Mid January, the snow turned to rain...
But the brown fields and the bare forest gave little hint of approaching spring. Time seemed to have stalled a while, content to rest. Old goddesses content to slumber beneath the ground, and around the feet of old trees.
Even the fountains were silent...
The chiming and pouring water was shut off for the deepest part of winter. And yet, even though Chinon seemed forever paused and hushed, there was a pulse tapping at the roots...
And then the orchards gave their colorful call to the world. Green slowly began creeping in the garden. Like the first blush of a maiden, that explodes at her cheeks... then travels slowly along the nape of her neck...
And for all this passing time, until tonight, you and your lover have laughed and entwined, painted, read and settled. And for all this passing time, something like gradual spring beyond was being created within. And now...
The sun sets later, steadily later every day. And a wind ... a warm wind... moves through the old castle, and her windows are opened to the day. At night, the stones keep hold of the warmth, and the breezes amble through the wide and twisting passages. It is such a night... after such a day... and there are birds singing in the garden...
Languid is the stride that carries him in... past the gardens, bringing the smell of the orchards with him. Clothed in the black lambskin leather, so soft and supple that it bends to his body's whim. And its demands. An ivory silk shirt is unfastened and moves against and away from him as he moves. He is looking for you. Indigo eyes flicker as they scan the courtyard. For you. For a drink.
It will be tonight... on such a night... after such a day...
He lies among the carefully tended tress of the courtyard, cradled in beauteous surroundings. Your surroundings. Did you ever think that they would sit so well with him? That'd he'd call it home and rest in glades if he was Chinon's own son...
The pink shirt rests against his flattened abdomen, the bottom buttons left awry. Soft brown slack slip along his legs, but it all ends in pale feet. How else does one lie upon a bench, contemplating passing Existence?
"Hi..." the young man whispers, the cross peering from beneath pink folds. He feels your approach, and the smile blooms at his lips. Eyes open, silver orbs, and he looks over the horizon to see where you are.
It was once a garden...
The women would sit in here and do their embroidery. A hundred nimble fingers moving in some dance only known to That Species as their voices chattered like birds. And now you are lying here, as much a part of Chinon as they once were. As I am. I never thought it would come so naturally...
"Bonsoir," comes the whisper that carries to you. The hair left to its own designs tonight, both long and short, both black veil and crowning glory. And then comes the smile. That smooth spread of his sensuous mouth -- the essential mouth, as they once called it. He crouches at the side of the bench and at your side, indigo eyes upon your own of silver. And the cross you still wear. That is as much an answer, is it not?
"I keep missing you in the hallways," William says, eyes brightening, smile growing. His mother's French dripping from his lips, and laughter in his gaze. "I come downstairs, you are in the orchards. I go to the orchards, you are in the courtyard. It is good to finally catch you," and kiss you. Leaning in -- such superb balance upon the balls of his feet -- William brushes his lips to yours. "I know that May is still a month away," William continues, a hand lifting, "...but... I have an early anniversary present for you..."
The blushing cheer rarely leaves his face these nights. He accepts the kiss with a maiden's touch, and raises a brow at the present. "A present?" he whispers, not wishing to rise. Instead, Ian stretches, catlike, and turns his head to see you fully.
"Do you want to sit?" he motions, willing to come upright for you. "I hate to think you have been wandering the wide halls in search of me," he smirks, lifting to brush his nose to yours. "You must be tired, knight..." the sarcasm not lost in his pulling grin. Fie on searching!
"Oui, a present..." his words, French elongated by teasing languor, are edged with a quiet laughter. "And... well... I was looking for brandy as well, so it wasn't a wasted trip." William rises -- how is it one so large can be so graceful? -- and with an exhale joins you on the bench, a wave for you to lift your head as he does. Yes, a knight to serve as your pillow, your head rest...
"Hmmm... it was exhausting work," comes his mulling tone, his voice held in his throat, like a half-leonine purr. "Mais oui, and yet..." an exhale and a grin, "... somehow I remain upright. God is merciful..." Spoken like a true Crusader's afterthought.
William rests his hand upon your stomach. Unable... unable to leave it be. From your eyes of silver, his wanders along your chest and to where his hand meets your skin. Do you find his... fascination odd? "I should paint you before we leave on the Rigel. Would you like a tattoo? I can stain your skin with the finest cobalt and clove..." His mouth parts at the thought, and as William turns his head to look to you again, you can see the fangs distended at that thought. I cannot help it...
Indigo flickers darkly, brilliantly, behind a half veil of inky black. "But first... the gift... it is in the studio... but... I can say no more on it, you shall have to see it for yourself..."
Another creation. He has been busy here in Chinon...
All he can manage is a gentle purr of his own. For your motion, for your lap. So much more expressed in glad feelings than words. A light shines brightly in Ian's eyes now, and it often is turned upon you.
"He is that," he agrees, moving in the needed fashion. And when your hand lands upon his skin, he sighs with it, relaxation deepening. "It is so good that you have a relationship with the Almighty," he concurs with a grin and look up at you. "But..." hand lifting to move to new topics, "...we'll come back to this painting thing and move onto pressies!" Those he always likes. "I have to get up to see it?" he chirps, "...it's bigger than a breadbox?"
Black hair drapes with the slow and singular nod, and the grin that claims his mouth is wide, warm and sudden. "Substantially larger than a breadbox... and ... oui... you will have to come with me to get it," so he says in French. Translated into English, the double meanings would fly farther, no?
As for God? There is nothing but soft laughter for that, a wink and an upturning of his gaze. But he says nothing. You know it is just as well. He feeds off of your brilliance, your light -- as much... more... than he ever did your blood. It lives in him, even as it lives in you. "You will like to know, yes? That I worked very hard on this... all winter..." William bends, doubling over until he is your canopy, "... keeping it a secret," his smile slants. "I hope you like it."
Sitting up, William looks yet to you, eyebrows arching upward. "Would you like a bottle of wine to bring in the spring... a little wine, a little art... a lot of me?" I like that! And so William laughs, richly. The sound of it fills the courtyard, reflecting warmly off the stone.
He has been spending too much time with Meurelle. Clearly.
Oh, now he is intrigued. Ian's eyes stare and he smirks as you laugh. "You've been up to something?" he wonders, curious as to why he missed the feelings. "Hmm..." he murmurs, lifting to sit beside you suddenly. "How'd you keep it such a secret! You can't keep secrets from me," Ian flirts, pushing shoulder into yours and nibbling at your ear.
"And yes...on all three. Let's go..." he nudges again, pushing off the bench to standing. Yes! Let's go! Now!
So few have heard the lion purr, and you have heard it often. For the nibble at his ear, you hear it again -- that slow pull of sound from his throat, sound that resonates in the great chest. He takes an extra moment after, watching you stand, watching the intrigue move through you, and he grins, rising again. "Follow me..."
And he turns to the gardens, through the door he entered before...
And he scatters peacocks, who trumpet out and flash their feathers. So like him...
Outside, you can hear the birds in the garden. The sound of water, fountains renewed. You can hear horses in the distance, and dogs that run loose in the vast, interior grounds. And the blossoms of pear and lemon trees are vibrant against the night air. Scents and sensations... coming in a multitude...
He is a mass of energy behind you, keeping up. Maybe you can see the flutter of pink at your back and dancing at your side. "So, are you going to give me any hints, Prince William?" for that is who you are. Ian pulls at your arm, laughing at his own boisterousness, and blonde-white hair flounces.
"It...is smaller than a pen? Bigger than a bed? Wait...I know...it's something for the Rigel, hmm?"
How can I but smile? How could I do else but laugh? You practically dance through the garden. And before we leave, we shall have to do that as well...
Ah, but you know he is quite proud of this, whatever it is he has done. So placid the beautiful features, so calm in their Knowing. Something less than smug but more than confident. William strides along the gravel paths that wind their way through thicket and garden, through wilds and the cultivated stands, and toward Angevin Tower, the Castle Itself. "It is bigger than a pen, but smaller than a bed. Yet, it is soft like a bed, but resilient as Time. It is ...not for the Rigel, non..."
William pauses in his stride, half turning to you. "It is for you and you alone, amours..."
And then he smiles, broad and warm, and turns back upon his way. His stride carrying him to the four-towered structure at the top of the hill...
Why'd you say that? Ian pauses at that information, not sure what to do with it. Who else would it be for? Is it serious? His bounce becomes more of a measured walk with you, and his exuberence is put on hold.
"It's something...important?" he guesses, peering at you. An important gift?
William inclines his head to that, tilting it in thought. A glance to the stars given. Their fires yet held in his night sky eyes as he looks to you again. "Not so serious as all of that," he murmurs, "Please... do not stop your dancing about. I was enjoying that..." And stars scatter in his wink...
Large front doors reached, William opens them wide for you...
If a castle can be called intimate, Angevin Tower certainly has that feel. Even though it is some eight stories in height. The original structure, it once housed the entire court, families royal and otherwise all piled in together. The four corner towers still serve as living quarters, but also libraries, galleries, fencing chambers, museums. The East Tower, or King's Tower, holds the largest bedchamber, yours and your husband's, and from that the spacious baths, the winding staircase that leads to the private library and galleries, and most importantly, the private studio...
It is to the East Tower that his steps take him. "It is important," William finishes, a look to you past a broad shoulder. To me. To give to you. But he smiles, however serious the gift may be...
You share the flutters in his stomach. What can this be? Ian reaches out, and his hand slips inside yours, the other to curl around the cross at his chest. He doesn't know what to think now, or how to act. Will it be something that will cause him to cry, or something that will bring awe and wonder?
And he's nervous.
"Alright," he whispers, fingers soft in your palm, "...it's...important." Like the cross? If he repeats himself, he knows why...the slightest thing now cause reverberations throughout his heart, mind, and soul. Your hand, or some other's, may reach out and pluck a string that could easily make him sing, or cause him aching dissonance.
And it scares him.
"I love you," he finally offers, not knowing what else to think or say.
"I love you," he says in soft reply, but he doesn't lose his smile...
I hope it does not make you weep. I do not wish to cause you anguish, or sorrow, or to even make you nervous as I am now. But... I have to do this... it is in my power. I could not do otherwise...
His large, but fine hand clasps your own, and his fingers curl about yours lightly, but also firmly. For the entire way of your journey. Past tapestries... up stairways. Down stairways and passages. And finally, into the studio...
It lies just beneath the bedchamber...
William does not halt at the doorway, but draws you closer to him. The clasping of hands becomes a walking hug. "I love you... past breath and blood, you know this... and so... it is our... hmmm... 818th anniversary, non? Is that it?" And William wonders at his math. "I was five-and-twenty in 1191... that would make it so, yes?" He chuckles. You were always better at numbers than I...
The studio is vast, its clean-swept stone and lack of furnishings -- but for a table, a scaffolding and two old chairs -- makes it seem all the more so. There are canvases stacked, prepared against the walls, stone sculptor's tools, even a work in marble in some progress. Upon the table, you can see blueprints perhaps. You know how he plans... in sketches and in miniature masterpieces. And you can see something rolled together. Lying there.
William lifts your hand to his mouth, and there he smiles. "I don't mean to build it up so...I ... am just hopeful you will like it..."
The nervousness is shared and the line between you double verves. "Is it...that long?" Ian asks, almost fearful of the response. He tries to forget such dates now, no needing to dwell upon the history. You have lived it together.
"You're...just as handsome now...as then," he offers softly, mustering some confidence. And as you kiss his hand and motion at the rolled item, Ian seems hesitant to touch it. He looks back at you, wondering if he really should.
Closer inspection will show it is hide. Touch it, you will know it is sheepskin. Like the ancient documents once were...those that were needed for generations. And around it, yes, are blueprints. Sculpture planned, paintings envisioned. You see what might be your hand among the papers. But it is the rolled item, bound with a silken string that is placed for your attention. A scroll...
William smiles, the laughter held in his eyes. Star-touched. Your Rigel. "Hmmm... go on... open it," he murmurs at your ear as he moves to stand behind you. You feel his hand lightly land upon your side, your hip. His mouth brushes at your ear. "Unroll both ends from the center, as in the old days..." Our Days...
Both ends from the middle. Always the place to begin. It's how he thinks of things, in a way, simply living in the Now. The past, the future, all paths are seen.
He reaches out and draws the silken string to himself. A tug, and all things fall apart. That brings his other hand to bear, he comfortable with you behind him, holding him still and firm.
"What..." he begins, frowning as the scroll unrolls. He cannot begin to imagine what it is, the cross bouncing with anticipation at his chest. "What...is it?" he gets out, a breathless phrase of nervous energy finding release, even as his hands lay the scroll open and bare before you both.
You see it...
Red and black...
The flowing script of your lover's calligraphic hand. Painted. Enumerated. A story told in lines, in languages and symbols.
In names...
Along the borders of the sheepskin, there are intertwining figures of hawks and griffons, viking and celtic -- not so different in truth -- with interlocking knots of black and red and even gold, once liquified and now staining metallic. They surround a lineage. You see the names. Epona. Freya. The intertwining of Viking and Scot, Norse and Celt...
Ending with your name. Aithlen...
Son of Aenor... daughter of Scottish queens and kings... a daughter of Viking warriors and princes. "It is a story." A pause. "A story of your familie... and where your familie...meets with mine..." William reaches forward, fingers gesturing to a name, Isolfr, who was the father of Tortulf, a common ancestor to your Guillaume...
Oh, God, what is this?
He is still as you speak, but his eyes...those silver eyes...they move like glistening mercury. Across the page, here and there, seeing knots and crosses, lines and colors. A history, it is, a legacy. A story.
My story?
The orbs of silver continue to scan, unbelieving. Looking where this meets that. Where this attaches to the other. It attaches? It is...this? Who are these people? What are these names? I have seen names like these before, but those people...oh...they are from so long ago. I had forgotten them.
I miss that time, sometimes. When...
...I was Aithlen.
Sorrow wells in his chest and eyes. "I miss them," he murmurs, hand brushing over Aenor's name. That was it. All of them, wiped away. What could they give him, save memories of a life barely lived. All of their names there to see.
The silver moves to more names, from another part of the scroll. Colors remembered, strange runes. Symbols. People. It's all a blur and so fascinating to see. Memories upon a page.
With you there, he leans and tries to see better. Who is this? Who is that? Did I know of this one? This is...me?
His hand yet upon you, William steps to the side. A point to another Aenor, several generations back. "Your great-great grandmother," he begins in a warm hush, "... she was the daughter of the last true Scot king, Ambiorix. Though her mother died in childbirth, she was raised by the lord of Lothian, Seoras... who married her to his son, Lir..." He pauses, his eyes shifting to you. Deep color, electric morning glories, dark but filled with such fire and light. "Ambiorix was the son of Ailell The Hawk," a smile for you, a family trait. "Here... the families of Lothian, d'Angevin and Norway combine... with Osvaldr The Invader... who was wed in treaty to Isotta the Fair, Queen of the Tribes of the Scots..." A noble family.
"You have natural right to Poitou," William murmurs as he turns to you. His hand skims the sheepskin in his opening gesture. "It is yours as much as it is mine. Your ancestor's brother is the founder of the House of Poitou..." See? It is plain... as the night is from the day...
William is quiet a moment longer, his eyes taking in the creation, the names, and what it means beneath even that which is shown. And then again to you. And the cross you wear.
Poitou? He cannot even think so far as to understand your words. At the moment, eyes still light upon the oldest names, the oldest people. Emblems and lines, halving into other lines. Norweigan ones. Gaelic ones.
French ones?
Then do his eyes move to that section of the story. d'Angevins? His lowly...but old...family knew of Angevin?
We all came from the winter lands. Your ancestors. My ancestors. While my mother's ancestors came from the sunny and warm climes of Spain and Italy, my father's family came from the great North. Northmen. Norman. And you spring from the Invaders, the same as I. But your ancestors came to Scotland and married beautiful Celts, the children of the Brigantes and their fearless queens. Eponnina was such a queen...
Your... lowly family, as you say, they not only knew of Angevin, they were the Angevins. Later centuries would see the Franks and Normans colliding like massive stars, in conflagration and, finally, conquest. Your husband is the product of such collision, is he not...
And you. You favor the Northern Stars, amours. Your features are Nordic. From your white-gold hair to your grey eyes. "Who could doubt it," William whispers, "but that you are descended of Freya's son, Erlendr Towhead, Erlendr The Wolf, father of Achivir and Isolfr. Isolfr, who was the primogenitor of the House of Poitou. Achivir, who was the primogenitor of the Lords of Lothian..."
His hand touches your back lightly, and William steps more to the side. "You carry the look of Norway in you," he continues, Provencal lilting, dragging. "White-gold hair, silver eyes. Even your name... your name derives from two kings. King Aevarr and King Ailell..."
Really? His eyes blink at the notion. He had never thought much of his features, but maybe you're right.
Hand brushes those names and he whispers, "I wonder what they looked like," he murmurs, seeing a picture come together. Normans and Franks, Celt and Norse. One lineage one direction...and one another.
Eyes wander to the French again. Names that lead to Angevins. He whispers the names you speak, trying to see them better on the scroll. Oh, there is...Achivir. And my name is like theirs? Questions. So many thoughts.
"My name is from theirs?" he points, trying to see the kings names better. Maybe if I stand closer, I can read their names better and know the truth...
A nod, "As was Aenor... the name appears at least twice. One, your mother." And he smiles. "And she named you, as most were in that age, for your ancestors. It was the nobility she could give you. Her blood, and a name that spoke of ancient hills and Scottish kings. You... were not so removed from the crown, amours..." Crown, you see him say, such as was had in pre-Norman years. Cheiftains, they were. King is a more Nordic convention.
William turns his head to you as he leans in, his fingers tracing the lines. "It was how it was done. Even in my own time. I am named Guillaume for my grandfather, Guillaume X. Who was named for his father, Guillaume IX. And so on. Aithlen is of the same root as Aenor, Aevarr and Ailell..."
Then, he would have known so little of linguistics and heritage. Of what it meant to be called Aithlen. Maybe she knew, his mother did, despite what had befallen her and her child. He smiles a little, looking again to the French as you speak of them.
"This part...this is where they became French?" he points eagerly. This exact moment. To command such information, see it lain bare, is if present when it happened. When one married another and another line was born. "They became Angevins?"
"Tortulf The Woodman is the primogentitor of the House of Anjou, oui. It is said he settled first in what is now Normandy, but eventually found his way to the Loire Valley. They settled there, ruled there. From him sprang Fulk The Red, count of Anjou in 885. You are related to me by my father's blood and my mother's blood. Both Henry and Eleanor came from the same common ancestor." William smiles, and suddenly all of his lessons in lineage and his own family history has come into good use. Fondly, he can think of it now. "He is the starting point, oui..." A reverent hush.
"Your rights to Poitou actually come through my mother... and my grandmother's name was also Aenor. Eleanor's mother..." And suddenly the universe makes sense. It is right to tell this story. It is right that this becomes Truth. Known. Tasted. Swallowed.
"Oh..." he gasps quietly. He sees. Ian nods his head and looks down that section. But, now what is this of Poitou? "I...don't understand about...Poitiou?"
"I was given Poitou at my birth. Guillaume XI, Comte du Poitou, through my mother. And it was her land to give. Richard remained Duc d'Aquitaine... and Comte... et Vicomte du Poitou are the titles I still hold to this day. When... I asked you... if you would take my name, and the entitlements that come with it..." His voice lowers a notch, as if to say it too loud would conjure those hurt feelings again. "... Poitou was the gift. I want to share it with you. And you now see how you are entitled to it...oui? How it is Yours to accept."
A grin erupts upon his mouth, warming suddenly the features of his face. "In truth, you are the rightful King of Scotland, amours. I should be getting on my knees..." And, God Willing, I shall soon...
He was with you, until...
"King of Scotland?"
No way! Ian looks back to the scroll, trying to see for himself how this can be so.
"Here..." And he points to the line and writing near Ambiorix. "Ambiorix was the rightful King of the tribes of Scotland," indigo eyes flicker as he looks to you, "...he was murdered, along with his second wife and their child. It is in the annals of Scotland.
Your love's large hand, large but fine -- fingertips softened from the calluses that once claimed them -- touches the sheepskin scroll, tracing along a red line. A royal line. Indicating the hundred years prior to your birth. "All of this time," William murmurs, "...from the union of Briga, Queen of the Northern Brigante Tribes to Volas, King of the Southern Brigante Tribes... to their daughter Isotta The Fair, who married Osvaldr The Invader from Norway. Their sons ruled the tribes of Scotland ... uninterrupted until the death of Ambiorix at the hands of the first of the Duncans."
William straightens, his finger drawing away, and he half-turns toward you. The smile is brilliant -- glorious in the morning glory gaze, warm upon his mouth. "It was the Duncans and their ilk, was it not, who ruled until the time of the Normans... and King MacBeth. Before that," his index finger points to your heart, "...it was your family. The blend of the beautiful Brigantes and the golden Norsemen."
Black hair drapes forward as William turns toward the scroll again. As he bends to look at it. To trace the line of it himself. "And it is through your Norse line, that you come to France... but Scotland is an older and a greater claim. Were it 300 years ago and I could step back in time, my love, I would crown you myself."
Beautiful Brigantes, handsome Norsemen. It is all too much. The joy, excitement, interest...it overwhelms him, and Ian rises from his bend over the table and the scroll to take a moment. To step back and pause. A little lightheaded, he is, but he manages to half-twist to smile at you lovingly and appreciatively. His hand touches the spot where you pointed at him, and then his head. Wow.
"You..." now he thinks, "...you did all this? Found all this out?" When? When did you have time. Can you feel the excitement and blur spinning within him? He has so many questions. "How did you..." he begins, but blinks, unable to finish the thought.
"Some of it was creative deducement. But never doubt a Plantagenet on terms of succession and Rights Under God." And, if it were possible, his smile beautifies him. "I know of the tribes of England before my Family came, and I dug through our own libraries here at Chinon for the rest. Those who were in the kitchens of the royal Duncans of your time were the daughters and sons of the kings and queens of the previous age. That is how subjugation works. Much as our kitchens," speaking of his own family, "were staffed with the royal court of former Saxon and Welsh kings."
He, too, takes a step back. To look at his work. To see his work move through you. And the smile is constant. Constant in his eyes. Constant upon his mouth. "I woke early and did this by the last light of the sun, every day since our return from Switzerland. But for that one morning when you helped me shower..." And my, what a morning that was. Indigo flickers in his wink, blue and violet gleaming. "The longest part was finding the line from you... to your mother... remembering what I have felt on the blood, and carrying it farther..."
He steps away from the table and now goes to fetch the wine he mentioned earlier, stepping toward one of the few seating areas within the studio, and the bottle that always lies to the ready there. What artist can work without wine? "I thought of the features of your face," comes the languid pull of his voice, only accentuated by the Langue d'Oc he speaks. "I thought of the taste of your blood. The feel of your arms. Those told me the story. I had but to find the names and arrange them..."
He tells a story? His face, his arms. Fingers touch them.
"You see this?" he wonders, watching you move. Please come back. Does he look like a king? Ian looks down at hismself, brow furrowing to see what you see...
Of course you do. Your chest, your torso. The white-blonde of your hair tells one tale. The grey eyes and high-cheekbones tell another...
"Oui, I do," his voice lifts slightly -- though there is no need. Between you, there is hardly need to speak at all. But for the fact he should miss the sound of your voice. "Your facial structure is a combination of Norse and Brigante lines. Your eyes, your mouth... that of the tribes of your country... your cheekbones," his voice lowers as he stands before you again, bottle of wine and two glasses in his hands. "...the sculpted look of it, this is very Norse. It is where I get it, even though my coloring is all wrong." William chuckles, setting the bottle aside but at a safe distance from the sheepskin scroll. "You have a Norse build to you, though," William continues, voice a deep hush. Dark eyes slant to you, and his smile pulls. "Head to toe, but your hands... your hands speak of something finer than that. And had I not studied with Andreas and Leonardo, I would never have known how to study the form so..."
Golden liquid pools into crystal glasses. The scent of apples. It is a special wine, never sold to the public. This, this is for you and he alone.
He is still a moment, thinking of your words. His hands rise, and grey eyes watch them a few seconds before lifting to see you and the poured wine. You must be a student of such men, for those thoughts did not cross his own mind.
"We...have relations?" Well, relatives. Ian turns back to the glorious scroll, hands reaching to pick it up.
This...is mine.
Paper shuffles as he delicately curls the document together. Going somewhere. To the room. To read more.
"Tortulf The Woodman, son of Isolfr of Erlendr The Wolf." Broad, the grin warms him. Gives resplendence to his gaze, his features. Almost incandescent. "Tortulf," William continues, glass of wine held outward to you in offerance, "...was the primogenitor of the House of Poitou. My family... on both sides." Eleanor and Henry being cousins as they were.
The gold is considered. It reminds him of your hair. And he sips from his own poured glass, tasting the apples of his orchards. Held upon his tongue. Indigo eyes fasten upon you. Holding there darkly. Holding there brilliantly. Sparkling, like star-filled night sky. "Would you like to go to the courtyard... or the bedroom... ? There is not so much comfort here, it is all for art..." William smiles at the rim of his glass, capturing another mouthful of his orchard wine.
He nods, the scroll pressed gently upright at his chest. "Yes, please," Ian whispers, unable to speak. He -feels-. All he can do is smile, stare, and wash in the thrill of it all.
"I...haven't had much of a family before you, Will," he whispers. Why you have meant so much. He smiles weakly, and turns to walk out of the room, caught up in the shifting emotions.
You may have to carry the golden drink for him...
I can feel what it means to you. And you, amours, can feel what it means to me that I was able to give this to you. It rights a thousand wrongs. And I find forgiveness, not in apology or in your acceptance, but in giving you what only I could give.
And he hides his look in the tilting of a glass. He hides the water at his eyes. But the emotion that brings it forth? He could never hide that from you. You feel it course through him. From you to him and back in an electrical current that makes the air hum, the hair upon arms standing on end.
William moves behind you, your glass yet cradled in his hand. "I know," he murmurs, the ancient French coming from him -- it is all he speaks these days. His gaelic will be horribly, if beautifully, affected. But the smile? The smile is constant still. Though there is water at the corner of his eyes.
The studio is only downstairs from the bedchamber. Up a winding staircase, past the vast bath and then...
The bedroom is waiting. The bed has been turned down, new linens. The fire is still burning -- though it is Spring, the nights can still be chilly -- and there are glasses poured and pastries and dinner waiting...
Posted by rowan at March 01, 2001 12:42 AM
