A hand reached for a glass...
     And laughter was manifest...
     Living as much in his steps through the old body of stone as in his eyes and from his lips. He could not keep still...
     Time is marked by the steps. Seconds folded into minutes...
     Minutes into the convention of an hour...
     And he marvelled at the anticipation. Watched his fingers move as he grasped his sixth, then seventh, glass of Bordeaux red. Has he not been without you before? And is it because of the parting that it is...
     Maddening...
     The blood runs hot, and so he finds himself standing on the parapet of the turret, welcoming the cold. At least for the moment. Valan leans against the stone, in nothing but his layers of burgundy and suede. His hand cupping the wine...

     ... It was raining in Ediburgh...
     You expected no less at this time of year, did you? Damp autumn, in her greys and blacks and browns, trailed you all the way...
     ...An old limousine was waiting for you in Edinburgh...
     Expected by friends and your lover, you were given no less than the best. A long trip to be traveled in style. A bar stocked with hand-labeled brandy. Plum. Apple. Poitou. Normandy.
     And a bottle of Bordeaux red...

     He thinks of everything, that William.
     Wait. Is this one of Dunross'?
     I can never tell with those two. It's only getting worse as time goes by.
     Inverness is darker than I recall. Rainier. Maybe it's the cloudiness of winter. Even the water is murkier. Hm. I remember why I rarely go so far north.
     Hands fidget with the bar. Bottles. Brandy. Red...Bordeaux. That makes me smile. But no. I have to stay ready. Stay alert. The Glock is at my side. That makes me feel better. Ah, brandy. Nice. It'll have to wait too.
     I should call Robert and thank him. That's for tomorrow, though. Tonight...but tonight...there is someone waiting for me. A gorgeous man with my name on him. Or, maybe his name is on me. That's it. That's more like it. His name upon me...
     "How much longer is it?" leather squeaking as I move. I did ask that question. He's going to tell me another hour again, and I just might need to kill him to move this car faster.

     Eyes are reflected in the rearview mirror...
     "Not long, sir," the consonants and vowels roll off his tongue like the hills he is leading you through. "The worst of the storm is to the west... thirty minutes..."
     That sounded like a guess...
     Glock at your side and remote Scotland all around you...
     You could not be safer. For who'd come here? All the way here, Edward?
     Past the windows, you can see the green past the darkness, the night past the fog...
     Inverness is behind you. A moment later, Edward, you can hear the rain turn to mist...

     I look to the south and lean against the stone. The cold passes by me. I do not feel it as I would have Before. Before... I would have been clutching the fireplace by now...
     His breath lingers around the glass, hovering like fog as he takes a swallow of France. And here, upon the turret, it is as if Valan was standing at the world's summit. Nothing hidden from his view. No scope or end to his want or what he shall be able to do...
     The world is wide before him. And you are on your way...

     Not long. But that was an hour ago now.
     Can he tell that I am coming? Sometimes, they say, after a while, you can tell such things. I've never really known. I mean...I can tell when some others are about, but to be able to pick out one? To be able to tell a singular person? Not so. I would be hard-pressed. Maybe it is just a Ventrue thing.
     But Valan, my Valan, is so smart. So brilliant. If anyone could learn such things, he could. I know it. So, maybe he can tell where I am or how far away, even if I cannot. Maybe, in a hundred years, he will take care of me, more than I care for him now.

     It is more than simply loving...
     It is more than simply 'living' and enjoying...
     This life...
     It is to be taken no less with this extended time than when time was short, too short. I have already forgotten my other life. My other family. That other time. It has not even been a year. A year ago, I was meandering through an aristocratic existence. Doing what pleased me, whenever it pleased me. There is more to life than this...
     I want to give myself to you, I want to build us something...
     And I want to get out of the cold...
     Dieu!
     Valan tips his head back, the seventh glass of wine is finished, and he heads down from the rampart to the summit chamber of the turret.
     You will taste Bordeaux on my blood. One day, I will give my land, my inheritance to you -- to us. I will write our story. I will read your own. And that of your friends...your family...
     Valan moves past a birch door and into the armory...

     ...and it is no longer misting north of Inverness. The fog is lifted by the wind that once brought the rain upon the shore. It is returning now, empty handed. Moving over moors...
     How often have you been here, Edward? Do you know or remember the slope of the earth? Do you know how near or far you are?

     "It is like watching God on the First Day," the whisper comes with breath that lingers on the air far longer than the deep and quiet voice that bore it. And the smile moves slow, spreading smooth. But it is a small smile of that mouth. One made in thought. More so in Recognition.
     It is not often one is able to see such a thing. Such a marvel. He thinks he should paint it. And yet he knows he will not. It is too precious a thing for that.
     "In its Beginning. Finding its way, knowing itself," William continues. I could watch it all night. Intrigued. Fascinated. Awed. It is not often, non, that one is able to be a spectator to Love and to a story without being immersed as a character in it. And the view from within is ... never the same as the view from without...
     In darkness, he leans against a side doorway, watching the car pull into the courtyard, the lights dim, his friend, his brother. And this new one in his life, this young man who is quickly moving within him from lover of a brother to something like nephew and son. And as the black cashmere pulls against the crusader's form in the folding of his arms against his chest, William has no doubt but that should Montague ask Plantagenet will give it. Not merely because it would please Edward. But because it would please himself, and Edward, and Montague.
     "I should be ashamed of myself," William breathes, the smile slanting, "...eavesdropping..." But he makes no move to turn away from this sheltered vantage...

     ... and the image of burgundy and brown, autumn-splayed brilliant, is shown in the light the car gives off. Valan is at the door of the limousine, doing a chauffer's duty. And the grin is wide and warm -- if only it could give off heat, oui? To stave off this wind -- but such may be found in his eyes, Edward...
     Gone is the glass of wine to the hand. No, it is all contained in the flush of his skin, in the pull of full mouth, in the glimmering of eyes. You shall pierce the skin of the living Bordeaux grape tonight, and know all there is to know about wine...
     "Bienvenue a l'extremite de la terre," comes the roll of Loire, the French, the breath of syllables and vowels floats on the air after.

     "Pas si vous tes l," Edward grins. Not if you are there. He unfolds himself from the dark closet of the limousine, the blackness falling behind him. Leather sounds, but not from his standing. It comes from his arms, reaching out suddenly to surround you and pull you to him.
     Shall you remember how much like stone he can be. Unstoppable force, you, meeting immovable object. "Dieu, vous tes si beau pour voir, ami," Edward beams, arms tightening, too eager to feel the burgundy and brown that is you. A sway brings familiar weight, and almost immediately, he leans to finish the greeting with a kiss.

     "Mmph," comes Ian's muted agreement, he leaning against the other side of the doorway, arms folding across his woolen sweater. His sigh is silent, his mind floating in memories. "It is nice," he confesses...remembers. You and he there too. It is enough to make him melancholy. Words fail, when Ian becomes such, the emotion driving him to the edge. But the edge of what?
     He chooses not to vocalize it. It is nice. Just...nice. A whole world in that. To find comfort and companionship unmatched. To find Love. He loves him, Edward does. It is no less returned. That...is nice...to see.
     "Come on," Ian finally breathes after another moment of watching the embrace. He pushes himself from the doorway, not in any rush either. Something else to do. "How about a ride, you and I?" Without a slew of stablehands. "We'll go to the Tinny Moor and watch the moon set over the glen."
     He is passing you, William, pale hand tugging at your cashmere. A gentle smile upon his lips.

     William turns at the tug...
     The slightest touch of your hands. Already turning, in fact, before fingers and hand met the cashmere that overlays the tower known as your Normandy. Arms unfold and the smile unfurls. How well you know me...
     There is no last glance of indigo for the courtyard. No last stolen look. William does not have to look far to see Love. He has only to follow you.
     Your hand is taken. There is no greater affirmation than when he lifts to his mouth...
     And you know in the brush of his mouth...
     No matter how familiar by now...
     No matter the time that has passed between you...
     There is still that energy. Undiminished by Time, even as you and he. And there is something else there. Something only you could know. Something in the pulse of living blood at his mouth. You know his secrets. You see past the armor. You have eyes, Ian, like no other. And you know there is little William likes better than a ride in the moonlight...
     Who else knows the ways to him as you have and do...

     Here is the balance of it, ami...
     I am not meant in this life to be the rock that you are...
     To meet your immovable self, the unstoppable force, force for force. Wholly different. I form myself to you. And around you. Where you may be earth, I may be fire. And so...
     When your arms tighten around him, Edward, you feel his form conform to yours. Warmth from the last hour being near -- well, not so near -- a fire, warmth provided by the wine you can no doubt smell as if it seaped from his skin like water through the flesh of France in the spring. Meeting and folding, his arms around you like for like.
     And the kiss. There is the proof of it. Love and Bordeaux. Worry melts away in the fire there. The Scottish wind... well... it cannot be forgotten, it is too... present for that, but for a time, it can be ignored. "Vous etes etonnant," Valan says against your mouth, a grin that interrupts. "Venezs, allons devenez chaud, vous et I... il y a un bain et un lit, un feu et une bouteille de vin..."
     As if I need more...
     It will be for you, ami.
     Like the blood rushing to my skin, seeking freedom. That has not changed...

     Fingers and arms are like vines, always seeking to climb, to enfold. With you in his arms, Edward sways left and right still, lips parted over your own. "I missed you, ami," he whispers, mouth eager, "...I did," the frown flushing across his features a moment.
     Blessed Christ, never let me need to leave him again. Nothing is so important. Nothing.
     "You're alright," he surmises, thoughts and hands moving quickly. A sigh for that. "You look wonderful...so...beautiful." His eternal word for you. A young man who is beautiful. He never thought he'd hear himself say it, and so now, he must say it often, for it is a marvel in and of itself.
     "How are you?" Edward murmurs, eyes trying to focus, his lips doing something else for a moment. "You have had a good visit?"

     And they do...
     Like the vines in that painting both of you could hardly stand to look upon. The vines of the earth that held the secret of Valan beneath them. Barely visible. He was hidden there. Even as you have him solely. He, so unknown to the world that would swallow you if it could. If it dared. He, unknown in former or in modern courts. And in the cover of these vines, there is joy. There is love. And earthly pleasures...
     "I missed you," he says in quiet echo. In quiet answer. "I have paced a rut in the stone," the drawl of French comes with the pulling of his mouth in a smile. A smile you feel, each curve something of an embrace. And I will always do that while you are gone. Your tireless lover. "Hmmm... well..." I do not want to speak so much as move, and yet I want to hear everything and there is much to tell you. "They have taken excellent care of M. Montague," Valan says, a laugh holding in his throat. It hums at your mouth. "Masters of distraction..."
     Oh, you know that to be true...
     But his hands move against the leather. Knowing the stone it overlays. "Et vous, amour, vous etes indemne?" You would tell me if you were, oui? "Rien ne s'est produit? Avez-vous besoin de quelque chose?" A hand comes to your face. A soft touch. Warm and not. Living and something more than. "I was worried," Valan whispers. "But you are," and he smiles, "amazing. Vous etes glorieux, chevalier."

     It has been ages since anyone has called him by such title. A first one, so long ago. Edward grins and lifts you up from the ground, arms around your waist. "I am alright, oui, nothing to report. The offending parties," his feet crunch the iced ground beneath, breaking the slippery walk, "...are well taken care of. And I am unscathed for it all," he explains. Boots march towards the kitchen, becoming quieter once he is upon the stone.
     "The house is fine, everything will be as you left it," Edward reassures, the smile permanent upon his face. Sable eyes gleam with rustic warmth. "And you are as I left you...so it is perfect!"
     Once on the stone, Edward halts, glad to use his arms for embracing again. Suddenly, he looks up and around the kitchen. "I have not been here in a while," he realizes.

     "C'est un si vieux chateau. Il est si different de votre Fleurlil," the whisper eases against you and against the stone like steam from the kettles that have boiled here. The kitchens are quiet so late at night. Valan turns in your arms, so that you are now behind him. Like this, he shall take you to the room they have given him. Like this, he shall be sheltered in your hold. Feel you ... all around him. "C'est une vieille terre. Elle se sent vieille a moi," he continues.
     And each step with you behind him, shall be a walking embrace. "When were you here last? What century, ami?" There is a sudden grin for this, you feel it as much as see it, you hear it more so than all else. Valan turns his head, inclining it, looking up and back to you. Golden hair, mussed by wind -- even more so than it would be by his hands -- half hides the gold-green eyes beneath. "It is... close to the top of the earth. Maybe that is why it... feels as it does..."
     So old...
     Like being in Time's own house...
     Valan closes his eyes and leans back. His mouth seeking to brush against your skin. It makes it to your chin. "That you are unscathed," he whispers, "... I am relieved... but not surprised so much. I have been reading of exploits, Edward of Blois. There is a book that tells about a battle in Spain. I read your name there..."

     "Mmm, I can't recall," is about all Edward can come up with. Instead, he grins as he manages to shuffle with you into the keep proper. Maybe you are right about the land, as you are with so many things, my beautiful Frenchman.
     "My name?" you must know that would have stopped him. "In a book?" Strange. "You've been busy! What book is this, ami?" Conversation made. "You have been reading..." and Edward makes a mock sniff, "...and finding wine to go with dinner," he laughs, hugging as he puts his chin at your shoulder.

     From kitchen to doors now memorized...
     The things one can learn when one is lost...
     To the great hall, and its great fires. You feel him tighten. So subtle. But to you, you miss nothing. Not the smallest motion. Not the smallest fear. Valan instinctively moves away from both hearths... convenient that such a path leads directly to the turret. "It was hidden, this book, or tucked away where few would look," Valan begins, and then he looks back to you, his eyes glimmering. Where few would look, but where I would go. "In a wooden sarcaphagus, upon which is carved the figure of a knight clutching a sword to him..." An old effigy. You know the type. "It is a book without a title, so... of course..." I had to pick it up and try to read it. "My Spanish is just so-so... I am missing a lot of it, but... there are notes in French in the margins...those I have gleaned. I will show you. It is in the room..."
     The room...
     Up the tower, five stories high, there is a large bed and comforts. Such luxuries hidden within such stone. "Mmmm... there is much wine to go with dinner," and you can smell it on him. Sense it in him. Pierce the skin and he will bleed Bordeaux. "I think I stopped at two bottles. Plantagenet... has so much... when one glass was empty, I could turn and find it filled. When one bottle was gone, I could wish for another and it would appear, doubled." Valan glances back to you, gold-green eyes shimmering, warm and bright. "I did not dare touch the brandy..."

     Fascination and delight melt away as you shuffle along, through the great room and to the turret. It shifts into desire, and curiosity to hear of your exploits.
     "They have...sarcophaguses?" English failing Edward.
     Dieu, these two. They are so strange.
     Shaking his head, Edward grins, brought back to you and your words. "Oui, their stocks are the stuff of legend, ami," his arms tightening, suggesting, just as you are. "And you were smart to avoid the brandy," Edward nods, "...not after two of the other. I do not think," he grins, lips tugging your ear, "...that I could stand it all..."

     Laughter. Pulled from him, his gut. But it does not issue loudly. Quiet and warm, a rush of summer. That is the sound of it. "You should see the things I found. I step into a room, thinking it will be, I do not know, some drawing room, and I end up in an armory. Another door, and a museum. Another, and there are such ... Medieval relics. Paintings. Books. And then the sarcaphagus. There was only one... not made for sleeping." Valan laughs up the stairs, and the sound spirals upward... downward. Reflecting off of the stone. Living in the fire of candles lit. Still the best way to light the stairs.
     "I would have to torture them with jokes if I thought it so. That would be... hmm... very cinematic of them. There are libraries," his voice quiets. There is reverence there.
     Not merely for books and learning...
     For the histories found and kept there...
     But for the feel of you behind him as the stairs are mounted. You are constant there. He is constant against you. When your mouth tugs, he has to stop.
     I close my eyes...
     I hear myself whisper your name. The stone gives it back to me. I am glad I did not have the brandy. I would not have wanted to be so... numb. To have missed this in a blur of drunkenness. No, it is good I found restraint. "Legend," he finds his mouth again. "It is a good word," for them. It suits them. It makes them make... sense. Otherwise, they would be unknowable.
     "Queest-ce que je disais?" Valan murmurs, and then he turns, "Je ne m'inquiete pas," the words are formed against your mouth. A sudden kiss.

     There is a sound that lifts to the walls and fills the turret.
     It is my name. I cannot help but smile. I am here, and there is no other place for me to be.
     Edward stills too, only coming alive when the words turn into a kiss. I was listening to something, but now, that too is gone.
     My arms seek him so easily. Always searching to gather Montague in an embrace. They cannot help it. I cannot. And so, we do, shuffling along again, but to where?
     Mention of a room. That certainly must be our destination.
     "You were telling me of legends," I murmur, opening my eyes to find the moment again, to hold onto something. "That was it."
     Eyes look to the hallway and the doors that line it. Which one? Christ, do not these people simply have bedroom doors that are obvious?

     I have lost count...
     I do not know how many landings we passed...
     I do not know how many stairs were climbed.
All of the hallways look the same. Comfortable, opulent. Lined with doors...
     It looks like the one. That would be the door... the simple one.
     "This is it," Valan murmurs, reaching for one of the knobs. This looks like it. "Oui... legends," he begins again. "Oh, the book. The book was a poem, an epic or... a copy. It told of a battle..."
     And I look at you a long while with my hand on the door. A turn and it is unlocked. Yes, this is the one. "Your name appeared again and again. Edward of Blois, Chevalier de la France, troisieme chevalier de douze, seconde soutenue d'Espagne..." The appellations drip from his tongue. Perhaps I shall use these. Perhaps these shall be the names I whisper to you.
     Soon...
     The door opens and facing you, Valan moves through...
     His hand pulls you with him. Venez avec moi. "Venez..."

     The antechamber to a bedchamber. A private apartment. There is a modest fire in the hearth. There are comforts all around. Wine. Yes, this must be the room. There are fine chairs. A sofa. Rugs beneath the feet. And two other doors. One, simple. Another, ornately desgined.
     This must be it...
     Edward's face turns a grenache blush as you adorn him with his own tale. How did you learn these things so quickly? It is amazement, Valan, and pride that you cared to know...and could find out yourself.
     Venez. Certainment. Edward's eyes leave you to look about the room he enters. Brows arch and his expression relaxes. It is of a time a little older than his own. "Well," he murmurs, letting his hands slowly drop from you as he moves around, "...this is nice, ami. I should expect nothing else from them, though," he nods, reminding himself of whose home he walks. "This is not so bad for you, cher," he spins around to see you, moving backwards towards the hearth, near a seat. Arms lift and drop, and Edward grins as his fingers move to the lapel of his jacket, slipping downward in the folds to remove it.

     Non, this fire is much smaller. This, I am used to. It is only the palacial hearths that ... is it intimidate? I do not know. I only know that it makes me nervous. I seem so small to the greatest fires here. "It has been very comfortable... they have opened the castle to me... no room prohibited..."
     Such generosity, indeed. If Valan knew the full level of the generosity, as he says, to be standing in the lord's own sitting room. And so taken with you and with you being here, the tiny details escape him...
     The bottles of wine being placed differently. The glass not exactly like the one he was using before. The books, not the same titles.
     And the painting above the hearth...
     Had he noticed that before?
     Will you, Edward?
     Layers of burgundy begin to unravel. A top shirt gone. A fitted burgundy knit then revealed. The other is left on the chair. His hands are warm-cool as they settle upon you, at your neck before sliding down to help with the removal of your jacket. "Non, not bad," Valan murmurs, eyes lifting to you. Smile lifting. Color lifting. You know what it is telling you, his blood to his skin. Yours, Edward of Blois. All yours. His hands move along your arms, jacket slipping away easily with his assistance. "They have been very kind. Very giving. They have left me to my own designs, for the most part...but..." Gold glimmers in the gaze. "They have not ignored me. It has been a ... nice balance. I was in ...very good hands."

     "Very kind," Edward repeats, not speaking of his hosts, "...very giving." His own grin matches your own. He looks down at the jacket leaving his shoulders, brow raising in smug amusement. "Very good hands," he remarks, his own coming to your waist.
     "So," Edward licks his lips, "...so giving that..." he angles you both, suddenly breaking the intimacy with a highly amused smirk, "...they let you use a master apartment?"
     Hand leaves your waist, pointing to the painting over his shoulder. "I will hope this isn't His room," meaning that guy up there in the painting, the slightly kingly one.

     Laughter to the compliments, and there it is again... the rise of blood. You see in the greater light of this room how the wine has affected him. The subtle signs of beginning inebriation. Not quite full, but neither is he sober. Oui, les mains tres bonnes...
     I will show you. Talents will be brought to light in cover of darkness...
     And then you interrupt it all with that casual amusement. That grin. The gesture over your shoulder. And you see him blink, Edward. You see the sudden curiosity. And the puzzlement. "I do not remember that," Valan murmurs. And then he goes crimson. Wait. Where are we?
     Valan turns, a pivot that nudges you as he twists to look around. "I... hmm...it seems like it. But I do not remember there being a painting. I think I would have remembered that," and he nods to the painting.
     It turns into a study. "Je me serais rappele cela..."
     Gold-green eyes lower to you and the smile cuts to the side. "I am on the fifth floor..." Valan leans in, the murmur to your mouth. The quiet admittance. "Do you know where we are?"

     "Nope," Edward chirps, finding it all rather adorable.
     Rather you.
     "But I'll guess, this isn't it? Just lucky," his English comes, the voice of his sarcastic self. A wink of his sable gaze, and he shrugs the jacket back up over his shoulders, hand clasping yours.
     "Come on, let's go look." Out to the turret.

     "They should have signs..."
     "Or fewer doors..."
     A hand sweeps out, a bend to grab the shirt that was removed. And yes, he wears the reds well. The burgundies. The crimsons. The blushes.
     "That could have been embarrassing..." a low murmur, and you see the blood move beneath his skin. "What if we had... and then they had come in..."
     Laughter pools down the turret stairs. Reflecting off of the stone, spiraling with the form of the stairs. "Shite," the first word in English that he speaks. What a mouth on him. In English, there is only swearing. Ah well, he would not be the first to find the worst sort of English the most passionate and preferred. "Up three more...Dieu... Ce pourrait avoir ete disasterous...Le vin, le vin a pris mon sens de la direction..."

     "I'll put you in charge of battle tactics when we go to war next," Edward laughs, looking up and down the turret. Fifth floor. Right.
     He begins to leap the stairs, taking four or five of them at a time.
     'This?" He calls, not so worried that he might wake others. This is a kindred house -- certainly it well knows that there is noise from the lords at all times. At the landing, Edward points, in case you cannot see. But he doesn't wait. A shrug and he moves through the open-door archway, disappearing into the corridor...

     "Only if you want to lose, ami!" he calls out, and laughter presses against the stone enclosure like the wind buffetting the shore. "Rather, I want to be the next chronicler! Wine is no disturbance to poetry," he comes behind you, only taking two to three steps per yor leap of evern four or five.
     But though it came with laughter, it was no joke.
     That is what he shall be, the one who chronicles the passing of the nights...
     The next battle will have an epic as Alhambra had its...
     Valan moves into the hallway behind you, chuckling still, delight and desire now intermingling. "Une telle vue, amoureux. Peut-etre nous devrions simplement aller a travers les escaliers toute la nuit..."

     The hallway is much like the last. Fewer doors, perhaps, if one were observant enough to count them. It is a labyrinth, Strathfayr. No less than Chinon. Though, you could vouch, there are fewer gates...
     A set of double doors stands nearby...
     The doors are opened with a push, and the Ladies Chamber, as it is called, opens expansively before you. Not master apartments, true, but lavish, luxurious. No less in its way than you would imagine William's own to be...

     In the middle of the sitting room, Edward's come to a halt, his jacket already tossed aside upon the floor. He's taken a position in order to watch you arrive, Valan, and when you do, he smiles, hands coming to rest on his waist. "Chronicler, ami?" he repeats, nodding his head. "I can't say that I wouldn't want you on the field, beside me, but," he smiles warmly, "...you are a chronicler, I know." So sayeth Alfonso, and I am glad for that.
     He is dressed in a black turtleneck and black slacks with a dark leather belt, nothing unusual in that. It hides bloodstains well. But he is clean, your Edward, a sign that he managed to find time to make himself presentable before leaving for Scotland.
     "So, this is where you have been for the last two nights?" Or was it three? Edward's brow arches to the ceiling, as he tries to recall.

     You wanted the view...
     You were gifted with the sight, unhindered and uninterrupted, Edward. The move within, the turn and the quick glance to confirm the location. The broadening smile as he turns back to you. It is strangely reminiscent -- though this time, Edward, he sees you watching him -- of that night you returned from Ireland to find him readying for Scotland. Existing in your space. You felt him everywhere then, and you watched him cloaked in shadows and silence.
     Has the vision changed? What is it now you see, Edward...
     "...In the field, only if there are grapes to be harvested..." He laughs at himself, he takes great pleasure in it. Knowing what he knows. Knowing more of the stories of your friends. Non, he would leave the fighting to Blois, to Plantagenet and to Llewelyn. He will make certain, as those who have performed this task before, that the story is told.
     But to fight? Oh, never...
     "I think it has only been two," Valan says, his hands against your sides, arms slipping around your waist. "No matter how long it has seemed," the smile twists warmly, "... and I have been sleeping in the bedroom here, oui... reading in this room and in the library downstairs. I wandered..." the smile deepens, finding anchor in the gold-green eyes. "... a good part of the time. From floor to floor, to the turrets... but... mostly I drank wine and read..."

     "A vacation, then," Edward surmises. Close quarters provide a look at the details: the new scratch, now healing, at his cheek. The scrape at the tender point below his ear. The bruise that rests barely beneath his skin. That too, almost gone now, blood sweeping the mark away. Certainly, he has fed...or he would not seem so rejuvenated. But there is a tender northern coolness to him.
     "Are you going to show me your room?" he teases, twisting you both in his embrace. "Or will I need to beg? Not that I mind begging," Edward sighs, looking forlorn as his eyes lift to the ceiling, "...it would not be the first time I was forced to ask for something." But he smirks quickly upon the lament, wiggling his brows. Always made to suffer, M. Meurelle.
     "I'm kidding," he admits, quieting and looking between you. His hands begin to move, fingers slipping within suede waistband and moving towards the front. Humor has washed away, and Edward's eyes focus, his expression calm.
     There is so much to do tonight...

     "Distraction..."
     Not a vacation. How could you say that.. though, in comparison... I am certain that is how it sounds. I read, I wandered, I ate, I drank, I lounged on sofas and worried for my lover while I plucked grapes from a golden plate. While you were fighting, while you were endangered, I was sipping the best Bordeaux, the envy of France, from a crystalline glass once held by an emperor's hand.
     "C'est moi qui devrait prier," Valan whispers. His eyes drop only slightly -- more lidded than downcast -- and he tilts his head, watching the disappearing marks against your skin. And he frowns. A hand lifts and brushes very slightly against the side of your neck. What more may there be that I am not seeing. "Je vois l'evidence de la facon dont vos nuits ont ete, et moi parle du vin et de la lecture. Ne suis-je pas le plus vain des creatures?"
     And he blushes now as he did before. High color to high emotion lifting. Blood and wine color the skin Bordeaux. "I will not have you beg. Je n'aurai pas cela..." Your hand is taken from his waistband. And you are led to the inner set of doors. Why should you be made to wait. Why should you have to take what is yours, when it should be just as freely given.

     Edward's eyes close when he is caressed, opening slowly with a smile at the thought that you are vain. There, he disagrees, a kiss placed at your palm as a sign of it.
     He is quiet as you join hands, and you lead him onward. In truth, it is mostly because Edward would not know what to say. What moves through his mind that you do not already know, that you cannot already see in his expression? He smiles at the thought of it, expecting you see his feelings, resting at his sleeve.
     The inner room is given the once-over, Edward's gaze quickly darting left and right. "It's nice," he whispers finally, fingers constantly moving in your hand. "They gave you lovely apartments."

     They spared nothing for me because they would spare nothing for you. You ask, you would find it given. You are loved, Edward, and because you are loved so well, your lover has been treated like a member of a royal home. Like one of you. All of you, your friends of princes and kings and dukes. It says as much for me as you, perhaps. This is how the mates of princes are treated. A simple paramour would have had a simple chamber...
     "Ils n'ont epargne rien," his words are spoken at your mouth. Your mouth plucked after. The kiss is full, but brief. Valan parts it, his eyes to yours of sable as his hands move below. There is the chiming of metal. The freeing of your belt. And the frown is gone. The worry is gone. The self-directed anger is gone. No, you do not think that. You know that I was worried. You know that I love you.
     Lashes lower and eyes downward sweep. As his voice issues again, quiet and warm, a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. "Il n'est rien par rapport a ce que je vous donnerai, chevalier de Blois, Tiers de Douze, Seconde Soutenue de l'Espagne." Those words again. Those titles memorized. Whispered at your mouth, Edward of Blois, as his fingers splay against your skin.
     I hadn't really noticed it. The layers of detail, luxury in this room. A new bottle of wine sits flanked by new glasses on a stand beside the bed. Tended to by seemingly invisible hands. The servants, so swift, barely seen. When were they here? When the car was pulling into the castle courtyard and my hand was on the car's door...
     ...Is this how the world moves for Dunross and Plantagenet...
     In subtlety so refined, that is has become decadent...
     The bed is turned down in anticipation. The large tome that rested on the bed before has been moved to the other nightstand. The fire has been tended, there... look... new logs, Valan.
     His fingers move against and with your own, and Valan half-turns to you. Walking backwards now. And the smile returns. And the flush that had lifted, carried by that earlier rush of blood to his skin, smoothens to a fade. "It is nice. See, I even have a new bottle of wine... and another glass. They..." Valan laughs, "miss nothing... do they..." A pause. "They had more wine and another glass brought for us, and then disappeared," he finishes. They miss nothing, do they...

     "Not a thing," Edward murmurs, eyes on you, not the magical service. Fingers that had been twined with yours quickly flicker to the edges of the sweater, lifting it instantly above his head. Brown hair lifts with the pull, but then settles as the sweater dangles from one of his arms.
     A shake, and the knit falls helplessly to the floor. But Edward continues to walk towards you, taking the smallest of steps.
     "Do you want me to tell you the short version now, or later?" he asks, words punctuated by the chiming of his belt. That, too, falls away, twinkling from belt loops as Edward proceeds.

     In greens...
     In golds...
     In burgundies departing from his skin...
     In browns heaped at his feet...
     You have your answer even before Valan's mouth moves to smile...
     ...to speak it...
     "Later."

     So be it. By the time he reaches you, Valan, the slacks have fallen to his feet, left behind in a step. Hands land gently upon fencer's waist, but firmer hold grows, ending in a pull towards himself.
     I should say something, Edward thinks, searching golden eyes, I should have something profound to tell him right now. Something meaningful, honest. It would not even need be complex. Just how I feel about him. To remind him. But that is not how things happen for me.
     Instead, I shall kiss him like this.
     I will lie him upon his bed, like this.
     And my lips shall part into a blaze unceasing.
     Much like this.
     And so it does.

Posted by rowan at May 06, 2003 11:38 PM