were concerned about Madison's feelings."
     "So were we," Balthazar softly confirms. He looks to Madison then, his smile lingering. It is deeper, no less emotional than those he gives to Gillian. "Madison is a very important person to me," he continues, his attention returning to her mother, "And her happiness is important to me. It always has been. I think your husband and your father-in-law will be slow to accept that I'm anything more than promise-breaker. I can't win them over by talking about it," he looks among the women, "...but by living what I say." Broad shoulders roll in a half shrug.
     Balthazar smiles, fingers wiped as he lifts his fourth pie, "I don't want to know about the bachelorette party either," he chuckles. "I'm going to stick my fingers in my ear and go la-la-la. Might I suggest something stately and refined, like mani-pedis, shopping and a fine dinner somewhere..." He laughs quietly and warmly at his own suggestion, knowing it would likely be Gillian's own... but not what is likely to happen.

     "You have got to be kidding." Maddie gives Balthazar a disbelieving look. "That is not what a bachelorette party's about. Honestly!" And, Bran, darling, if I were ever in the slightest uncertain about which one of you was right for me, it's totally been answered now. She looks at her sister. "Well?"
     "Okay, okay," Gillian answers, laughing, leaning lightly against Balthazar's arm. "Just nothing that makes the tabloids. That's all I ask." She doesn't seem too worried. But then, they are prep girls.
     Maddie looks utterly and blithely unconcerned about her feelings. "People worry way too much." She finishes off the pie, wiping her fingers on a napkin. "Anyway, I hate to eat and run, but I really can't afford to miss both class sessions, and there's that meeting tonight after class and dinner, so I better run. See you, Gillian, Baz, mumsie." She turns to fly off with light dancing steps.

     Balthazar answers her incredulous look with the slanting of a grin. He doesn't explain his own humor. Surely, she gets the sarcasm. "Have a good rest of your day. Tell Sabira hello for me." He looks to Gillian as she leans against an arm. Surprisingly, though it is thickly muscled, it makes for a good pillow. "I suggest London, Paris or New York," he murmurs with a smile. "Vegas has been done."
     He brushes a kiss against Gillian's head and then sits forward to set his plate aside. He keeps the baklava. Of course.
     "Tsks... girls," Zillah mutters, sipping her cocktail at the mention of bachelorette parties. "I won't bore you with details now. I would like to arrange a meeting with your grandparents however. But... first," she smiles, "... I would like to know more about you and your plans. Gillian tells me that you are in the process of building your kingdom..."
     Balthazar nods as he settles back. He is grateful for the softness of the sofa after a day of mock warfare. "In fact, did you see the latest palace plans," he asks Gillian. "We're in the design phase... infrastructure, physical and philosophical," he answers Zillah.
     "It must take years..."
     Balthazar smiles, his golden gaze returning to his horizon, always. He looks to Gillian as a hand lifts, his arm resting on the back of the sofa behind her. His fingers move through her hair. "Actually... the physical infrastructure will only take a few days. If you're alright with the palace," he murmurs to Gillian, "... I will get started on that. We'll get the basics done," he notes to her mother, "... and it will be built traditionally as well as magically. When my father dreamed this into being, he started with the topography, the basilica, the ports and markets and stadium. Everything else grew organically."

     "I haven't seen it but I'll check tonight when I get back to my room." Gillian smiles, taking a seat on the sofa and continuing her slight lean. It is nothing terribly improper, but it is there, as if there's a magnetic or gravitational pull. She looks to her mother. "I know, hard to believe, isn't it? But ... everything's different." She lays a hand lightly on Balthazar's knee, smiling, pink still in her cheeks.

     Zillah smiles and with a finishing sip, she rises. "It's been such a long day. I think I'm going to catch a cab back to the palace, speaking of palaces, and have a little nap before supper. No, no," she insists, gathering her things and smiling coyly, "... don't get up on my account. Gillian, I will talk to you later. Balthazar, a pleasure..."
     It is a pleasure, the thought occurs to him, but not for the reasons that her mother might think. His gaze is on Gillian, lifting only in a glance to her departing mother. "Likewise, Mrs. West..."
     As the door closes, his hand comes to rest upon yours, resting upon his knee. "That went better than expected. After the lectures of your father and grandfather, I was expecting more of an inquisition." But that's all he says on the topic. "Hello," he smiles, "... and, yes," he bends, "... I did give them hell."
     There is the crackle of ionized air in the kiss. It feels like you and he could change the weather. His hand slides against your own, his fingers interlacing with yours once more. And for you, there is the honeyed heat of summer. His mouth plucks yours like a rose.
     Parting the kiss, Balthazar looks to you, glancing to the door briefly. "A nap sounds good actually. A massage and a nap sounds better. How would you feel about joining me for both?" An amber eyelash lifts and golden eyes are filled with love and fire. His gaze drifts to your mouth, the slope and line of your neck and shoulders as his fingers and thumb lightly stroke against your own.

     With her mother gone, Gillian breathes out a sigh of relief and relaxation, leaning in against you. "Hello to you, too. I saw that you did," she whispers. Her hands come up to cradle your face, and she blushes a bit, trembling slightly as she looks up at you. "You know how it sounds." She laughs, a little shakily. "It sounds wonderful. But it also sounds dangerous."
     And then she slides her arms around your neck and slides herself into your lap, her lips eager against your own. Just for a few minutes. Then we can... then we can go back to the palace and...

     "We're brave things," Balthazar murmurs, his arms surrounding you, his head inclining as you move upon his lap. "We can take a little danger." In these close quarters, the humidity grows. Is it any wonder that the sky becomes crowded with clouds? His mouth rolls open, taking yours with it, and the static that has lived in the air around and between you all but audibly pops with the sudden energy between you.
     It has built for days -- in the glancing touches, in the lingering looks, in the furtive clasping of hands, and in the gentler kisses. All were a promise of this coming storm. But, in truth, it has been building for far longer. Since a similar kiss was shared in the front seat of a Land Rover.
     Outside, the stadium begins to empty as a spring-like rain falls, each drop large...
     He learns your mouth, again. But unlike last time, Balthazar remains, quite intentionally, above your chin. His full lips, soft, firm, suckle upon your own. He tastes of spices and of the honeyed sweetness of baklava. A large hand, strong but gentle, cups against your hair, his fingers sinking into the strawberry-blonde of it. His mouth pulls from yours briefly, the warmth of his breath at your skin as he slides his mouth to your ear. "I love you, Gillyflower. And I will keep my promises."
     Balthazar smiles to you in the close quarters of you on his lap, his face, his mouth only a moment from your own. Long, golden lashes lift and lower. "Nap or no nap. Hmm... but let there be a nap." He grins into the honeyed spreading of another kiss.

     She is trembling, shaking a little bit. She leans in against you, eyes closed, arms still around your neck. "I love you, too," Gillian whispers. "It surprises me every time I say it. But I do. I love you. I love you. I love you..."
     And she leans into you, and she breathes in your scent, not caring if it's sweat or anything else. All that matters, clearly, is you. Even the intellect is put aside...

Posted by rowan at March 24, 2010 03:55 PM