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It's not just their diet that changes. Subsisting on animal blood is the impetus for a realignment in perspective and focus, a paradigm shift that Aedwaerth did not expect. He feels more human. And despite Carlisle's capacity for empathy, he'll never fully grasp the panoptic obsession for human blood that marked Aedwaerth for over nine hundred years. He sees the debilitating effect his eating habits had on him: it stunted his mind, diminished his capacity for emotion, crippled his conscience.
While the change in their behavior is initiated by resisting human blood, it is perpetuated and evolved by a weather phenomenon. The "Little Ice Age" and Carlisle's rebirth coincide neatly. It's been about one-hundred-fifty years since Aedwaerth smelled the change in the air, catalogued the downward trend of air temperatures. The snow arrives earlier and stays later, the oppressive grey Cumulus content to hover. The crystalline cold encroaches year by year.
Eleven years after Carlisle is changed they come to a decision. The near constant cloud cover gives them ample opportunity to commingle with humans, so they decide to establish a residence in the largest town in Wales. They've both spent the last near-decade tamping down their bloodlust, moderating their strength, practicing little human idiosyncrasies, and wrestling in the woods. The preparations near complete, Aedwaerth considers Machynlleth large and distant enough to provide them anonymity.
Carlisle is somewhat amused and positively delighted to find that Aedwaerth has a significant amount of battlefield plunder buried underneath a massive boulder in the geometric center of an untouched forest in northern Scotland. With the ten ton piece of granite moved, they're staring at neatly organized piles of silver and gold plated armor, jewel encrusted sword pommels (many with the sword still attached), several impressive stacks of torcs and various and sundry jewelry. The horded treasures are scattered on the floor of the pit, a fortune fit for a thousand-year king.
"Whenever I came across something that I thought was valuable or interesting I brought it here. I guess I didn't realize how much I'd accumulated." He gets quiet. "It's been awhile since my bloody beginnings, Carlisle. But I can still remember the way those battlefields perfumed the air. The only things left from any of that are these trinkets, and me. Their ash and bone have returned to the earth."
"That's behind you brother. And with these trinkets," Carlisle internally goads Aedwaerth's modesty, "we can buy a regular tower!"
"Remember we've got to maintain distant relations with the townsfolk, and keep their minds off of us." Carlisle pauses, his quick wit rolling through several retorts in the span of a second.
"Ha! If we're attempting that then we had better shift up your name." Aedwaerth is used to the facetious manifestation of his friend's newborn nature, but he's taken aback by the accuracy of the statement. His unusual and foreign name would provoke undue attention.
"What do you recommend, english?"
With a false salute, he beleaguers, "The Anglicized type would be Edward. That's common enough. Three English monarchs in the last century with that moniker. Though I'm not sure you'd like to share your title with Edward the Longshanks." Carlisle knows Aedwaerth's opinion on the Anglo-Saxon king who warred with his Scottish descendants led by William Wallace: it's appropriately low.
Aedwaerth growls in baritone, "I'm taller than that clown of a king, you thorn. But the name will suffice. The sound is similar."
On their journey to Machynlleth, laden with treasure, Carlisle comes to the realization that he will be unable to communicate with the Welsh as he knows only a few stilted phrases of Cymraeg. But Edward is fluent, and flaunts his knowledge of the Welsh words for the frustrated preacher's son. When he finally deems to enlighten Carlisle, it's with a grin and a nudge on the earnest's mans stone shoulder. "What I've yet to mention to you is that the sounds are similar to my own language, so my accent should be near nothing. Truth friend: between your quick thinking and long ears, you'll have the tongue for it in no time. Of course I'll help. I learn languages quickly because I hear it twice."
The truth of Edward's mind is that he has a knack for languages; his brain catalogues dialect and vernacular, and he grasps phonology, morphology and syntax at an instinctive level. His mind reading only facilitates the rapid acquisition of foreign tongues. As a result, he can speak to anyone on the entire island with no difficulty. Most of Europe's languages have settled into his subconscious from his observations of travelers, merchants and money changers. If there's one constant that he's found, it's that money men are the best liars because they typically know multiple languages; learning to mislead in many mouths makes them proficient or dead.
But the true test of a liar, Edward thinks, is whether he can lie to me. No one can. But Carlisle is developing skills at blocking Edward's penetrating mental skills. And it's pleasant; there is no doubt its been a balm to their friendship. Since their move into Machynlleth, it's especially important because they almost never leave each other's company.
They've chosen carpentry as their profession. Carlisle makes a strong case for the craft with logic and reason, but his thoughts unnerve Edward. Carlisle ponders Edward's redemption from a life of murder and considers Christ's vocation an appropriate one. But he says nothing to Edward, having been rebuffed when he floated faith in conversation.
They can easily procure wood from the nearby forests, and their strength and coordination makes the art of woodworking a relatively simple task. They don't even require tools, though they have them as a cover. As the first few months pass, and they transition into tolerable albeit reclusive townsfolk, word of their finely crafted furniture and sturdy products has spread through the three-thousand strong town and into the local area. It's not an inconvenience to their privacy, but it keeps them busier than what they consider ideal.
Despite Edward's indifference to human politics, their new living arrangement has demanded that strict attention be paid to all of their surroundings. This includes the ill-fated rebellion of Welsh prince Owain Glyndwr. By the time that Edward and Carlisle achieve a limited notoriety for their craftsmanship, the uprising against the English for Welsh rule has groaned to a halt.
Both England and Wales are ragged along their aligning edges; broken and battered people live in tattered and torn towns. Even the Tudor's wealth has been carved and cratered. It was a disaster twelve years in the making, with forty-some years until it relents. Ultimately the intermittent fighting of the Hundred Years War is reignited by a temporary Welsh-French alliance attempting to win Wales her freedom from Britain. What began as a Franco-Welsh army in 1406, ended a few days ago with two conscripted companies of Welsh bowmen decimating the same French soldiers at the Battle of Agincourt. The only whispers left of the whole fiasco are Welsh ones, wondering where their fearless leader has hidden himself.
So Edward is surprised when Owain Glyndwr's daughter Alys shows up at his door one morning requesting a custom made coffer, and discretion. She's brief and barely thinks of anything beyond what she came to tell him because she's so distracted by his presence.
"So what did the woman want exactly? I was trying to get this corner just right..." Carlisle is engrossed in a table he's going to anonymously deposit in an impoverished family's one room farmhouse outside of Machynlleth.
"For us to build a door into the back of a coffer for her father, Owain Glyndwr. It's so he can get to a hidden chamber his sons built into the bottom floor of the house. We've got to build it there." Edward's nonchalance and even vocal tone don't fool Carlisle, whose mouth is wide with excitement. "Care to go meet the prince of Wales, english? Think you can be civil?"
Carlisle's laugh and answering gold wink echo throughout the house, reverberating reminders that Edward is no longer alone. And living so differently than ever before has it's advantages: meeting a toppled rebellion leader, working in his home. It's the kind of variety and engagement that he's been looking for without knowing it. Edward smiles and begins to whistle reveling in the winds of change that continue to blow him in a better direction.
In a matter of a scant few years, he's been refined from an emotionless and truant mass murderer, to a respected carpenter and glad brother. But his flawless memory is never at rest, enabling and augmenting his brilliant mind, reminding him of darker days, or his distant and dim human life. With a nostalgic sigh that he realizes that he'll meet a kindred spirit on the morrow: a king with no kingdom.
A/N: Sorry about the wait- a bit of writer's block on this one. But I think I'm back in the swing. Enjoy. And thanks to whoever rec'd my story on that website- you're awesome and anyone else who wants to do that kind of thing is awesome, too. I was absolutely blow away by the quality, insightfulness and tenor of the reviews over the last few weeks. While I'm not one for demonstrative displays of electronic affection, I am very grateful to all of you who read this. Thanks.