High above the village of Chinon, the lights were lit upon castle walls. So have they been since the coming and passing of the holiday season, Christ's mass and the new year. And the lights only accentuate the light dusting of snow that lies upon it. Just enough for decoration, and not quite enough to make the winding road and old bridge treacherous...
     The flowing of the Vienne, in its course between village and castle and to the vineyard lands on all sides, is likewise dusted with white. At night, reflecting the lights from the clear sky. It makes a day of night...
     Prepared to receive you, the inner courtyard was well lit by electric light and firelight both. A soft suffuse glow that exuded warmth. So much the milder than the mountain you recently departed. Servants did not have to be called. They were waiting, and upon your arrival had hands full of bags and equipment.
     And the walls breathed warmth. Large and clean swept hallways well lit. The voices of the many servants filtering in from all directions, reflecting off of the honeyed stone of the Loire Valley. You were greeted with exuberance and a familial warmth. Acceptance. By Chinon itself and those living in it.
     And now it is in the hush between the Arrival and Settling In. The windows to the garden are unshuttered and low lights flicker here. Easy to forget one is not in the garden, so garden like it seems. And the twinkle of candleflames become a kind of starlight...
     He is more himself than ever. Something in the inhalation of breath. In the smile. In the animated speech and gaze. In the languid stride that quickens just slightly. In the French that drips thick and slow with a lilt and a drag. And now William is before you, handing you a glass of something for the winter. A golden drink of his own orchards from three springs before. "In which tower would you like to stay tonight? Of the twelve to choose from..." A chuckle at that.

     "Well, Your Majesty," Ian smiles, accepting the drink from his crossed-leg position, "I defer to your knowledge of your castle and what would please us both." He sits in violet, your Ian, something akin to indigo. The shirt is silken, despite the weather, and his slacks are black. Does he seem pale in your colors? Blonde hair is briliant, flickering like the rest of the light spilling into the garden.
     "Cheers..." he whispers, tipping his glass to you and taking a drink. Grey eyes watch you over the brim, and he licks his lips once hands come folded across his lap, drink on top. "There is nothing like being at home, is it?" he wonders, looking about. Trying to make this his home as well. Yet, there is a slight separation. Maybe there will be a little difference between Chinon and Strathfayr for him, even like there may be such for you. Love, adoption, and memories certainly can ingratiate a place in your heart, but the land of your birth? Something hard to forget. This is your ancestral home, and it's alright to admit it. It dims Strathfayr no less.
     "Lovely, really," he goes on, opening his heart to Chinon. Another step. Every night, there seems to be a new one. "My second home, I guess," he smiles gently, leaving distraction to look up at you. I'll try to claim it, Will, though, I feel so foreign sometimes. In that, little has changed in thousand years....

     A glass seems to materialize in your lover's hand. Taken, held... in moments most could not hope to see. You, however, could see each and every motion, trailing seamlessly. Even the curl of his fingers to the glass. And golden liquid fills it. Pear wine. Some mixture with grape for extra body. Light upon the tongue. It washes and dances. Fleeting upon the tongue -- a flicker of taste and then only clarity. "Cheers," William echoes softly. Indigo fastens upon you, holding there through the pulling of a smile. Through the tipping of the glass. Through the first swallow.
     No, you are not pale in my colors. You are resplendent. See? I cannot look away. And he, in yours. In a silken shirt of ivory. In the lambskin leather, so soft and supple. It cups him, lays lightly upon him thought closely. It indicates him. Strength seen, and power... in glimpses past the draping ivory silk. The shirt untucked. Glass yet held to his lips, paused upon a second sip, William half-turns. A survey given to his inner courtyard. But soon he looks to you. "It is... good to be in the land that bore me, oui," he murmurs, and the smile pulls upon him more so. "Tonight, laird," for you have not said Yes to the offer of the other title, "... I think we shall ... recline in the troubadour's room." One of the secreted chambers. Upon pillows and cushions. I will lie you there. I will sing a soft song upon your skin. I will paint it if you allow it. Dark eyes convey this all in warmth. "I am glad... Chinon is your second home. That pleases me ..." Immensely. And then he grins. "How would you like to dabble in a little art tonight..."
     And then he bends. And you taste the pear upon his mouth, his mouth brushing your own.

     "Art?" he breathes upon your lips, eyes wide open. A kiss. And another. "What sort?" another touch of the lips following. Conversing through parted mouths. "This isn't a euphemism for something else, is it?" Ian grins, joining your mouth again.

     "Non," William breathes, but the grin that lives in his eyes... what could they convey but Oui? "... I mean it literally..." he continues upon the edges of another kiss. "Of course," the grin pulls upon your own, "... that does not mean we must be limited to the usual canvas or stone..."
     Yes, with him always it is ... best to be specific...
     William straightens, tongue capturing the last taste of you upon his lips. This before another swallow of wine. So tall, your lord. The tallest of the Angevins of his generation. One large but fine hand cradles the glass, holding and balancing loosely as William moves to sit beside you. His lordly sprawl brushing against your own more modest settling. And with the incline of his head, his eyes may wander the walls and ceiling a moment. His free hand reaches to brush at you. At gold-white hair. At indigo silk. Upon black trousers. "Some night," William murmurs, turning his head, his gaze back to you, and the longer portions of his black hair drape forward, "... we will have to be artist and inspiration. It has been too long since I last captured you thus."
     Too long since he last did any of that.

     That sounds reasonable. But he can feel the rest. "If you like, Prince William," Ian nods, "...we can do that." He tips his drink up, taking another taste and enjoying how you touch him.
     "When do we start?" I ask. "And I'm glad..." keeping with the conversation, "...we left the chalet. I think it was time..."

     When...
     Now...
     His motion is the answer, and the downing of the wine. And outward comes the hand, palm held upward, extended to you in offerance. Do you know I shall show you every room of this castle when I proclaim it jointly yours? Do you know that I shall scrawl it out for all to witness? When I present it to you, no man after shall doubt it... but that it should be so. Vicomte du Poitou...
     And the glass is left behind. And you are taken up instead. His preferred one above all else. Smooth the smile pulls and warm. Spreading warmth. And nothing need be said. Is that not how it should be? His eyes and his smile. His blood and his stance say it all. Come with me...

     A slanted grin, and Ian does the same. His hand is soft, memory of a young life with birds. Fingers cascade into yours, he rising to stand at your side. "I am intrigued," Ian smiles, "...I mean...what did you have in mind?"
     Glass is set behind him, onto the bench. A familiar view for you, certainly. "What think you of your cousin's paramour," he asks softly, facing you again. Lamb to a marriagebed. "You have said he was attractive, but..." was there anything else? "How is your cousin about these things?" Did you get to speak to him at all?

     Softness, met with softness that has come more from Time. Long ago, calluses roughened them. But upon the sands of Arsuf they were first softened, and by the lifetime of centuries that followed. In his own age, young women would fight to be the maid who bathed his hands in almond oil...
     Your arm is wrapped in his, the silk does nothing to hide the strength of bicep, and still his fingers curl about your own. The night's first entwining. And the stride is languid, slow and wandering. And thoughts of you upon the pillows up above serve as first touches.
     Indigo eyes are on your fingers, and sparkling... lift up to you. Dark and brilliant both at once. "I think he is a bright young man, certainly well-bred and well-mannered. I think..." A pause. "Non... I know... that the love between them is very intense. Edward ... has never been thus before in all my memory..."

     Arms entwined in comfortable fashion. Friend, lover, eternal escort. He should feel no safer and well-adorned than with the Duke of Normandy. "I guess that is good then," Ian nods, fingers mingling, "...I didn't think...he was the type." For any of it, but he leaves that part for you to interpret.
     "Do we look like that?" he asks, feet dusting along the ground. "I mean...I don't know..." how we look to the world.

     Dark hair drapes forward as William turns his head. A half veil of darkness before indigo eyes. "I did not think I would see it either. But I am glad he has found someone." He smiles blithely. "I shall wait a while before being too smug..." Oh shall he indeed. Even William has to laugh at this.
     And does. Softly.
     A glance toward the door, his right hand begins to reach forward but then he pauses, and turning to you sweeps up your hands in his own. Lifted to his lips. "I will tell you," he murmurs there, "...what was told to me. That you... are more beautiful than he had realized. And that we... are..." A pause for paraphrasing. "Glorious. Happy. No one may doubt what we are. There is an energy that we create between us. Who could see how I look at you and not see love and constant desire? And who could look at you and not note the same." We are, in short, a couple. Unhidden.
     My friend...
     My lover...
     My husband and sire both...
     The moment I refused to hide it, to keep it in check for their feelings was the moment they realized it could not and would not be denied. And that is how we look to the world...

     You have him caught, and Ian stills, eyes grey and open to you and the world. Words heard as if for the first time. But it is not so. Just...he perhaps needs reassurance these nights. His chin dips a little, as if scolded and reeling in understanding. Your love is not upset, just thoughtful.
     Inside. I want to lie upon pillows and listen to you as you laugh and tell me about art. To feel brushes upon my skin. Who would have thought it. And I shall read a book while upon my stomach, occasionally looking back to see where your painting leads you. Is that what you had in mind?
     Ian nods at your words finally, the cross dangling upon indigo silk. No, he has not spoken of it, but it remains upon him, fixed. Sometimes, you catch him holding it in his hands, chain glittering at his throat. Eyes caress the lines and you can feel him thinking, understanding, hoping, wishing. Trying to find his place in the world.

     The double doors are opened with a push, seeming gentle. And your fingers are lowered from his lips, held by his hand again. As he leads you out into the hallway. The wide hallway where once kings strode...
     They yet do... here. Now. Hand in hand.
     As he turns, William catches the flicker of light upon a gold and blue cross. The cross from the First Crusade. And he smiles. Nothing is said on it. He has all the answer he needs... in that you yet wear it. And your Crusader, who charged upon the sands of Arsuf upon the Third, smiles. Dark eyes full of fire and light.
     I will lie you on the cushions, but not upon your stomach. Your stomach ... this is what I wish to touch. And let the swirls of paint, go where they will, amours...
     Past the chapel you and he wander. Quiet words caressing honeyed stone along the way. And upstairs to the chapel proper. But not lingering there. No. To a painted panel and a secret door. There, a private stair winds in contrasts of shadow and light and past the oaken door...
     The troubadour's chamber. Southern sensibilities. Southern luxury. Part Moor, Part Italian, Part Provence where all things once met. In Aquitaine. Candles are already lit, and incense curls upon the air with Eastern flavors. Above... upon the ceiling that shall be your view... the firmament in all its Medieval and Perfect glory...

Posted by rowan at February 10, 2001 11:34 AM