I knew you were coming. I always know. The lovely youth that belongs to Edward has made his sweet departures, and returned to the man he is so enamored of.
     Is that how I look? Have looked? What do people see when they look at me? Do they find you there?
     The bed creaks as Ian pushes up from it, heading towards the window that looks out and up to the mountain. The blonde in cream is bright against the evening's darkness and the vastness of the mountain. He leans his blonde head upon the chilled window and closes his eyes, hands wrapped around himself.
     I hope they all see you now, William. For ages, I was not so certain what I wanted. I don't care anymore. Not about clan, about maintaining old relationships for fear of financial or social ruin. Or Death. I'm tired. Can I be so tired suddenly? It seems I have carried universes, hoping that they would be lifted. That you would see, and lift them.
     But all I had to do, was to set them down.
     Where he leans against the pane, it warms. Ian's eyes remain closed and his arms fold tightly about himself, you on his mind.

     Frost melts and then its condensation freezes. Your breath both destroys ice, and creates it. Is that not the best description of what you are. Death and Life and Points In Between. The kiss that destroys life. The kiss that creates it. Of all the creatures in Switzerland, perhaps it is the mountain with which you may find the closest kinship.
     You heard the steps on the stairs. Even before you felt the rise and stir of his presence on the air. That press. He pushes air to the wall and it trembles as much as you would if he pressed you there. But laughter and conversation in the hallway ended with the other lovers bidding William good night for now.
     Come have brandy with us when we get back, the mortal said.
     But then the door opens and it could be no other than your love. He on your mind. Coming when felt. When needed. As you were on his. This is the way it is with love. I am so glad you came with me. That is carried on the smile that starts as soon as he sees you there at the window. My beautiful young man. I love you above all things. They see that in me.
     And before another moment passes. Even before your next breath lands upon the pane with its melting and freezing touch, you feel the arms of your white clad knight around you. His mouth against your neck. "Come... we should sit in the bath," William whispers. "Use that rosewater you brought with you..." It will make the rest melt away.

     The smile grows without hesitation. A sudden blushing beam. Ian chuckles and sighs, turning around in your arms. "What? Am I that bad?" he asks. Can you tell? "He..." grey eyes to the door, "...is a nice boy, hmm?" his blonde hair bobbing. "It is..." his eyes reflecting your own shared past, "...sweet to see." Do you know what I mean?

     "Non... I am just cold... and you know... I do not like to bathe alone." A pause for your turning, and his arms' resettling. Bending, his lips brush your own. "It has been a long night. I should like to spend the rest of it languishing with you in a large tub filled with heated rosewater..." But amorous thoughts are held and as your grey eyes shift to the door, both dark brows lift. The smile turns to a grin. "Hmm.. he seems to be, oui. A very nice young man. And... it is nothing short of a miracle, truly, amours."
     I look to your eyes. I see him reflected there. Edward and Valan. Beginning, it would seem, even as you and I once did. Less bloody. Less dusty. And yet... to see Love when it is first truly realized. "It is sweet to see," William murmurs. And an arm shifts, his hand lifting to brush the side of your cheek and then... a finger... to lift your chin a little. You do look a little tired. "My beautiful young man..." he whispers. As if to himself as much as you. Claiming. "Do you realize... it has been five years... since our reunion. Is it not strange? That is seems so long ago."
     William halts suddenly grinning smoothly. And indigo comes alive with dark hues, violet and blue. "You have made me wistful, Ian Dunross... but, oui... amours. To see... such a life begin with love. It is as it should be, no?"

     "It is," Ian whispers, instantly joined in the wistfulness you feel. His cheek nuzzles your finger, and for an moment, he stands again at Arsuf, at Chinon, at Poitiers, all simultaneously. Looking for you.
     Ian smiles at the tip of his chin upwards and your words. Your beautiful young man. How long he's loved to hear such words. "Five years?" he asks softly, thinking with grey eyes momentarily askance. You, who did not keep such time. He, who kept track of every painstaking night. Ian grins, brows arching in surprised opening. "You're right," he breathes, blinking. It settles into a more-knowing smirk. "I had never courted anyone before," he recalls his nervous attempt to get you to New Port. A house in the offering, a city left.

     "And I was... very rusty..." It is the ... best way to put it. The nicest and most simple way to put it. And he chuckles, the sound held in his chest, resonating there. Flickering, indigo fastens upon you. His hand remains at your face for a moment, then moves. Brushing back golden hair. As he has for nearly a thousand years. But now. It seems different now. Because you together are more understood by you both separately, there is an ease to it. A ... sweetness. Simple adoration and love.
     And you can see him pause again. Something upon his tongue. Something that has been upon his tongue for some time now, it seems. His dark eyes soften, and his arms withdraw from you. The next moment finds his sweater on the ground. William reaches beneath the fitted thermal that lay beneath the sweater -- this, too, white, and in its close fit showing the musculature that was beneath the layers of soft knit. And gold drips along his fingers. Not his father's cross, but that of the Crusader. A special cross, that of a Prince, Duke and comte.
     It is circular, and the golden cross within the border lies upon a field of red and blue enamelwork. It is lifted up and over his head. And around yours. "Five years ago, you courted me, but you already had me, Ian..." William murmurs, something solemn upon his voice. Inclining his head, it is knight and prince who is looking to you now. "And when you asked me to be yours... with a ring, as your spouse, we were already mated." And he smiles at that. Red lifts to his cheeks in that. "And when I answered, it was because I loved you." There he pauses for a moment. And you feel a hand return to you, lightly touching your side as the Crusader's cross, the cross of the Duke of Normandy, Prince of England and France, and Eleventh Comte du Poitou is lowered over your head.
     "I didn't give this to you then. I give it to you now," William murmurs. "Because I love you. Because I am yours. And you are mine. I... want you... to take the title that is due you, as my spouse."
     "I want you to take my name."

     There goes the sweater. How strong you are. Sometimes, I do not see it so easily. It is not that part of you that strikes me. And at your chest, beneath the material, the cross that you do not yield. Sign of yourself and your family. A sign of the past that is inherently part of you.
     But now, you reach within your collars, pulling at the golden chain. I frown gently, a little confused, but continue to watch.
     Soon, it is around my own neck. Has it ever been here before? It weighs so much. What am I supposed to do with it?
     A title?
     Your...name?
     Names mean everything. I made mine up. It's mine. It's all I have, that I made myself. Yours...it is all yours, from a legacy of names passed down.
     You are you, William Plantagenet. You take pride in such.
     I am...
     I don't have a name.
     I used to have a name.
     It is like a surge of saddening sickness. A name erased. A young man striken from the record of life. Crystal clear tears pour from his eyes, a burst of sudden emotion exploding forth from his soul. A scream.
     I don't have a name. What's happened to my name?

     Guillaume XI, Comte du Poitou. William, Duke of Normandy, of the House of Anjou. Called Plantagenet. Angevin. These are his names. Plantagenet. All this, laid around your neck at a single offering. This was the offer. For you to take it up after him. For you to be included in that line, as much as any spouse would be. To give of what he has. What he has is his name. Guillaume XI, Comte du Poitou. William of Normandy. Your Normandy. To give a name is a serious thing.
     And you are crying. But it is not in joy. And the gold is heavy. Heavy because it is pure, no plating. And it carries with it the weight of crowns and kings, emperors. Indigo eyes flicker in the narrowing, glinting like jewels cast to flame. Violet. Blue. Dark. Brilliant. And his hand lifts. Such a large hand, and yet fine. Not thick or heavy. Its touch is light. He can feel the ...swirl of all. But he is here. Solid. Still. Your anchor. A thumb wipes a tear away, even as his other hand holds you.
     My beautiful young man. William draws you to him. A hand in your hair. Losing itself in the gold of your hair. "I love you..." he breathes. "And what it is... you can tell me." Tell me.
     Oh tell me, Ian. Do not laugh it away. Tell me. Do not shrug it off as if it is nothing. I know... it is not nothing.

     The sobbing weighs with depth. How could I have done such a thing? To hate a name, to hate a young man ... myself...so much that I could not stand to even think of him. I felt sorry for him, I think. Sad for him. For us both.
     I am too embarrassed to even say it. To talk about it. To cry doubly at my own shame for what I did and misery in missing him. Me.
     "Nothing," comes forth, as I wipe my own cheeks, seeking to leave your arms. To lie in the bed a while.
     And as if someone had stopped the bleeding, so do the tears attempt to dry. Ian's eyes widen and he inhales, trying to find his composure. Hand touches the cross and he swallows.

     His hand is upon you still. Though his arm around you loosens, his finger goes beneath your chin again. Too easy. You say nothing too easy. You learned to do this. In the kitchens of Strathfayr. And in the chamber of the earl's son. But you are not going to say to me that this is nothing. I have eyes, my love. And the blood does not lie.
     I do not ask why you cry. I do not have to. Not really. I know enough of the story to taste the bile of a lover upon the tongue. The bile of a lover seeking vengeance. "Lie down," William softly directs. "I will get you a drink." I will tend to you. I will watch you. I will be here. I am not going anywhere. His fingers skim your cheeks and capture lingering water. A touch to your side. A gentle pat. Go to the bed, my love.
     But leave the cross on. I want you to have it. "I am here to listen... you know. You may tell me anything in the world, and I will remain at your side." Even if it means you will not take my name. Even if it meant that, love.

     He does leave you slowly, to cross the short distance to your side of the bed. Right now, it matters not. Ian sighs and crawls upon the bedding, sinking into the pillows upon his side. The cross remains on, and fingers touch it softly.
     "I'm sorry," he whispers, not wanting you to feel it was your question that made such bile rumble to the top. Sickness, it is.

     A slight wave, a lifted smile. Just the upturning of his lips. And then he begins fishing through one of the bags, and the bottle of brandy that lies secreted within. Somewhere. "Non... I know," William murmurs. I know it was not the question.
     What a sight he is, particularly when kneeling. He does it so easily, with a beautiful balance one would not expect to find in one so massive. Bottle found, William lifts his gaze to you. Indigo fastening upon you. And from his kneel he watches as you settle. "You keep so much ... secreted within," he whispers as he rises. "It is no wonder... it feels like a slam in the gut when it comes out... here, amours..." The bottle is unstopped and the plum nectar offered to you. Tipped toward you, even as he moves to settle upon the edge of the bed beside you. "This will help. You put your trust in Guillaume."
     Bottle given to you, he twists, turning to remove your shoes. He tends to you. To the thousand details of loving you. "You should let me hold some of it for you... or simply give it, amours. I have big hands, I can hold it and you."

     You are sweet. How can you understand...my shame with myself. What I miss most -- myself. I guess ... that's what he was. And even now, I still cannot say his name.
     Ian sits up enough to accept the bottle and tip it to his lips. Better, upon a sigh. Thank you. "We should have gone skiing," he manages to smile, turning the bottle up again, this time for longer, letting his eyes close for the taste.
     "I don't..." he breathes, slurping sound of brandy at his lips, "...know what to say, Will," Ian's face still damp, his eyes glistening. "I don't..."

     I can understand. Because I love you.
     There is a soft chuckle that follows, and though a smile appears at the fading sound, it is not one of tremendous joy or true humor. It softens further in the moments that come after. And then he neither smiles or frowns. He nods, and his hair drapes forward in his bending. Your shoes are gone. Then socks pulled. "We will ski tomorrow. I promise. I will race Edward and you can place bets. It will be entertaining." A pause. "Bet on Edward."
     His shoes are removed after. But his hands work independently of his gaze. His gaze rests on you. "Tell me about your name, amours," his voice is soft, and though his gaze is direct, it comes with a gentle expression. "It is bothering you... I feel it, love. It is not as if you could hide it." Again his hand reaches to you. Fingers skimming your cheek. Wiping away the remains of tears. "So... free it. Let it go."

     "Let what go?" Ian sighs, falling back upon the pillow, bottle in the crook of his arm. "It's a name. And it's dead," he shrugs. "I don't know why it keeps damned well bloody coming up."

     You feel his hand again. This time, fingers are curled inward to his palm and knuckles are what you feel -- just a gentle press of the Norman's rather large paw. At the center of your stomach. "This... knotted up in here," he murmurs, leaning against you. Half hovering. The pressure eases the next moment as he draws his hands away. Off comes the thermal shirt. Off the pants. In layers, falling to the floor.
     Moments. How many have passed? Count them, Aithlen, in the swallows of brandy. The bed sounds with his joined weight, full weight now given. And upon his side of the bed, he begins to stretch out. A lordly sprawl, in full Angevin glory. His arm opening out to you. He nods. Come here. Come to me, love.
     William exhales, turning his head toward you. Not so heavy as a sigh. Merely a clearing breath. "It's a name. And it is yours. It comes up... because ... it is yours. And you are in it." Said simply, the Provencal dripping from his lips. "I wanted to tell you before... I actually prefer your own. It's beautiful. As you are." Aithlen.
      Aithlen. The forbidden name. But it is Truth, love. It is you. He deserves life. And you deserve him. He's a good young man. He has a good heart.

     "It's a stupid name," Ian breathes, the young man in his voice. He turns about to cradle next to you, bottle tipped up at your chest. "Stupid and old. No one understands it. Who cares..." he opines, tossing back another drink.
     The cross tumbles at your chest as he moves. 
     "I don't want to be called that," he says softly. That immediately is followed by, "I want to use my own name..." his brow furrowing.

     Cradled, the hold against your knight's chest. His arms around you. Such strength, and yet... such gentleness. A hand loses itself in golden hair again and lightly his fingers curl and uncurl against your scalp. William bends, his mouth brushing your forehead. A kiss left behind. "Harold is a stupid name. If your name was Harold, amours, I would understand. But... it is a good name. More importantly... it is your own." Why would you let him take your name from you? It is the only way to vanquish him. Take back your name, love, and the temple and power that comes with it.
     Indigo eyes close. Your own name. "Very well, love." William murmurs, each syllable a kiss. And his free hand reaches for the bottle of brandy. To move it out of the way. "Your own name."
     That is immediately followed by, "... but keep the cross..."

     He smirks at the notion of Harold. He's known a few. That is a stupid name. But Ian sighs anyway, not sure what to do. What's the point of such a name? Arcane, out of time.
     "Maybe...I'm just tired," he whispers again, wiping an eye and catching the cross again with his fingers.
     And on the slopes, a pair ski, creating trails in the mountain's side that will only be cleared by the night's coming snowfall.

     What is the point of such a name?
     It is You. And you, William would say, are the point. What could be a greater reason.
     "Maybe so," William murmurs at last. "Rest a while," and he twists, setting the brandy aside. But he will not leave the bed. Nor your side. Nor shall the subject be dropped.
     Nor shall the name be forgotten.
     Aithlen.
     Aithlen.
     Can you hear me groan it? Can you hear how it would be were my tongue to whisper it against your skin. Brushing your ear. Or trailed by laughter. You may not wish to take it up. But I cannot forget it, Aithlen.

Posted by rowan at February 09, 2001 01:10 PM