Sunday 2 May 2010

Cymru - Chapter 46

Spot the point this post became slightly indulgent and waved goodbye to the plot.


EDITED! I now hate it less. Wins.



GWILYM

"People only ever seem to want to talk to me about tax breaks," Lady Erys said wearily, dropping into her seat beside Lord Iestyn and sighing. "Why is this? This is meant to be a holiday. Entertain me, Gwilym, what's that you're building?"

"A house of cards," Gwilym admitted abashedly. "Well, a pyramid. So you know your taxes?"

"No! Enough!" she laughed. Iestyn poured out a glass of wine for her, and she gave him a soft smile. "I fear I shall scream. Who are we sitting with today?"

"Well," Iestyn said pleasantly, pointing out seats. "Gwenda and Flyn will be there, and Ienifer seems to be right down that end, can't think why. And Marged will be there, between Gwilym and Gir - Ieuan."

"What a pleasant arrangement," Erys grinned, and Gwilym pointedly refused to catch her eye. "I'm sure lunch will be ever so lovely. Should we avoid asking you about this morning, by the way, Gwilym?"

"Oh," he sighed. Yes, his second near-death experience in a week. Gods, no one gossiped like politicians. Maybe they'd all worked in kitchens at some time. "No, I suppose not. I still don't have any brilliantly disgusting wounds to show for the whole thing, though."

"Be grateful," Iestyn said, shaking his head. "I imagine a wound from a Rider would be particularly painful. So? Any word on why this time?"

"You know, I think he thinks I'm my father," Gwilym frowned, carefully placing the top cards and trying to balance them. "Which is frankly irritating. If I'm going to be killed, I'd at least like it to be something I've genuinely done that's instigated such harsh retribution."

"Try cutting your hair," Erys suggested. "Then you'll look less like -"

"Gwilym!"

Marged had such a distinctive shriek. It wasn't just high, and it wasn't just loud; it seemed to be at precisely the right frequency to vibrate along his auditory nerves and activate his limbs, which explained why Gwilym was suddenly holding two cards in the air over the collapsed corpse of his card pyramid. He met Erys' eye, who was laughing without remorse, and sighed, dropping his hands back to the table.

"Hello, Marged," Gwilym began, and was cut off by her hugging him from behind tightly enough that she was apparently embarking on a spirited attempt to remove his head.

"Oh, your poor thing!" she said with noisy compassion. "Again! Honestly, what did you do to the man?"

"Spat in his eye and told him his mother was a Saxon, I think," Gwilym said, prising her forearm away from his windpipe. "Accidental, like. You know how these things happen."

"Oh, you," Marged said gaily, letting go and plonking herself firmly into her seat. "The things you get yourself into! What did - ? Flyn! You three! Over here! Really though, Gwilym, did he say why this time?"

"Not really," Gwilym complained, aware that he sounded slightly sulky over the scraping of chairs that heralded the arrival of other Sovereigns. "It's always the same. He aims arrows at me and doesn't give me a proper reason. I think he objected to Dad, and thought I was the same."

"Really?" Flyn asked, his eyebrows raised as he sank into his chair, and belatedly Gwilym realised just how interested Flyn was likely to be in what Owain had to say to him. And, indeed, Gwenda was looking at him sidelong from the seat to his right. "I rather liked your father. Anything specific?"

"Democracy, sounded like," Gwilym sighed glumly. "I think Dad was trying to invent it for Cymric society but phrased it so horrifically badly it sounded like war profiteering or something. Reading between the lines."

"Well, it's good to see you alive and well," Ienifer said, leaning from the other side of Gwenda, her voice sultry as she let the blonde curls fall onto the table before her. "And how are you coping with the shock, Gwilym?"

"Oh, good heavens, Ienifer, don't offer," Marged beamed. "Your competition now includes an Alpha Wingleader! Never mind, eh, Flyn?"

And suddenly the atmosphere was mighty charged, as could be expected from mentioning three things that weren't really supposed to be said out loud in a group accustomed to dancing around such things.

"You're a public menace," Gwilym told her as Flyn impassively sipped his wine, his eyes on Gwilym. "Really. I can't believe you're allowed to socialise."

"Nor can most of us," Gwenda smiled thinly over Marged's oblivious chuckle. "Do we assume it's true, then, my lord? Yourself and Leader Awen?"

"No," Gwilym smiled, and reflected on how much he wished it weren't the case. "Her Deputy wants me dead, though, so we meet up a lot, compare notes, that sort of thing."

"What's democracy?" Erys asked thoughtfully. Everyone looked at her. "You said democracy, Gwilym. Am I saying that right?"

"As far as I can tell," Gwilym grinned. "I read it in a book. It's what the Greeks practise in peacetime, in the Western Empire. It's where the populace functions as the government; they all meet up and vote on new laws and legislation and such. And there are Indo-Greek states that do it, but there they vote in a leader and make them do all the work."

Flyn's pose and demeanour became so casual Gwilym absently wondered if he was a waiter disguised as him polishing silverware. Erys leaned forward.

"Fascinating," she said, wonderingly. "They choose their leaders?"

"Ooh, that sounds lovely!" Marged said happily. "That's exactly how it should be, look! Then there's no risk of, what was her name, Sovereign in the Wars who cut people's ears off and fed them to each other when they were under siege…"

"Grandmother Eurlys," Gwilym sighed. Marged snapped her fingers.

"Yes!" she said. "Yes, that was the one. I thought you looked a bit like her, Gwilym!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Flyn said with dangerous calm, swirling his wine, "but the risk of voting in such a person is considerably higher than simply inheriting one."

"That seems to be the case to me," Gwenda said. "There would be more of them wishing to be elected, would there not? And since this system reduces politics to a popularity contest…"

"How does the voting work?" Iestyn asked interestedly. "I mean… can anyone vote? How many times?"

"Oh, I don't know that many details," Gwilym grinned. "Not everyone - citizenship is a tricky thing over there. You have to be decended from Greeks on both sides of your family, you have to have been free from birth, you can't be definitely crazy and, of course, since this is Greece -"

"No women," Iestyn said, rolling his eyes.

"But how do they police that?" Gwenda said, doubt riddling every syllable. "That must be simple enough to cheat. And surely people could be coerced into voting for someone they didn't want?"

"I'd imagine so," Gwilym agreed, shrugging. "As I say, I don't remember that much about it. I was learning a lot at the time." And then, because he was feeling slightly spiteful, he added, "Although if it was over here it would be easier wouldn't it? Make the vote secret, have Riders guard it."

Gwenda looked sour. Flyn looked at the ceiling, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Marged clapped her hands.

"Ooh, very good!" she said. "Good at thinking up solutions, aren't you?"

"Well," Gwilym said, and just managed to stop himself in time from saying "That one was Awen's idea, actually," and making everyone's lives considerably more complicated. Fortunately, Flyn spoke.

"I regret that I still see problems," he said carefully. "Quite a few, in fact. Would I be right in assuming that these elected officials have a fixed term of office?"

"I think so," Gwilym said, scrabbling to remember. It was four years ago, and one book among many. Really, if he'd known there was going to be an exam, he'd have taken notes. "I don't remember how long. A few years, maybe?"

"It strikes me that a few years simply isn't enough time to get anything done properly," Flyn said. "If you establish some new scheme or legislation that will take a while to pay off, but be fairly unpopular at first…"

"That's true," Iestyn mused. "And, I suppose, if the next person coming in changes everything back, and then the next person changes them back again… Nothing would ever get done. You'd stagnate."

"Which the Greeks largely have, of course," Flyn said with quiet satisfaction. "Also, what stops a potential leader from promising to give four grams of gold to every citizen on being elected and then not delivering?"

"Intelligence from the electorate," Gwilym said. "Who, hopefully, will have enough common sense to ask someone making such a wild promise where in the names of the gods they're getting all this gold and why they aren't spending it on public services that will bring long-term benefit. Otherwise, I sort of think it's their fault."

"Good point!" Erys laughed. "I suppose this democracy has that in its favour, anyway. If it all goes horribly wrong, you can always tell the people you're their fault."

"Exactly!" Gwilym beamed; and then, because he was still feeling spiteful, added: "But, again, easier here isn't it? We could just get the Union to make sure everyone fulfils their election promises."

"I suppose a twelve-year term might do the trick," Iestyn said pensively. "I mean, if something isn't paying off within twelve years, or at the very least showing obvious eventual benefit, then it's probably not working."

"Ah," Flyn smiled. "But what if the only candidates are unsuitable to rule? Is there any way of choosing none of them?"

"Oh, Flyn," Marged scolded good-naturedly. "Think! That's the same risk as inheritance!"

"I suppose in many bloodlines that's true," Flyn nodded graciously and scandalising half the table. Gwenda recovered first.

"A further point, also," she said. "Part of ruling is balancing the needs of a whole society. The people who would be voting are unlikely to consider the needs of sectors they have no connection to. A fisher would vote for someone who promised more funding to the fishing industry at the expense of weavers, regardless of whether this would harm their society overall. I don't think workers could be trusted to choose the right candidate."

It was the first time in a while that Gwilym had actually turned his body in his chair to stare at someone, open-mouthed. Marged squeezed his wrist sympathetically. He didn't turn around.

"You do know that workers are capable of thinking, yes?" he asked Gwenda slowly. She sniffed, waving a hand dismissively.

"Naturally," she said. "But not in the right ways. They don't understand how to think outside of their own worlds, you see. They aren't built for it."

"Built or educated?" Gwilym said, his eyes narrowed.

"Bred," Flyn shrugged casually. "And such is the purpose of social hierarchy. The thinkers, by necessity, live in the higher echelons and produce more thinkers. Those more designed for physical tasks, shall we say, perform the important functions that a society needs. The two don't mix."

"Really," Gwilym said quietly. Flyn smiled.

"It works from both sides, of course," he said lightly. "I wouldn't be capable of fishing! Or farming, or weaving, or pottery or any number of such jobs. But this is fine, because I understand where my place is. And actually, the same is true the other way around. I treat my workers well, and they are happy where they are. I honestly think that confusing them with the complications of politics would be… cruel."

"Well said," Gwenda chimed in, and Gwilym reined in the desire to break her face. That definitely wouldn't go down well.

"And you think this is all down to genetics?" he asked instead. Flyn nodded serenely.

"Certainly," he said. "I could show you my family tree to prove it!"

"Could you show me theirs?" Gwilym asked. "Have you checked everyone in your City-state? Can you prove that their 'breeding' isn't quite up to scratch?"

"No," Flyn said, his slight smile condescending. "But -"

"Do you live in the same country as me?" Gwilym interrupted. Bugger. He was getting Angry. This was what his sister's life must have been like, all the time, and thank gods she wasn't here to throw plates at Flyn's nose. "The Union, the Urdd, the Gorsedd. Riders, druids, bards. Over half of the intakes of all three are made up of abandoned babies from the working class, families who couldn't afford to keep them and so gave them over for adoption. They become druids! That's a damn sight more thinking right there!"

"Many fail the training in all three," Flyn said calmly. "Without knowing -"

"Sorry, have you met a failed druid who was only capable of cleaning tables?" Gwilym snapped. "Have you met a bard who wasn't quite capable of Prifardd level who therefore had to make nets forever more? And I'm not even starting on Riders!"

"That's a good point," Iestyn murmured. "And bards and druids do need considerable intellectual prowess. They do seem to cope, Flyn."

"But an irrelevant debate," Flyn said smoothly, his tone perfectly tinged with regret. "After all, these are opinions. We cannot prove our perspectives either way, can we, my lord?"

"I can," Gwilym said, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "Ask me again in five years."

"Your university?" Erys asked with interest. "It'll be open to everyone?"

"Definitely," Gwilym said, and wondered if he'd mentioned this to Watkins yet. If not, the man was in for a shock. "From every class, regardless of parentage. What will matter is intellectual ability. And if they don't have it, they won't get in. Regardless of parentage."

"Based on merit," Marged said approvingly. "Ooh, Gwilym, how lovely! Can I go?"

"I believe he said intellectual ability mattered," Flyn said sourly, his finesse suddenly gone in the face of his world view being tested. Marged laughed.

"Oh, Flyn!" she said gaily. "You're just upset because he's got the girl. Without having to force her to kneel in front of him for hours, too. Oh, and here she is now! Goodness, they look grave."

It was strange how somehow he knew what was about to happen. Technically, the appearance of Awen was nothing unusual; the appearance of Awen with Rhydian and Gwenllian even less so. It was probably the additional presense of five more High Councillors and the ten Guard Riders that tipped him off, though. That, and the focus in all of their eyes. They were here for a Reason. It was Serious. They were Unimpressed.

Gwilym grinned.

"Now look," Rhydian was saying. "Lots of witnesses. So you definitely can't go attacking him, understand."

"Yes, Councillor," Awen said wearily.

"Although if you do, avoid his mouth," Gwenllian chimed in. "Because, you see, we'll need him to be able to talk."

"Yes, Councillor."

"Don't, though," Rhydian said, glaring at Gwenllian. "Since this isn't a spectator sport."

"No, Councillor."

Awen stopped in front of Flyn's chair, and studiously ignored the muttered argument that carried on behind her.

"Well, I know that, I'm just saying…"

"Lord Flyn," Awen said neutrally. Flyn smiled briefly.

"Good afternoon, Leader," he said, his voice edged. "I see your fight with Owain has injured your legs in some way."

"No, Sovereign," Awen returned. "I'm just not bowing to you."

"Oh, dear," Erys said quietly.

"You're encouraging her to -"

"Indeed?" Flyn said sharply, rising to his feet. Gwilym raised an eyebrow. It was hardly a clever move; he seemed to be trying to use his height as an advantage over Awen, his near six-and-a-half feet towering over her given that there were maybe eight inches between them, and she was famously likely to attack anything that moved right now. But she stayed completely motionless, surveying him calmly, the force of her authority somehow equalling out the image. Gwilym smiled. It was a funny thing to feel proud of someone for just standing still.

"I'm not encouraging her! I'm just doing damage limitation if -"

"You're under arrest," Awen stated, and the entire room fell silent apart from her and the quietly bickering Councillors. "Bear with me, mind, there are a lot of charges, I might forget some. But: conspiracy against the country, conspiracy to subvert the Union, Saxon collusion, murder, subverting a Rider, perverting the course of justice, arresting an innocent family, ordering the tortore of known innocents, possession of a concubine and repeated counts of rape."

The last word practically echoed around the hall, ringing off the silverware. Iestyn leaned away and stared up at Flyn, aghast. Ienifer actually stood up partially, one hand covering her mouth. Gwenda appeared to have frozen. Awen looked thoughtful.

"I swear there's something else," she said absently. "Hard to keep track with this many…"

"By saying it you're suggesting it's fine as long as -"

"Well," Flyn said tightly. "It's good to see -"

"Wait," Awen said. "I remember. Colluding with mentally subnormal druids, failure to report mentally subnormal druids, arranging for the border warnings around Wrecsam to be delayed and arranging for increased Saxon activity around there. Is that it?"

Iestyn got up and walked out without a word. Erys watched him go, apparently in two minds about whether to follow him or not.

"I am not! It's just covering every base, that's -"

"Oh, mass murder, therefore," Awen said, apparently thinking; then she looked up and gave Flyn an even smile. "I think that's it. Sorry, I may be forgetting some, though."

"Quite the array," Flyn said. "Except that this is ridiculous, Leader. I have done none of this."

Awen cocked her head to one side, watching him.

"Are you arguing with me?" she asked neutrally.

It was the single most dangerous question Gwilym had ever seen a Rider ask. The entire hall caught its breath, frozen in the moment but for Rhydian and Gwenllian's whispered argument in the background, everyone's eyes glued on Flyn and Awen. Say yes, Gwilym's inner child begged silently. Argue with her! Seal your fate!

"You're behaving like a child! This isn't -"

"I'm protesting my innocence," Flyn said sharply. "Which I am entitled to do! I think it's clear that your Deputy has said whatever he can to avoid his sentence."

"Unlikely," Awen said helpfully. "He's still unconscious, and knows there's nothing he can say to avoid his sentence."

"Clearly he's given some sort of evidence," Flyn said, his voice raising. "And it is wrong! I have never -"

"You seem to be arguing with me," Awen said blandly. Flyn almost snarled.

"You're my Alpha Wingleader!" he snapped. "It's your job to expose these kinds of lies for what they are, and here you stand -"

It was the single most impressive punch Gwilym had ever seen. Flyn went from being on his feet, leaning forward slightly and shouting to sprawled halfway over the table, his head by Marged and one arm covering his face while the other scrabbled vaguely at the cloth. Marged carefully poured her wine into his ear. Gwilym glanced up.

"Oh," Rhydian said testily, stepping forward in the new silence and folding his arms beside Awen, who had closed her eyes and was pinching the bridge of her nose. "Perfect. In front of everyone. Well done."

"Sorry," Awen said tiredly.

"We knew it was a risk, Rhydian," Gwenllian chided, moving past them and peering at Flyn. "And she got his eye rather than his mouth, look! Well done."

"She wasn't supposed to get anything," Rhydian snapped. "Not unless he resisted, remember?"

"I saw him resist," Erys said, rising to her feet, business-like. "Didn't you, Gwilym?"

"Definitely," Gwilym grinned. "She asked him twice, too, but in a sufficiently intimidating way that it felt like a warning."

"Sounds good to me!" Gwenllian said brightly. "Let's take him."

"Fine," Rhydian said, rolling his eyes. Erys brushed past him, presumably going to find Iestyn. "Take him away then, guys. Just escort him to the cells, Leader, don't - Lady, would you stop doing that?"

"Yes," Gwilym blinked, clocking her activity. "That's my wine."

"Oh, it's all in the name of fun," Marged said, but her normally cheery voice had gone hard. "Rape, eh? Whatever is the world coming to?"

"Hang on," Rhydian frowned. "That's three glasses you've poured into his ear. Why isn't he moving?"

"Do you think I killed him?" Awen asked, slightly hopefully. Gwilym poked Flyn's neck, and after a moment shook his head.

"Sorry," he grinned at her. "Still got a pulse. Next time, don't try not to kill him, that'll do the trick."

"Concussed, then," Gwenllian sniffed. "Men had thicker skulls in my day. Right, you lot, get him out, then we can have lunch."

"Try not to drop him," Rhydian said sourly as three burly Guard Riders stepped forward and lifted Flyn off the table. "Anyway: my apologies, Sovereigns. Enjoy your meals."

"Well, that was fun!" Marged said cheerfully, redistributing wineglasses as the small complement of Riders left the hall again, a low murmur springing up instantly among the tables of Sovereigns. "We'll need a new cloth, look. And more wine. Well! Did you know about that, Gwilym?"

"Some of it," he said thoughtfully. "Actually, most of it. It sounds a lot more when the individual charges are read out. Do you think Iestyn is going to cope without punching a servant or something?"

"Oh, probably, probably," Marged said, waving a hand. "If Erys has anything to do with it, anyway! Ooh, and here's lunch! Famished, I am."

And that seemed to be it for Marged's interest in the matter. Gwilym wished he could be content with the world by pouring wine in people's ears.

***********

Post-Prandial Fun Exploration was rendered less so by Watkins.

"Watkins, no."

"I simply feel, my lord," Watkins said, scurrying slightly to keep up with Gwilym's Purposeful Stride, "that if an attempt has been made on your life twice in one week increasing your security is only… prudent."

"It was the same man, Watkins," Gwilym said, rolling his eyes. "And he doesn't have a prayer of escaping to try again now. There's no need."

"But what would you lose?" Watkins wheedled, trying for a Reasonable Tone. "Surely on the subject of your life we cannot be too careful?"

"Privacy," Gwilym said, throwing his arms wide. A few bards exiting a classroom to one side ducked under his crazily flung hand. "Happiness! Sanity! No, Watkins. I'm no less safe now than I was a week ago."

"Would the phrase 'better safe than sorry' mean anything to you, sire?" Watkins asked, his tone switching to Long-Suffering. "If you are right, then there is no issue. But if I am right, you will be dead."

Gwilym sighed. It turned out that having Watkins' concerned support was even more tiresome than his tacit hatred. Suddenly the disdainful sniff had been replaced by short lectures on health and safety. He stopped in the middle of the corridor and turned to face his aide, who hastily slid to a halt and stood up straight.

"Watkins," Gwilym said sternly. "One man has tried to kill me. One man. He is now extremely unconscious and extremely incarcerated, and soon he will be extremely butchered. I think I'll be fine."

"My lord," Watkins said. "You do realise that you are a Sovereign without an heir? If you are killed -"

"Hey," Gwilym warned. "I can hear subtext, you know. I'm a politician. That's not up for discussion."

"Of course, my lord," Watkins bowed, unabashed. Oh, soon, the movement promised. Soon it will be up for discussion. You don't get to dodge that one forever, Sovereign or not. A harp rippled to life somewhere nearby, the haunting melody of the Ballads transposed into minor quietly weaving itself into the background. "Could I not arrange for Leader Alaw to be present in your schedule more often, at least? That wouldn't be so intrusive."

"Hmm." Gwilym considered it for a moment, the mournful notes dancing softly on the air. "Perhaps. I'm having her eating on the Top Table during the rest of my life anyway as an arrow repellant. Oh, let her arrange a schedule, though. I don't want to force her to spend all day every day following me and never doing anything else. She has a life too."

"I'll meet with her," Watkins nodded, making a note on his pad in a way that somehow conveyed satisfaction, and then bowed again. "Thank you, sire. Will that be all?"

"Yes, thank you, Watkins," Gwilym smiled. "That's all. Go and enjoy your afternoon."

There was a brief and comical moment in which Watkins gave him a blank look at the concept of enjoyment before bustling away along the corridor, threading between the occasional bards still standing around and chatting to each other in the late-afternoon after-lesson lull. Gwilym shook his head, and ambled on.

It was possible, of course, that he was being blind. That was the depressing thing. That both he and Watkins were right; Owain was now successfully in the past in Gwilym's view, since he'd now forcibly accepted accomodation in a spruce Union dungeon and Riders took a dim view of allowing traitors to their world to leave before their welcome had ended, but Owain wasn't the only person who'd ever tried to assassinate a Sovereign. It happened a lot, Gwilym was given to believe. And he was proposing some fairly radical changes in Aberystwyth. Much though they seemed perfectly reasonable to him, there were plenty who could disagree in a regrettably terminal manner. Eventually, he probably was going to have to start making use of body guards and things. Or dancing ninjas at the very least. Maybe Awen would know some he could hire. Or Hannibal might, Phoenicians sold everything.

It was just so sad thinking that anyone might actually want him dead, though. That had always been the pleasant part of being the youngest of three; he had hardly been a target for anyone with serious career ambitions or revolutionary social objections. Apparenty he had to consider this sort of thing now. It was just… upsetting.

Although his gloomy thoughts appeared to have their own backing track. As Gwilym approached the end of the corridor the quiet music became slightly louder, emanating from one of the classrooms to the side. It was fairly depressing music, he felt. The Ballad of Cantre'r Gwaelod was already a fairly miserable story without a key change that induced instant tears in the listener. This bard must have been having a bad day.

Whoever it was had an interesting style, though. Cymric culture left even the tonedeaf with a healthy understanding for the nuances of musical skill, which meant that Gwilym could hear how unusually good they were for a classroom. The transposition was both elegant and flawless, not a single note out of place, already an impressive feat on the triple harp but in this case also complete with some fairly complicated layers being included over the standard harmonies. Bards in training went on external apprenticeships a while before that level. But; it couldn't have been a tutor. While very good, and definitely good enough to play in a Court, the unseen musician wasn't a Prifardd. The piece was sensitively played, but not sensitively enough; it didn't have the ingrained affinity for the instrument, the natural finesse that came with having your life dedicated to the myriad ways in which to pluck a string that only bards who'd hit the top of the profession possessed. It was unusual.

Although not unusual enough to be bizarre. Gwilym wasn't going to think any more of it, but as he passed the classroom he glanced inside automatically, and suddenly it all clicked into place. Bards trained extensively, a lifetime of study. But if being a bard was only a secondary occupation…

"Are you following me?" Awen asked calmly, not looking up. Her fingers on the strings bent as gracefully as a dancer, the fluid elegance of her fighting style evident as she perched on the end of a bench before the instrument, the lighting turning her hair a deeper red. Gwilym smiled softly and leaned against the doorframe, watching her.

"No," he admitted. "I think I've just cheered up a god or two recently. And anyway, I could argue it's the other way around. You're always turning up when I need you, all ready to save the day."

"I was here first," Awen grinned. The harp keened under her hands, the sound beautiful. "And I have an obvious purpose for being here. Why are you prowling the classrooms of the Union, Sovereign?"

"Because I love listening to children murdering violins," Gwilym declared. "It's like listening to the primal sound of the universe being born, and thus of enormous interest to my scientific mind. Or, you know, because I wanted to explore."

"You generally do, I think," Awen said thoughtfully. "I think that's the key to you, isn't it, Sovereign? You like exploring, geographically and mentally. That's why you like learning. Science. It's pushing back another boundary."

"I suppose," Gwilym blinked. He'd never really thought about it before. "I've never really thought about it before."

The music changed, twisting seamlessly into an educational song about sheep farming that Gwilym remembered from the halcyon days of three years old, now apparently available in fashionable minor key. Awen's smile was wry.

"You aren't the only one who can read people," she said. "Although I think you do it with more distressing bluntness. Do you see the problem, though? You like to explore, to travel far and wide. I like to stay, and defend."

"Nice try," Gwilym snorted, crossing his arms. "You like to find reasons to make me run. That's not the same thing. Your job is all about exploration, Awen. You're looking to find the truth in everything, especially where it's hidden. The only difference is that you look with a goal in mind. I just look for fun."

"True," she said, and completely caught him out. He'd expected her to argue the point. Maybe she was evolving a way of handling him; he'd have to watch that. She glanced briefly across, her fingers not missing a note. "Close the door? It's soundproof, on account of violin-murdering children."

"Sensible," Gwilym marvelled, pushing it shut. Awen grinned briefly.

"Isn't it?" she agreed. "A mercy of engineering. I asked Rhydian if I could kill Flyn."

"What a truly distressing sentence to put on the end of a conversation about children," Gwilym remarked mildly. "Did he say yes?"

"He said -" Awen stopped, both talking and playing, dropping her hands to her knees and looking at them. "I offered to do it subtley. Just, break his neck and push him down a flight of stairs. It would be easy enough. It would look accidental."

And would solve a few problems, but that was an uncomfortable thing to think, so Gwilym veered away from it and focused instead on the fact that something was wrong here. There was too much forced calm in the conversation, too much not-quite-indifference.

"Did he say yes?" Gwilym asked again softly.

"No." Awen stayed frozen for a moment, watching her hands, and then stood abruptly and moved to the window. "No, he didn't. It's not allowed because I asked."

"Asking makes it official?" Gwilym guessed critically. He really Disapproved of the amount of tacit conversation the Union seemed to run on. Awen nodded.

"Yes," she said, and now Gwilym could hear the slight edge in her voice that suggested she was clamping down on an emotional response with both hands. "If I'd just done it he'd have accepted it as me exercising my better judgement and retroactively sanctioned it. But because I asked he'd now have to put it to the rest of the High Council for approval, and they'd just want to hear all of the same evidence as they'll hear at a trial, so…"

"No point now," Gwilym said quietly. "Awen, what's -?"

"It means I had a way to end it myself," she said, turning her head sideways and smiling bitterly. Her shoulders were tense, angry. "It means if I'd made that decision myself rather than wanting the Council to do it for me, I could have removed a monster. Do you see? You see what I've done?"

"What you were trained to do?" Gwilym asked, bewildered. "Sorry, I'm not seeing your fault."

"I got scared," Awen said forcefully, turning to look at him, the bitter smile burning. "As I always do, Sovereign. You're right, you see? You're right. I'm a product of my training, which is to defer to authority, not to think. I had a chance today to sort out the whole situation; I've arranged for everything to be in place if Flyn goes, I have entire back-up plans to put into play ready, and I could have done it and fixed the whole thing, but I can't handle the responsibility of the decision. I can't cope with acting without orders. I'm scared of not being directed by someone else, aren't I?"

"Everyone is scared of the unknown," Gwilym said, taking a step forward, and Awen moved away, prowling the edge of the room restlessly, her arms wrapped around her ribs. Keeping him at arm's length, Gwilym noted. She was not happy with herself right now.

"Doesn't help, though, does it?" she said roughly, her eyes sliding over the walls, the tears just starting to grip her throat and twist her voice. "It doesn't help if it's understandable, Sovereign, because it still means that I am demonstrably the last person to be in this situation, but I've nonetheless put myself there! Right now, you're holding the other chance to get Flyn executed, if only I could make up my gods damned mind! Read it or burn it, that's all I have to choose, so why can't I? Why haven't I yet?"

"Which do you want to choose?" Gwilym asked carefully. Awen snorted self-derisively, throwing her hands into the air.

"I don't know!" she said harshly. "I did want you to read it, but now? Now I don't know! Because you've gone and bloody complicated things!"

"Me?" Gwilym asked blankly. Awen made a frustrated noise, running her hands through her hair, her pacing becoming more frantic.

"Have you not been paying any attention?" she said, agonised. "There is a reason you're never going to want to see me again after you read it, Sovereign! And this isn't some selfish, personal point! It will hurt you."

"Right." Gwilym stepped forward and caught her wrist before she could dance out of reach, pulling her back and into his arms. It was probably the first time in her life anyone who wasn't a Saxon had tried to physically force her to do something, and so bore the colossal risk of disembowlment; but fortunately Awen froze as ever the second his fingers made contact, and stayed immobile as he pinned her back to his chest. She didn't seem to breathe, either. It was probably shock.

"Whether it hurts me or not is irrelevant," Gwilym murmured into her ear. "Understand? And I will be the judge of my potential but unlikely hatred for you. You don't let my feelings on the subject get in the way, Awen. I'm not a factor in this."

"Yes you are," she breathed, but he tightened his arms briefly and she fell silent.

""No," he said. "I'm not. You need to judge this objectively, and compared to the needs of an entire country, my emotional state is irrelevant. Agreed?"

There was a pause.

"Yes," Awen said reluctantly. Gwilym nodded.

"Good," he said. "Now, we're going to make a list. Two, actually. One is a list of reasons I should read that letter, one is a list of reasons I should burn it. Okay?"

"I don't -"

"Okay?"

She tipped her head wearily back against his shoulder, eyes closed, and sighed.

"Reasons you should read it," Awen said, her voice completely neutral. "If you do, you personally can send Flyn down. He will be executed. This is without question."

"That definite?"

"That definite," Awen said. "Everything else will be irrelevant."

Maybe it was a letter from the gods themselves explaining their immediate claim on Flyn's life. It seemed fairly serious.

"Alright," Gwilym said. "Anything else?"

"That largely covers it," Awen sighed. "That would be justice. That would be… right. It's what the Union is supposed to do. I don't know."

"We'll come back to it, then," Gwilym said, rubbing his thumb against her ribs. "Let's start on the next list. Why should I burn it?"

"Removing Flyn leaves us hoping that an incredibly dangerous situation in Saxonia can be resolved by a Saxon woman who would have to fight tooth and nail just to get her throne back, much less make any changes," Awen stated. "Which I believe is possible, but far from certain. That's point one."

"Point two?"

"Given the gravity of the situation," Awen said, giving a brief, humourless smile, "whether to remove Flyn from power or not is an issue that will be voted on by the assembled might of the Full Council, the Senedd, the Urdd and the Gorsedd. That's the voice of the country. I'm sworn to that. I - I have to let it speak."

Not to mention that every trained, ingrained instinct she possessed was telling her to trust that voice, and let it decide. Gwilym nodded.

"Point three?" he asked gently.

"Point three," Awen said emotionlessly. "If they decide that the Saxon issue is sufficiently great a threat that Flyn has to stay, who am I to disagree? Who's to say they're wrong and I'm right? Four: I can't tell if I'm this strongly opposed to him because I personally want him out, and am putting that over my professional opinion. Five."

She looked down, her breathing suddenly forcibly steady.

"Five," she said again. "I cannot express in words what they could conceivably do to me if I have you read that and reverse their ruling. Although I'm dying anyway, that should probably go on the other list. Although it would in no way be quick and painless, that should go on this one."

There was another pause, and Gwilym realised he'd tightened his arms around her again to a likely-painful degree. He closed his eyes.

"I hadn't thought of that," he said quietly. "My new opinion is that I'm burning it."

"On those grounds?" Awen asked, aghast. "That's definitely putting myself before my professional opinion! No. Worst comes to the worst I'll just jump off a runway, it's fine."

Argh. Loving a Rider: hardest thing he'd ever done. Marged was right. He kissed the side of her head and sighed.

"Burning it is winning at the moment, anyway," he tried, without much hope, and Awen shook her head.

"Only in quantity of bullet points," she said. "Not quality. And I'm not done. I have moral responsibilities to the people of this country as well. From that perspective, Flyn shouldn't be allowed to walk the earth any longer. And I have the ability to make that the case."

"I don't want them to hurt you," Gwilym said morosely. "Sorry, but if the choice is between Flyn or you, I know which way I'm leaning."

"Sovereign," Awen said wearily. "You won't care when you read it, it's fine."

"I just can't imagine what could possibly make me hate you that much," Gwilym said, shaking his head. "Because the only thing is if you tell me that it was actually you who threw my toy cart into the butter sacks when I was seven, and I'm relatively certain that was my brother. Is this some Rider-thing? Is it something Flyn did that you couldn't stop, so you're blaming yourself and think I will too?"

And even as he said it he knew it was true, although not the bit about the toy cart. He wouldn't have put it past Awen to have actually done some terrible deed under orders for the good of Cymru, of course; but it wasn't the case. She shifted in his arms and again he instictively tightened them, holding her close.

"I wouldn't blame you for that," Gwilym said urgently. "I don't think that way, Awen, you do. This isn't going to make me hate you."

"Promise me something," Awen commanded, her voice hard. "If I ask you to read that letter, Sovereign, you'll follow it through. I imagine you will anyway; but promise me. I need to know you'll do this if I need you to."

"I promise," he said. "I won't hate you."

"Yes you will," Awen said, her tone not changing. "Because I'm genuinely considering the idea of not disclosing that letter. And as soon as you fully understand the implications of that, it doesn't -"

"I love you."

The silence reigned sumpreme in its dictatorship. Gwilym smiled. Awen stared at the opposite wall.

"No, you -"

She broke off as he gently lifted the beads of one braid, rolling the glass and amber between his fingers. She watched, barely breathing.

"Yes I do," Gwilym said, quietly happily. "And you can't do anything about it, Awen, so deal with it. I love your Wing, too, it's a good match. Caradog said he'd teach me how to wrestle, and Llŷr said he'd save me from Caradog."

Awen laughed, the sound slightly strangled, and turned around in his arms to hug his waist. Gwilym grinned, stroking her hair with his free hand.

"I wish you didn't," she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "I'm going to hurt you, sooner or later."

"Tough," Gwilym said contentedly.

"I know."

They stayed like that for a minute, Awen's eyes fixed tiredly on his hand as he toyed with the beads, the only sound coming from the occasional gull outside. It was incredibly pleasant just holding her, feeling her hands gripping the fabric on his back in fistfulls again. Idly, Gwilym wondered how close she was to being purifiable again now.

"I don't understand you," she said sleepily. Gwilym snorted.

"We don't choose whom to love," he said softly. "Sorry. You're stuck with me thinking you're insanely brilliant and following you around like a one-man cheering section. You can think I'm mentally deficient it if helps, I won't mind."

"I do."

"Oh." He considered that. "Well, fair enough. You've met my family, it's not like it isn't in my genes. You have to believe me, though. That's important. I do think you're incredible. Do you believe me?"

She glanced at the beads in his hand and nodded.

"Yes," she said. "This relationship will be catastrophically unfair on you. Do you believe me?"

He raised the hand holding the beads and tipped her chin back, bringing her mouth against his, unable to fight the smile. She froze in his arms, lips parting slightly.

"But we're having a relationship?" Gwilym grinned, and kissed her.

The adrenaline was what he remembered most afterwards. His heart rate seemed to triple, apparently even more excited than Gwilym himself at his romantic progress, and suddenly he was aware of every inch of Awen's body pressed against him, the grip of her fingers, the vice of her arms, the slide of one hand up his spine, the urgency of her mouth. She was good, the functioning part of Gwilym's brain mused. Well, Riders got the practice. The rest of his brain just cheered.

He broke it off, heart hammering in his chest and Awen froze again, watching him-

- and grinned.

"That's unfair," she chided. "Seriously. Playing dirty, we call it."

"I'm a politician," Gwilym said, elation flooding him. "See? You're not the only dangerous one in this relationship."

Oh, what a glorious word that was. Blue tits and squirrels seemed to dance around the room as he said it.

"It won't work out," Awen said matter-of-factly. "I want you to remember I told you this. This is happening on your insistence against my better judgement, Sovereign."

"I shall remember," Gwilym said, rolling his eyes. "Hey, can I tell Owain?"

"It's funny how you think I'm letting you within a mile of him," Awen grimaced. "Adara can. She likes tormenting him."

"Awen, you're as bad as Watkins," Gwilym complained. "Owain is chained to a wall inside a cage in a locked room. He's not going to glare me to death."

"You wanted this," Awen shrugged. "I told you it wouldn't work out. But you didn't listen, and now the cracks appear. Oh, how I told you."

"I love you," Gwilym grinned, and Awen groaned and put her head on his shoulder, settling into his arms.

"Stop saying that," she said. "I can't handle that yet, you're going to have to work up to it more slowly."

"I find you passable."

"Yeah, that'll do." She sighed as his fingers found their way to her neck muscles and began massaging. "Teach me something."

Gwilym grinned.

"Teach you something?" he repeated. "Like what? Madog tells me you know everything."

"Yes," Awen snorted. "The last few days have been hard on Madog's world view. He was nearly sentenced to death for it before lunch. I don't, though. Teach me something you learned exploring the world."

"Covers a lot of ground," Gwilym said, but he was hopefully excited anyway. No one had asked him this before. He'd die a happy man if he could run through Arabic mathematics with her.

"What, exploring the world?" Awen grinned. "Yes, literally I should think. But you told me you spent a year in a library, Sovereign, and then wanted to start a university. Clearly you know exciting and forbidden secrets of the universe now."

"I do!" he said excitedly. "We'll need paper and a pen. What's your maths like?"

"I can count like a champion," Awen declared, reluctantly detangling herself from his arms and moving to a desk in the corner laden with stationary while he sat happily back on the bench. "And, you know, add numbers together, take numbers away from each other, split numbers between other numbers, all that stuff. I'm quite the expert."

"I'm deeply impressed," Gwilym grinned as she returned with three sheets and a pair of pencils. "There should be awards. Okay, firstly: I need to teach you a new number. It's called 'zero'."

"How exciting," Awen said, fascinated, as he hastily scribbled down a number line. "It - hang on, it goes before one?"

"It means 'nothing'," Gwilym nodded. "So it's sort of an anti-number. I'm not sure what a good analogy would be -"

"Silence," Awen shrugged. "Sometimes in music you go silent for a few beats. The notes are still there, the music's still going, but there's no sound."

"Excellent!" Gwilym said. "We need Aerona's gold stars. Have one in spirit. Right, these are minus numbers. These are sort of like when numbers are owing. Like… I have four apples, but Madog needs six to make a pie."

"I doubt Madog can make pies," Awen murmured, and giggled as Gwilym tapped her on the nose with his pencil.

"This is hypothetical," he said sternly. "He's reading it out of a book, okay? Now; I have four apples, he needs six. But he can't ask anyone else, right?"

"Why -?"

"He's imprisoned in my kitchens in one of my mad dictator moments."

"Ah." Awen nodded, rather too understandingly, Gwilym felt. "Go on."

"Right. So, he tells me that as soon as his apple supplier gets here he'll pay me back the apples, yes? But I now owe him six apples, despite only having four. So, I borrow two apples from you and give him six apples."

"Okay," Awen said. "Although I can't imagine why I'm helping you."

"Because I smiled at you nicely," Gwilym said. "Now, Madog makes the pie -"

"Any good?"

"A passable first attempt," Gwilym said. "Were you this bad growing up?"

"I suppose you'd have to ask my Tutors," Awen mused. "Sorry. Go on."

"The pie is made," Gwilym said sternly. "Using six apples. Four were mine, two were yours. So, technically, I now have no apples, right?"

"Zero apples," Awen said thoughtfully, looking at the number line. Gwilym resisted the urge to hug her.

"Yes!" he said excitedly. "Except I don't. I've lost four and I owe two. So actually -"

"You've got…" Awen traced the number line with one long, scarred finger. "You've got minus two apples?"

"Yes!" He did hug her this time. Teaching was fun, actually. Maybe he could get the university set up, establish democracy in Aberystwyth and become a lecturer. Awen laughed in his arms.

"Okay!" she said, gently fending him off. "Okay, I think I get it. I don't think this is really applicable to real life, mind. You've got to be a bit conceptual."

"You have," Gwilym agreed happily, running his fingertips down the side of her face. She ignored him, her eyes looking grey as they ran over the number line, analysing the sequence. "And I'm glad you said that, because it's going to make the next bit easy."

"Really?" Awen put the number line down, fixing her attention onto him. "What's the next bit?"

Gwilym grinned.

"Have you ever heard of algebra?" he said.

5 comments:

Blossom said...

Nice chapter! I wish Awen and Gwilym would shag, now. They've had about quarter of a novel of foreplay!

Quoth the Raven said...

Well, it's kind of you to say so but argh aaarrrghgh I hate this chapter. I don't think I've written anything with this little character for a while. I was just, you know, trying to write quickly for my sister to read it at work, and people were playing Zelda as a distraction in the background... I'm going to re-write it. It's hideous. It's currently begging me to kill it now, but I'm going to try to save it.

Request for sex is noted. Just tricky at the moment, see, because I know what she knows, and I can't see her being willing to leap joyfully into his bed right now... I'll work on it.

Blossom said...

Yay! Yes, you're right, this is MUCH better!

How you went from Standard Tension to Official Relationship, though, I don't know!

Yeah, hugely more entertaining and warm.

Plus: awesome, now they can go bead shopping too!!! :-)

Steffan said...

"Marged carefully poured her wine into his ear."

Also:

"Oh, it's all in the name of fun," Marged said, but her normally cheery voice had gone hard.

Yes, the arrest of Flyn is incredibly satisfying. Hurrah! Excitement ahoy.

Relationship bit is lovely, but feels like covering the same ground again. Easy enough to fix in redraft, of course.

Maths sequence is a delight, though. Really, really nice. All of it's getting me wondering what Gwilym and Awen's ultimate ending will be.

Quoth the Raven said...

Ah, the maths, she was for you. Yes, though, see earlier comments for an insight into the Strained Production of this one, and reading it back to myself now I still think it's a serious dip in quality from the rest by this point.

Except Flyn's arrest, and MArged pouring wine in his ear. I like that bit.