In your ear, his whispered your name...
Aithlen...
...as he became the unfolding pages of the kama sutra.
Holding...
Breathing...
There was a groan of it and a soft cry, my beautiful young man...
Unfolding, slowly for the whole of the night. Interrupted by a period of rest. And then your name whispered again. And murmured. Flecked by Provencal, the syllables of it danced across your skin. It was the last thing spoken before the late rise of the sun...
And now the sun has crested the mountains and fallen. The hidden horizon is blushed with scarlet. High above in the alps, it is only a blush of pink. Maiden Night, Twilight eases across frost and snow. Blush of pink, along the curve of your ear where his mouth now tends in the vampiric morning's first exploration. William serves as your blanket as much as any coverlet of the bedding. Your heavy knight, your Angevin duke. This, my love, has been like a fable. We are like a fable. Something hoped for and whispered, but rarely seen.
You feel him shifting just slightly, lessening his press upon you by shifting some of his weight to the bed itself and less upon you. Still do you make a tangle. I don't want to get out of bed. Let us stay here. Let Edward and his Young Valan conquer the mountain. I have the desire only to stay here. With you in my arms. You can feel the pull of the sensuous mouth, the formation of a smile at your ear. "We will go to Chinon," William whispers there. Do you in your fresh waking... hear me? "And watch the coming of the spring. Come with me there, Aithlen..." I want to show it to you.
To truly show it to You...
There is a man in the fleeting darkness in which I have spent much of my existence trapped. He has been there for as long as I can remember. Before memory, perhaps. Tall and dark, he calls me to himself with a smile and his open hand. When I touch his fingers, they are warm and strong, curling around my paler sort.
I think it is a man.
Most times, I can make out nothing. Just a consciousness, floating, I am. Surrounded by shapes and colors that bauble in the darkness. Sometimes, they are voices, but most of the time, it is just my awareness, sitting. Waiting. Unknowing how to get out. Trapped.
I guess I have learned to deal with it, this sleeping time, where I hear myself and no one else. I wait for the gates to open, when I can step out into the world and interact again.
But that world, too, is dark.
It's a different dark, but there are other beings there. I should be grateful really, because at least I sometimes wake up.
Some never wake up. I think I would rather finally die, than to be like them. But with each passing century, that becomes harder. And I stay longer in That Other Place, each night. I hate it.
But there is that man again. Sometimes, I'm lucky that he is there to greet me, otherwise, there would be no one. He does not speak, though I can tell he wants me with him. I rejoice when he's there, for he seems my lone companion in the dark.
"Chinon?" your young man's voice calls. Something about Chinon.
"Will?" Ah, right. Something about Chinon. William is talking. You're talking. "What's wrong?" I wonder, turning over to find it difficult. A tangle again. You're there. And I'm grateful.
"What time is it?" It seems early. Awakened by something, awakened by you. How do you do that ...
You saw me in the crib. I do not have to tell you the stories of my family. Of the legendary woman named Melissande... I think that was her name. Or maybe it was Miranda. How foggy is the mind. Ah, but... the point. This legendary woman who was either the daughter or the concubine of the Devil, who gave birth to the Angevin lords. The House of my Family. It was the running joke. We who are the devil's own kin, ordained by God to rule the world of men. Maybe it is true. Maybe that is where we received our uncanny fingers. Able to reach in, without thought, and pluck out the heart of the soul.
You see, there is no end to Plantagenet vanity. Ah, me...
"Nothing is wrong..." The reply comes easily, quietly. William opens his eyes and as you move to turn about, rolls just enough that you might escape and turn to him. "And it is early dark." Non, do not rise from bed yet, my love. I am not ready. Strong the arms that surround you, but though strong the touch is light. There is gentleness. Protection. "Hmm... oui... Chinon. I want to welcome in spring there. I want you to be the first to see the trees..."
The flowering of the orchards. The birth of the world, in the place that is a world unto itself. Our world. Our sanctuary. Far more separate from the World of Men than even the remote Strathfayr. You should see the world spring in your region, vicomte.
The bed sounds with his shifting again. You feel his mouth against your skin. Just a brush. "Say you will go with me," a whisper, a plea. As if he is a lover speaking this to you for the first time. There is a warmth of humor at the edges of soft rolling syllables. The lilt of his tongue does meet your shoulder.
"Oui, Guillaume," Ian smiles, still sleepy. You never answered the question on the time, he thinks. It must be early still. Very much so. Ah, but you said that. "That ... sounds ...nice..." he whispers, cheek at your lips. He should return to forced sleep, save for your calling him to this world.
"When..." he asks, eyes still closed, nose turning to touch yours.
"Tonight..."
I cannot help the kiss. I cannot help the intensity that rolls through me and across the Bond. I cannot stop it. It has been building for so many years. So many...
And every time you speak Guillaume I have to close my eyes to hold it back from raining. How do you do that...
"Come with me tonight. Henry is waiting in Geneva..." Oh Henry's son, able to move castles upon a whim. Passionate, getting in his mind, his heart and idea -- a desire -- and he acts with swiftness. Passion. This, too, I cannot help. William inclines his head, the side of his nose brushing your own and this his mouth against your closed eyelids. "We will stay there until the spring... and then we will meet Rigel and claim the seas, amours." Spoken like a true Conqueror. And you are surrounded, Aithlen. Knightly arms surround you. A hand loses itself in the gold. His other splays against your side, your hip.
What is this? Ian's eyes finally choose to open, to the visage that has long gripped his soul. He smiles at you, his hand lifting to rest on your arm. "You're in a rush," he whispers, licking his lips instinctively. That, he cannot change. "You want to leave already? We've only been here a couple of nights, amours," he murmurs, seeming almost asleep again. The bond tells otherwise. "I thought you wanted to ski a little..."
That is Henry in your William. Oh perhaps there was some doubt when he was born so dark that he was the golden king's at all. Until he could speak. Until he could walk. Oh, then were all doubts cast away. And shattered with young William, the youngest son, lifted his first sword. Henry could no longer doubt him. And the world could no longer ignore him.
He feels his voice leaving him as if it were a conversation captured midstream from some other place. Ethereal, of a sort. Held in his throat and chest. Whispered, in the residue of dreams. And William smiles. And finally the smile becomes laughter. Quiet, rolling leonine. "I do..." A sigh. I do. But I also want to wrap you up in Chinon and fill the great passages with our laughter...
And our joined cries...
To be the king in his castle. To see his vineyards covered with a thin layer of snow. And to show it to you. This, my love, I give to you. To share with me. To present it to you. And you to it. As he never has. Vicomte du Poitou.
"Tomorrow, then," William whispers, sudden compromise. "We ski tonight and say our goodbyes to the young lovers..." He is brimming. With passion. With want. With Angevin energy. Oh god help you. God help you all...
These moods... this energy. It has conquered kingdoms. Your Duke... your Prince is quite awakened.
"No, no..." Ian tries to clarify, grey eyes opening again, "...we can go tonight, Guillaume, if that's what you want." He is non-plussed about it all. He has seen mountains and snow and feels better. "We can leave when you like..."
There. Settled. Ian smiles and twines top leg over yours, hand leaving its connection at your arm to slip around your back. "You want to go home..." Ian states as much as queries, still wondering why the sudden movement. After all this time, he might cease asking such questions, Plantegenet. But as with everyone else, the ways of the Angevin are shrouded. Whimsy as much as determination moves you all.
You know how it is, when he gets something in his mind...
It is said his great great grandfather was the same way. No one really knows what inspired William, Duke of Normandy, to cross the Channel when he did. It was probably in a lull between games of bones or cards. Or perhaps the way his morning eggs settled. Or watching the fog settle upon the rolling hills of a fertile valley.
Or maybe it was the wine...
"Non... non, you are right," the Occitan lilts from him. "We should enjoy the mountain. I brought you here to ski, we should ski today..."
There is a fire yet simmering. Blood that was... artificially lifted early this morning. Some of that remains. But it is not so much that. Maybe it was the snow. Maybe... it is being on the Continent that does it to him. Where the William that is Guillaume XI shows through. In a way that it does not when in England and the name Fraser follows him. The act put on for everyone's sake.
But in his heart of hearts, upon the deeper layers of his blood, this is the True him. Without filters. Without masks. Without protections. In a way, Aithlen, that only you see. He takes a breath. The ritual has not yet been... cast... but yet the habit of breathing has already begun.
"What do you wish to do today, Aithlen..." comes the languid baritone, the Provencal whisper at your skin. I could roll you on this bed again forever. Yes... you can feel it, Aithlen. It is... get him out of the bed now... or you shall be here all night.
There...
You can feel it in the splaying of his hand against you, as if to roll you upward... upon him. In the tightening of the air, until it crackles. In the wakening of flesh. And heard in the sigh. And William smiles, slowly, smoothly. And the bed shifts as he lies upon his back. Hands guiding you to sit upon him. That look in his eyes... that face, the countenance beautiful. The smile broadening. The indigo eyes flickering, dark and brilliant at once. And the dark eyebrows opening, arching.
It is still early ...
Aithlen? Ian's brow furrows faintly, questioning and marking the intent simultaneously. If he was not awake before, he is now, and Ian sighs a little. Chastisement for using that name. "I'd planned to ski, at least once. Not downhill, but maybe to the next town and back." Overland. More his style. Functional skiing. "That sound alright?" he wonders, already moving to get up instead of being lulled into something by you. Yes, he knows motion is ideal.
An exhale and a stretch. "Hmmm... oui..." Ah now, we have to get out of bed. See what you have done now, William.
You feel his hand as you move to rise. A pat against your hip. The large paw of a Plantagenet hand landing squarely, if softly. And the smile erupts into a grin. Half-cloaked in dreams as it is, decadent. You are right. We should at least make it to the shower. "Ah, such a look..." comes his own chastisement, his teasing. "Warm the water... I will be in behind you," William continues in a murmur. This serious. "Do you want something to drink..."
The question lingers on the air, even as his large frame begins to pull from the warmth of the covers. Hitting a bit of cold air completely in his naked Plantagenet glory might do him -- and you -- a favor. His right hand lifts to his nose, a clearing sniff made and he shakes his head. Damn that Meurelle.
And then the blankets are off and he is shifting. That Angevin energy crackling against the air again. Yes... motion is ideal...
"Not yet," Ian murmurs, smiling as he's pawed. It is but a sign of affection. Possession. He quirks as you sniff and touch your nose, but moves anyway, walking lightly towards the bath.
"On second thought, maybe bring something, Gui, I think I'll want it later," and water rushes soon afterwards, drowning out anything Ian says further. His shadow darkens the walls as he moves about, and at one point, he appears to run a hand over his head and look left and right.
You can hear him past the falling water. Walking to the gathering of bags. How is it one so large can move so quietly? Only you could hear him. And you hear his hands opening a bag. You hear him crossing the room. Nearing the bath. But pausing. Turning about again.
He must have forgotten a glass...
Of course he is bringing you brandy. You can hear the sound of glass against glass. But will you take it or him?
You are so quiet, amours. Is it the sound of your own name that has made you so? And what... what did you feel last night as we silently moved one upon the other, forms creating seamless cojoined verses of the Kama Sutra? Each variant chosen to keep my voice close to your ear. I whispered Aithlen. I groaned it.
I prefer it.
As much as I like it when you use the French. You can feel him respond to it, even from across the other room. A sparkle against the Bond like the best champagne against the tongue. He is coming to you.
You can feel the air pressed by him. A nearly visible electricity.
"I think we will have fresh snow..."
"Think so?" Ian asks, expecting you nearby. When he turns, he looks not at where you would be at the moment, but almost an instant ahead, in time.
Where he expects you to be.
"It will make things harder going," he notes softly, examining the bath and the skylight above. The sink, the bidet, the shower, the mini-sauna...each was investigated once the water was started. "It's a nice bath," he murmurs, hands on his hips as he surveys, "...we should have a mini-sauna," he motions to the cedar door across the room. "Fits maybe four. Very nice."
Hands leave his hips and Ian brushes his chest, a wince flashing at his face. But quickly, it dissipates as he turns back to see the water. "Thank you, laird, for bringing the brandy..."
"You are welcome..."
And you find him where you expect him. Appearing there, as if your gaze summoned him into Being. Didn't it... in a way?
"What is the matter?" Soft. Of no greater substance of sound than steam on the air. A breath. But you can hear it without straining. And the opening of the bottle, the stopper removed. The pouring of the liquid. For you.
The dark violet liquid is held cupped in a bulbous glass. the glass itself very fine. It is as if the brandy were held cupped by the air itself. It rests upon the counter. And then the bottle joins it. William stands without a second thought to his nudity. Unabashed. He could hold court in the nude and be at ease. Is it comfort that makes it so or an utter lack of modesty? Some nights, it is hard to tell. "You are thinking about last night..." A wondering. Upon the edge of an assumption.
"No," Ian murmurs, approaching the glass. Eyes are elsewhere, namely his feet. The brandy is scooped up, and Ian immediately turns about to see the filling bath. "Tired, mayhaps," he whispers, dipping his chin to say 'cheers,' and take the first taste. He changed his mind.
"Have you talked to Edward much yet?" he wonders idly, waiting on the water to fill.
"Some this morning... before I came back to bed..." And woke you up again, amours. Ah, I am a wicked, wicked man. I am sorry. "I should have let you sleep." Then. Now. "Actually, I was outside watching the winter sky, the stars are lovely from up here. And he came up to join me. We talked a great deal, actually..." William's voice drifts off, even as he remembers the conversation and then looks to you. You were the focus of it. You and Valan. Love. William exhales and leans against the counter, arms folding against his chest. He also looking to his feet. "It ... was a nice, clearing conversation..."
Punctuated with a little cocaine...
"We both had our lovers on our mind..."
He bobs his head, social creature he is. The glass is taken again, and Ian looks across to the bath. "He has much to think about and much to do," he offers genially.
Ah, but how he fills the time. Idle discussion. Safer that way, really.
A smirk comes and Ian glances to you, "I hope you had nice things to say about yours..."
"Mmm... oui... he does. I think he is feeling a little... pressed. But," an exhale. "I told him... as much as I have any advice to give on something I have never done, nor shall," corners of his mouth upturn for that, "...that he should do it in his own time." A pause. "Spring is always good," deadpan. As if one were talking about planting bulbs for a growing season or taking a trip.
And then he laughs, his preoccupation on whatever has you so tentative forgotten for the moment. Rich, that sound. "I did... I did have nice things to say about my lover. As did he... you should have heard Edward Meurelle praising your beauty last night..." And yes I took a great amount of pleasure and pride from that. "And I praised him for his good eyesight." However tardy. William extends his hands, a gesture of mock helplessness. As if to say: What could I do? "So ... " he continues, taking in a breath, his exhale carrying the remainder of his words, "... that was that. And then I came to bed and woke you up again..."
My beautiful young man, what is the matter? "You really don't want to talk about it..." A pause. "I... " And then he leaves it. Nevermind. We will ski, we will have a good time, we will go on. You will speak of it when you are ready. But I am not going to let you hide from me, Aithlen. "Is it warm yet?"
He smiles too at the praises of his beauty, also glad to know that someone said such things. Maybe, it is actually true. But as you slow, Ian purses his lips, eyes on his glass, then the bathwater. "I can talk about it..." he murmurs, pushing off his perch to get a closer look. "What ... part do you want to discuss..." he twists to say. "This?" his hand lifting the cross at his neck, "Or you waking me up again?" the smile soft.
Bending, he turns the water off with a press of a button. Technology. It keeps the fleas away . "I'm sorry," he says with a grin, "I am...not very good with these talks, you know," he trying to stay in the game, stay with you on this.
"Both," comes William's easy reply. "We will start with the easy part, mais oui," William continues, as he pushes off of the counter and moves toward the bath to join you. Ah yes, and the bottle of brandy. It his held in a loose grip, dripping from his fingertips. "It is early, hmmm. How about... my waking you up again..."
And then his mouth. Brushing your own. Plucking your bottom lip with a grin. Suckling the taste of plums upon the fruit of your mouth. And he closes his eyes as the delight moves through him. "Hmmm...after you, amours..." His hand is raised, palm upward in offerance. In gallantry. A balancing hand, it shall support you as you move within.
And his eyes are focused first upon your own. Silver grey. Yes, you are beautiful. Golden. Amazing. And indigo eyes begin to wander. You feel the discovery of his gaze as tangible as the skimming of his fingertips.
The kiss is taken wide-eyed, as if unexpected. Ian gives a faint grin and moves to step in the water, holding his drink gingerly, as if it may be in some danger. Other hand takes yours, and he settles easily into the garden tub.
"Both," he murmurs softly, picking up the thread to begin. "Aye," slipping into more a tongue more comforting, "...um...I love the crucifix, Guillaume," grey eyes looking up to see your response. "And..." he blushes, looking to the water, "I...am nervous...I don't know why," he laughs, "...just...no one asked me anything...like that before...."
"It had... been on my mind for a while," he admits softly. "I thought... perhaps on the boat," The Rigel, "... but then we came here and the chalet was so... beautiful. Is...so beautiful. The setting... with the snow and ... all. It ... occurred to me, why not now, Plantagenet?" Why not now. The other Family Motto. Lips upturn at this, just at the corners. A smirk to the thought. And then the look softens as his eyes lift back to your own.
The water is parted again, this time by his own form. A sigh comes for the warmth. A soft Yes. A soft Dieu. And William begins to sink, to settle. To spread out and give you something to sit and lean against. Dark eyes beckon and his arms outspread to receive you. "I am glad you like it," he murmurs. "You got to propose marriage. I thought... it was something I could give." His name. The title. And what it means. William chuckles suddenly. "And I'm glad to hear it was your first offer ... I would be... very displeased to know another man had asked such a thing..." He leans his head back, dark hair draping backward.
A proposal. His eyes flicker at it, even as he moves backwards. He'd waited eight centuries, it seems, to hear something asked, though he didn't know what it was. How could you have asked him then, what the world only now seems to accept. Then, it was untenable. Now...everything's different.
He licks his lips and scoots back against you. "No one's asked," he blushes, looking down into the bath. Yet the feeling of pride quickly morphs. No one ever asked. Once, it was understood. Taken and given. Another time...God, I hate being so vulnerable.
Ian stills, putting his hand to his face. I have got to get over this. To make it go away. Do you mean to make me feel so exposed? Unable to defend myself? Surely you don't mean to, William ...
He sighs, "No one's asked," his hand lowering. Ah, Ian speaks, and the conversation seems at an end. He turns the brandy up, finishing the glass.
He tilts his head, and the eyes narrow. There is no smile. Nor is there yet a frown. The expression is oddly placid. Oddly, because there is such a keen brightness to his eyes. Emotion is at the surface there, though it shows nowhere else. The Bond, of course, cannot lie. You know he is studying you. Measuring what you are not saying. But beneath this is his own vulnerability. It exists side-by-side with his formidable strength. One... does not negate the other. Vulnerability is there. Shown to you. Known to you, even though it is not uttered.
You have not said Yes.
William moves an arm, a tilting balance of his hand and more brandy is poured into the glass. Afterwards, the bottle is set upon the bath's lip and corner. "Aithlen," he begins, his voice soft and even, "...what does it mean to you that I have? Do you... feel that you do not deserve such a thing? I would say to you, you have deserved it... and more. And you have rarely gotten what you deserved, and I, who have the power to change that, am changing that." So sayeth the King That Never Was.
His hand reaches for his chest again, fingers pulling at his skin. Ian cursorily nods as you refill his glass, and immediately swallows most of the amber fluid. He doesn't want to talk about it. Not about that. Not how you put it.
"Deserve has nothing to do with it," Ian says frankly, voice firm. Another swallow of brandy makes the point. "And...will you..." call me that, "...not...call me that...okay?" Call me. I want to answer. What's gotten into you with that name of late?
Ian quiets a moment, then lets his hand wander back to press against his face. Fingers cover a cheek and his eyes, and behind his palm, he sighs. Calm. "Ach...okay...I'm sorry," his words beyond informal. Younger. "I...just don't want to talk about this, okay?"
There is a moment of quiet. You can hear it. Pendulous. Hanging from his lips before it is spoken. And then when it comes, is it anticlimactic?
"Very well..." But you know him, Ian. You know it is the sound of the lion crouched as if settling for a rest. But the paw is extended. It still securely, quite securely holds onto the little mouse. In this case, your name. And he is not going to free it. Even if he lets the subject drop... interest and passion and purpose have not fallen away.
William takes in a breath, holds it. A moment it is held and then it is released. It is not the time, Plantagenet. With the next exhale, the air loosens. No longer held so firmly.
"So... we shall cross country to the next group of chalets... is there anything else you would like to do while we are in the Confederation?" Before we go to Chinon.
"Nay," Ian says softly, the glass turned up a last time. He shifts, sending water scurrying, "...thanks, laird." The glass is set down, and he allows his head to fall back, closed eyes given to the moonlight above.
Today, I made it go away, that feeling. That sickness that sometimes rises within. Did you feel it, Will? That same sick that made me want to go home to Scotland two years ago. Or was it more than that now. It's all so relative, really, Will, when you think about it. As long as I'm relatively forgetful, then things are relatively fine.
"Did you have something else you wanted to do?" Ian wonders aloud, not to drop out of the conversation totally. Hand comes to rest on the crucifix instead of grasping at his chest, and the swell of ill subsides. "Maybe just a short jaunt, have the wind at our faces, then...I think I am ready for a French spring..." he smiles upwardly.
I am so sorry, Ian. But the longer your knuckles whiten to protect You from Me, the more assuredly I shall come for you. I do not wish you to be sick. I do not want you to run from me. It would... ah, you know what it did last time. When you left me. How distraught I was. I love you. And having you retreat from me... is the most painful thing I have ever felt.
More painful than when God took Catherine from me...
More painful than when the Giovanni Devils conjured her and Fitzroy up and showed them to me in their most ghastly guises.
More painful than the Infidels pike that would have killed me were you not there to lift me.
And this is where we find ourselves. And the chalet is no place for this to be discussed. How could I have been so... foolish. And in the name of Romance...
Guillaume d'Angevin, you have grown too full of yourself...
A hand is under the water and touching your side. Splaying there. I am not going to let you run. I am not going to let you retreat. William shakes his head, looking to you as you look upward to him. You smile, and he cannot help but respond to it. "Non... we will ski, and then... we will to Chinon and await the spring..." He bends. A kiss left upon your mouth. Just a brush of his mouth. The joined taste of brandy.
I am already thinking, of course, of how it shall be. Of what I shall do, my beautiful young man. Of what I have offered you, that I shall never retract. Never.
Whether you want it or not...
Whether you are ready or not...
You are mine...
And what is mine... is yours...
Crucifix in place of his chest. Ian still holds it and sips what's presently left in his glass. "Okay," he breathes eventually, smiling as his hair returns to your chin.
Forgive me if I upset you, William. Ian smiles again, a boyish grin upturned to the world. I love you, he mouths softly, feeling your own confidence and discomfort. I know where you want this to go. Somehow, I know.
"Know what I want to do for a while?" Ian grins, as if about to suggest something tawdry. "Maybe we can...sit in the fourteenth position by the fire for a bit? And we can map out all of the places we'll take the Rigel," he offers, wanting to talk of things that make you smile. "And...you can tell me when you got this?" his fingers lifting the gold crucifix he wears.
You are forgiven without question. You do not have to ask. And it comes with a sudden softening...
It comes in the spreading of his smile...
In the warmth that spreads over his countenance, his expression. Glorious beauty...
It is echoed in the mouthing of the words: I love you.
Black hair drapes forward, the longer portions of his falling at his high cheekbones, half-veiling indigo eyes. His mouth is at your neck. No, at the crook of your neck and shoulder. I love you, he mouths there. His arms surround you. Holding you to him. "The fourteenth position... by the fire..." is murmured at your ear. And you feel his fingers run over you. Skimming. Brushing. Letting the rest melt away...
Or transform to the surge of blood. His flesh giving agreement even before his mouth echoes it. His hands then pat you. Signal for you to rise. "This is even better than skiing, oui..." A chuckle.
Very well...
Water chimes as his form begins to move. Clear droplets beading to his skin and trailing as he begins to rise.
"Better than skiing?" Ian smiles, lifting after you do. Water falls from him in crystal droplets. "You must be kidding," he smirks, stepping out of the bath and onto the rug there. Of course you're not. Besides, being wrapped around you feels better than running across the snow, fleeing from everything.
"So, tell me the story, laird," word said softly. Ian looks at the crucifix and touches it again, smiling slightly. "This belonged to someone else in your familie?" French word easily spoken.
"Richard gave it to me. It was first worn by Guillaume IX, our mother's father's father. He went on crusade... and he was given this cross..." He pauses the story there as he rises from the water. A towel is taken, not for himself but for you. Draped at first, and then his large but fine hands rub the soft cotton terry against your skin, absorbing water and warming all at once. "It is inscribed on the back. Presented to the Comte du Poitou. 11th Century and then my own," comes the languid baritone of his voice, syllables lilting in the telling of the tale.
The soft terry comes at your waist, your hips, and then William kneels, drying your legs. "When I swore to Richard that I would join him and be at his side when he took back The Holy City of Jerusalem, he presented me with this."
And now I have presented it to you. Something worn by a member of his family. The First Troubadour. Guillaume IX. A gift from Guillaume XI of Poitou. Your husband. And you are his lover, and you are by this his chosen one. In all respects. Even that of prince to heir. Though you came before him.
William rises, his mouth holding a smile. Smooth and warm. "I was wearing it... when you brought me across the sea. This and the cross of my father Henry. This..." a nod to the one you wear, "...is most specific to Poitou. The land of my holding, the land I was given at my birth." Normandy was gifted to him later. "As Guillaume XI of Poitou." He grins then, chuckling. "Since I would never become William III of England..."
He stands there, a young man burnished dry by his lover. So you assert your dominion, you offer your devotion. Ian grins, picking up the crucifix again and staring at it. He had not realized it was so significant. "That was nice of Richard," Ian murmurs, fancying it now and flipping it over as he shakes from your ministrations. "So you were Poitou, he gave you a marker." He nods, thinking that was how it should be, and lowers it against his skin, where it rests coolly.
"So, why don't you wear this one?" the boy asks. "I guess, the one from your father is more important, huh?" Grey eyes watch the gold at his chest in fascination, and fingers skim the outline.
"I have worn it. I interchange them now and then. Well..." I did. Before giving it to you. William goes about the cursatory drying of himself, towel's attention mostly given to his hair. "They are both important to me. Equally so. One, given to me by my brother before leaving France for Crusade. The other, given to me by Henry." It was the last thing that passed between us. "The other one...I wear for other sentimental reasons." William pauses, thinking how best to explain it. "They both have significance. One... of belonging, recognition, marking one's place. The other... is pure sentiment."
It is not unlike the crosses of Malta, the one you wear. Ancient. Cross held in a circle. Between the figure of the cross, enamelwork. Brilliant. "It is more symbolic this... one..." The one I have given you. "The other is... just something my papa gave me." His father, the king of England, France and Ireland.
"And...oui," he murmurs. "It was very nice of Richard. I loved him." And I love you.
The towel is set aside and a hand skims your side. A gentle guiding into the other room.
Ian smiles and nods. My cross now. He shuffles into the other room with you, giggling as fingers guide his sides.
"Sometimes," Ian says softly, "I wish your brother were here, to talk to you." He knows you miss them.
Sometimes... I wish he were too. I miss him.
But he rolls his shoulders, and chuckles. "Ah... we'd only argue, swete..." Sweet or Sweetheart, spoken with the Medieval inflection and meaning. Soft, a breath. And a knowing. It is true, so they would. "Besides, I have had all the visits from the grave I can stand." A wink, and indigo flickers. Yes... let us leave them lie. They are at peace, and so am I.
Your laughter. It makes him stare, he cannot help it. And his hand finds yours, to lead you with him. First to the bed to get cushions, blankets, furs.
The fire still feeds upon the logs within the hearth. Burning, stoked at some point during the day by Ylsa the Silent. It burns low, but it burns warmly. And shadows are cast to the wall. "And so... I have given the cross to you. You are my husband, my spouse, my familie..."
That brings a greater smile and a warming of his cheeks. "Husband and familie?" Ian chirps, almost disbelieving. He chuckles and sinks into the pillows near the hearth. "What...does it mean?" he wonders, lying back, your Ganymede, "...to be your husband?"
Oh, that smile. The curve of his mouth. The birthplace of sensuality. Oui, he is much like his great-grandfather. The sensualist Guillaume. The Troubadour. And the smile. The smile gives credence to this. Besides enduring me in bed?
William kneels and then settles to the pillows, blankets and furs by the hearth. And he begins to take position fourteen, his hand reaching out to you. Come to me, my beautiful young man. "Hmmm, amours... it means to be joined with a royal house. To have at your fingertips... the fertile lands and valley of the Loire and the Aquitaine." He chuckles. "To have my love, to the depth of my being, and my devotion." And to endure me in matters of pleasure.
It has begun to move through him. The sight of you. What shall take place before the fire. "It means... to me... that you are heir of all I own, partner in rule... " You have become a prince consort to a King. This is what it means.
"And my gift of the cross... proper recognition of this... has long been due you, my love." Indigo eyes deepen with the emotion. You can feel the surge of it against the bond. Even as you can see it echoed on his form, risen, taut. And at the corners of his eyes, crystalline liquid. "My beautiful young man..."
The blush remains upon him. He looks at you curiously, that phrase coming again. My beautiful young man. That too began some time ago. Why do you think of me like that now...
Hand is taken, and Ian shifts to straddle your lap. Hands come to rest at your shoulders, and his legs open to embrace high at your waist. His blonde hair falls to the side when his head tilts, and he watches you from slanted fall.
"Is that..." the young man asks, "...what it really means?" To be someone's consort. A partner? He blinks grey, looking down. "I've ne'er been...with royalty before," he whispers, embarrassed now. There's so much I have to learn...how can I ever be...this thing he describes.
Aithlen blinks, his eyes downcast. Between you, the world has tenuously opened. A rush of air through an open channel that shakes with nervous tension. You have called your young man, he sits upon your lap. The Other, for now, waits guardedly, fear resplendent. "What..." he swallows, Gaelic quiet, "...no one will believe it..." That he is to be treated as you are.
Perhaps it is because Aithlen has never gotten his due from me. And, Ian, you are forever young. It is something for you both. I love you both. You are the same being. The being I adore and love above all things. More than myself. More than anything on this earth.
"Between you and I, amours... it is this and more. Much more. We are there for one another. We always will be. I care for you. You care for me. You take... the sword from my hand when I am tired. I am the shield for you, to keep you safe from harm. All this... I have given you and will. But... I never... enfolded you in my world. You brought me into yours. Now... I shall bring you into mine." And then you speak it. No one will believe it.
"When I am done, it will be a Truth That Cannot Be Denied. Or Ignored. I will show you. When I show you... will you say Yes..."
And then ...he shows you his vulnerability in exchange for yours. See, we are equal. Please say Yes.
Brows and lines fold. Yes, to what? To be the known consort of a Prince? What will it mean. The sword is not so easy to relinquish. Ian holds onto to it for dear life.
"I'm scared, Will," he gets out, despite the aching tear that threatens to rend him into two. What does it mean...to me? Will I become...ah...there you are Liam. What is a young man who serves another...but a whore?
He is not receding, but the shame is paramount. There is shame in becoming the lover of another man...is it not the lowest there is? Aithlen closes his eyes, once more wondering if he shall ever be more than this.
"I know," William whispers. And leaning forward, he closes his eyes. His arms are around you.
No, love ... the Bond resounds... it is not like that.
Not like that...
Never like that, Ian. I am not like that.
We will be two kings. Two. Equal in power. Equal in name. You will have that which I should have given you long ago...
...It has not been so long, has it?
How long since the last time we needed to pause. Since I needed to reach out my hand to brace against the headboard.
There it goes again. There I go again.
Timing is everything. Rhythmic breathing heaves between grunts and throws, and hands seek hips and pillows faster than chest can sigh or groan. Ian's cheek rests upon the pillow, his blonde-white hair spilled across the down. A stark color, it pales against his ruddied face and parted lips. Grey eyes closed.
You push, I ache. I groan. You retreat, I sigh. Both for the expected onslaught and the pleasure you create and recreate. We could go on like this for a while, you and I, having gentle pauses when you change your mind. When you want me another direction, when I want to see you. When you see the color of my skin from you to my face burst into near-flame. Your hands imprinted upon me. Then, we take a moment.
But that is not now. Now, I hold on. I anticipate you and expect no less. You give no less. In these moments, I know that I am yours, and there is no other. We shall never be parted, we shall never cease together. In these moments, I know everything is perfect in the world, and we are inseparable. We cannot do without each other. You would say the same, really, if your shouts were words, if your groans and grasping of me were expository. And in their own way, perhaps they are.
You are not my whore...
Can these cries convince you of it? Who ever cried thus for a whore? You are my equal. Let the world become a bed that I might show you. My skin burns with the sweat of truth. And there is nothing held back, nothing tamed. Not in motion. Not in call. And as much as I seek release of the knot that is tied in my gut, I want to convince you.
And is it not obvious that I am yours? That I need you. That I could not walk this earth without you. There... tell me as the bed shifts forward, the sleigh seeming as if it might actually transport with such commotion, that it is not obvious. As I can go no farther that I am within you. Holding just long enough for you to feel the shudder and swell. Do you think a whore could so affect me? I love you. And that is the constant refrain.
In every cry, grunt, growl and thrust...
I cannot bear to think you think it is so...
And when the emotion surges of all this night and even the night before, the bed is tossed, sheets pulled, skin grabbed and preternatural motion no human could withstand follows. And as much as pleasure follows, pleasure is not even foremost in all of this. I want to touch your soul. I want you to understand.
And every muscle constricts and contracts. Tension is released in the motion. Vibrating, like a bowstring upon an arrow's relese. But it is not the end.
Oh no, we are not even near the lull of pleasure...
The bed rocks forward and back and it is tested. Never constructed to bear what you and he create. You fuck like gods. How is a 17th Century sleigh bed supposed to withstand that? Heated skin has made the sheets wet, what few are even yet near you. The bed is a tangled mess, even as you are. A kind of scissored position that could easily become three or four others in an instant.
The bed is much less for our lovemaking. Rocked as we are, it manages to keep pace, supporting whatever we desire.
I want to release myself onto the world, but the bed shall suffice. Soon, it will happen. I can feel it surging with each moment you do. Threatening. Needing to transpire. Just another...and another...and I'll have to let go and end this, plummeting into the bedding to enjoy the frenetic spasms amid the sweat and press of you.
I remember and believe you, William. Sometimes, I think too much, maybe. About how I used to feel. What I worry about. What I fear. But they are there. I know your love, devotion. Your need to move me, touch me. I want you to feel the same. I must know that some unexplainable need for me drives you forth now. That if you cannot have me, willing, then you will take me anyway you see fit.
Ah...where was I? I recall. Crying upon the down, with so much want, so much pain, so much emotion and pleasure, that a steady stream of breathless heaves fall soundless to the world, wrapped in a veil of crystal tears upon crimson skin.
In your hands, I sink closer and closer to the bed. I cannot bear myself and you upon my arms. They fold against me as my knees part and slide open. What you hold of me slips downward. Soon, truly. Now.
Giving up is a marvelous feeling. Freedom. We talked about it. For an instant I am a cipher, a mass of nothing but blistering nerves, a rattling groin, and searing flesh. Noise rises with the droplets from my eyes, and the fire that blazes my skin spreads. It will never leave. I am burned and the world can tell. For an instant, I see nothing, hear little, know eternity . My body moves against the bed, against you, pushing, shoving, shuddering, and trying to take pleasure against the sheets. Emptying against the sheets. Doing unto them what has been done to me, and telling them my deepest, most profane, and most loving wishes.
I lose myself in you. And thought. And upset. And anything but this, this between us Now, falls away. Released from pours that remember how to sweat. Rolling over skin and the contours of muscles like the blood of a sacrifice. Sweat mingles with tears squeezed out of burning eyes. So much I need you. More than the blood that sustains me now. More than the air that sustained me Then. If I cannot feel you moving against me...
Ah... then I would be dead. Truly dead...
Tongue coils around the beaded liquid upon your skin. Tasting you. Knowing you. Having you down to the last molecule. I would love you, fuck you atomically if I could manage it. You spread, and I spread with you. Body conforming to the change. Such seamless perfection. And the fit within you is something more than snug. Full to bear and full within. And I move without thought. Possessed. Yes. You are there, amours. Cresting against my blood. Blood that thickens the length of me already within you. That tightens the orbs that crash against you. And I could lose myself. Right then.
But I do not ...
Your shuddering clasps and releases against me like a thousand fingers. And my entire body turns to stone, must turn to stone... to resist the release that has my gut and groin in knots. Is it a relief when my hips withdraw and do not crash against you?
I turn you over, upon your back... your skin so red, your rear will be bruised by the force with which we met -- but you will not be alone...
I will not have the bed stealing what is rightfully mine ...
Tightening, my mouth descends, surrounding you. Swallowing you. Dark wet hair clinging to your skin. My mouth capturing, tongue swirling, and no more of You escapes me.
And as for me? A hand disappears in darkness and as my mouth echoes grunts around you... you know I will not be far behind...
I don't ask for peace, but I don't know if I can take much more. I cannot expand into the universe, dissolute these feelings as I need to truly enjoy them. They are too intense. Your lips are too wonderful.
"No...no..." I whisper heavily, hands reaching down to grasp at you. "Don't." Not like that. My legs part, some sanity returning, and once more I expect you.
"Inside...Will..." Inside. I too will not have the bed stealing what is mine.
My knees lift, and hands clasp your arms, pulling you up to me. Up here. Within me. Have what is yours. Give me what is mine. There is no need for any other way.
It is sudden. Like the earth convulsing lightning. With a thunder clap of skin to skin. With a groan -- there's the tempest wind. The rattling of the bed like the rattling of windows. I was once called the Eye of the Hurricane. Now, I am all storm ...
The first coherent words to leave my lips come against your own, Occitan and bringing with it a taste of You and Me cojoined. Thighs spread wide in the bracing and you are rolled upward with the surge of hips, back sides. Holding full within you -- and my mouth has to part. In the convulsion that began seemingly from my toes, the bed shakes erratic.
Take it all. Take all of it. Until there is nothing more. Rend the fruit, until the pulp is gone...
Electrified, the body moves without me guiding it. Each rolling crash against and surge within filling you. I do not know how long it lasts. Somewhere between Forever and Not Long Enough...
And somewhere... sometime... it all stops. But I have lost track of time. I just... find that I am still. And all I hear is my own breathing and by the virtue of magic... a heartbeat.
Black hair, inky onyx with sweat, drapes forward where it does not cling and I exhale. Surrendering.
Above you, the young man is quiet. He is lax, blonde head drooped. Motion has left his limbs, and how he stays upright...is due to you. He breathes, the magic there. Maybe...it has truly taken hold of his body.
How long has it been? Instants become moments become minutes...
Tomorrow, when we are both sore and aching... I will apologize. And half mean it ...
Whispered words against your skin. Thick and rolling Provencal, complete with the lilt of fire. Borne by that mouth, meaning etched upon that face. The tongue could be nothing other than sensual. And slowly his body begins to unwind from yours. Withdraw from yours. Hips making unconscious, small upward curls. The echoes of thrusts. A sensitive shudder runs through him, and William closes his eyes. His love for you upon his lips. Murmured, even as he eases you upon the bedding.
Sweat slick skin clings, and heated forms only stick all the more so as he lets the bed hold a part of his bulk. He still half covers you. And a trembling hand reaches up. Large, but fine, its fingers gently stroke against white blonde strands.
I hope I didn't hurt you. I never meant to hurt you. Not with any of it ...
There's moving again... Goddess...not yet. I'm not ready. But there comes softness and a hand. Fingers. The bed is comfortable and I so need it.
My lips move. Can you hear? It is your name upon them. Soundless. A smile. It comes easily, through no mental intent. It shows up on my face. My lips tell the present, but my body speaks of the recent past.
My hand lands on your elbow. Every so faintly touching. A skim. Too sensitive I am still, and you are dynamic...
I'm not certain what to call you. Should I speak your true name, Aithlen? Or will it make you weep or... withdraw. Should I call you Ian? Ian, would that make the youthful spark and you flicker and go out? I want my powerful love and my sweet love. I love You, however many facets you may have ...
I swallow and exhale. Though I no longer spill in oceanic waves there is still a sense of release. Of the knot untying in my gut. Surrendering to ...Whatever It Will Be. And then you touch me.
Eyes open and they lift to you. My hand, though it is large, strokes softly against your cheek before lowering. "I love you," comes the whisper.
And over the bond between us... a small explosion. Blood races, conveying thought and feelings.
Epiphany.
My eyes sparkle with it, a silver widening of understanding. Amazement. Revelation. It sears the bond, as I almost leap from my skin.
Oh, God. Why did I not think of it before? Oh, Mother, it would have made life so different. Everything different.
So simple. Well, yes.
It doesn't matter.
Not what you call me. Not even if we never uttered another word again. You Know. Somehow, someplace, somewhere. You learned. You learned who I am, what I was. What is my name. You know. And it's here. In silence. In blood.
I never have to speak it...of the anguish...cause you know it all already, don't you? You have felt it, seen it. You know Aithlen and you know Ian.
And I never have to tell you .
And I smile again, Knowingly. Seeing you see me. Feeling you feel me and my story.
The bond leaps, and I tremble. And I settle on 'amours'. Love. In my tongue, handed down to me by my mother. With a tongue-lilt upon the R -- to stir the memory of my tongue against you. The drag of vowels like the drag of my lips along the inside of your thigh, the length of you. The cadence, always coming languid and soft. As our lovemaking always begins...
...but rarely ends like...
So it is whispered instead. A compromise. Plantagenet... would any who know you believe it? Would they believe and recognize what you have become? I lift and a kiss is brushed against your forehead.
I feel your story. And if I could write it, I would sing it. I would make all other troubadours pale with envy...
The arms of the knight surround you, holding you closely. Safely. Securely. And William rolls, shifting more of his weight to the bed. Will you forgive me when you see what I have done to you? Sensuous mouth upturns at one corner. Dieu... what you make me want to do.
I chuckle...and ah...now it hits me. I'm in pain. When did that happen?
"Aithlen," I feel you think of him, "...he's a nice boy...Guillaume," the boy appealing to the Knight. "He...I..." eyes filling with tears, "...I am...really. I will be...faithful." Honest and true. As all falconers are. Never to run off, never to look at another, never to leave you needing anything. A promise made by an eighteen year old.
"You'll see," I say softly, earnestly, seriously. You won't have wasted your time, Prince William. Take a chance on me. I promise, I will be better than any boy you'd find in your Normandy ...
I think of him whenever I think of you. The young man who visited me... I know it was him... in my dreams when You were... asleep all that time. That was the first time I truly felt the You you held in secret. Safe. Where you knew you would be safe. And then in Spain ...
And now my eyes are burning again. Is it an echo of what I feel upon the bond? Sweat dripping in my eyes? No, honest tears. Held there in deep blue-violet, tears that create a sheen but do not fall. "I know," I, Guillaume reply. Ah, that voice! Hoarse when it is usually smooth. See what you have done? How could I do anything but smile? My arms still around you squeeze just slightly. A hug within a hug.
"I love you, and have never known one in all my life half so faithful as you." I know. And your earnestness is answered with acceptance and knowledge. With confidence. Fingers lightly skim your skin. "And I," so I begin again, "... who love you, will be yours in faith. I pledge it again." The vow is whispered. "Vous et nul autre, Aithlen..." You and no other.
I nod. Oh, God, I wanted to say that so long ago. Why didn't I tell you so long ago? Ask you...to pick me? We didn't have time then, maybe. Back then. And I didn't know how to tell you...what was inside ...
My embrace is tight, tighter than humanly possibly. Both are there, preternatural touch and mortal need. A knight to call me faithful! And him to say he will be the same. It is a dream, all of it.
The most beautiful dream ...
And for the first time... how long has it been? A night? ... I laugh. It is not loud, but it comes from the deepest layer of blood in me. Hoarse, yet. It will be tomorrow before my voice is itself again. You hold tight, and there is an ache where bruises have formed. It is for this and for... everything... that the quiet laughter comes. I try not to wince. Can you see this? I suffer this love as much as you...
... Well maybe not quite as much, mais oui? You have to suffer me ...
Closing my eyes, I smile and roll over to half lie upon my back, pulling you with me. Exhaling. A sigh from the soul.
And I murmur I Love You , and my fingers skim your white-gold hair. Fingertips curling and uncurling softly against your scalp. It is not important now.. why things were not done so long ago. It is only important that they are being done now. Said now. Felt now.
And in the Langue d'Oc of my family I suggest that you do not sleep upon your back. My poor love.
Indigo sparkles in the laughter as eyes open to a crack. And skin braces for a pinch or slap or nudge...
No such shall come. I am too tired...and that is not my way, I don't think. I guess...I have much to learn about me ...
Posted by rowan at February 09, 2001 07:55 PM
