Gold eases against the stone walls, and warmth from the tended fire. Golden flames, with sparks of indigo and green at the base of the pine and oak that burn. Such illumination. From the hearth, outward spilling into the south end of the vast chamber. No candles are lit. When the fire pops and shifts, burning mouths against the yule log, the room wavers. And shadows play around the room.
     Such shadows there have been...
     At times in fits of motion, tangles of dark forms. Of a multitude of angles, like a Roman festival. At times, just shadows from the play and dance of the fire itself. In such illumination, in such warmth, and in such shadows, there have been loving whispers, laughter, and plaintive cries of various tongues. Names heralded and joy. So it is the season...
     The golden light is silken upon the upturned pages of an illustrated manuscript. Blue and red, violets and gold, dark-skin and light-skin portrayed. Coupling outlined in brilliant array. The heavy book, with its antique paper, its hindu script like the flick of tongues against the page. This was a gift. The fully illustrated Kama Sutra, circa 1750. Reading stopped just short of midway. Shadows and light flicker and fall against the two pages lifted -- as if the flames themselves were reading it. With a breeze that passes through, just softly, one lifted page turns itself...
     Yes, you have done that one too...
     To the left of this, maps to the stars that you have perhaps seen against your eyelids this night. Illustrated manuscript, opened, fingered through during those quiet moments when shadows no longer struggled. Constellations. Hemispheres. Spheres and Music outlined in God's Orderly Universe. The year was 1660. It would not be long before the angels would no longer have their fingers upon the spheres for us all... but instead it would be... gravity and relativity. But, in truth, are not the equations angels of a fashion?
     And scattered, smaller texts. New texts. Texts without illustration. A variety of languages. There is, in English, the tale of a knight and a squire. The soft cover is antiqued and shows a Plantagenet crest, but of a later period. There are three leopards and lions rather than the two of your William's era. Ah, and the one in Italian, that tells the tale of an artist and the beautiful young men who would grace his studio. And another, a romantic tale -- of course, yes... it is in French -- of a writer and his quest for love, which he finds, you will discover, on page thirty, when he meets the pilot. They end up flying all over the world. Meeting in different cities. That is a wistful tale -- the others... the others are ...not wistful. There are smaller, thinner books as well. For one purpose and one purpose only -- all of them set in London.
     And that softness that has held you. Sumptuous. Luxurious. Red fox fur. Two sleeping bags that have long since been joined, the one to the other, and surround you. Piled amid the other fox and ermine already near the hearth. It has softened the stone during times of onslaught. Softened knees. Softened hands. Softened hips and head and back. And stomach.
     And gently, softly, soothing in the background is the dwindling tune of a music box. A tune of Mozart's. A memory of Vienna and Salzburg. Of all the silk. Of all the lace. Of all the salons. Of all the pretty horses. The tune ends. It will need to be rewound with the key. Sparkling there beside the Kama Sutra, its ribbon having served as a bookmark.
     Incense winds upward, slowly. Painting the air. Coloring it with gold-flecked blue smoke and the sweetness of Frankenscense. And a kiss pulls gently at your mouth in his reach to set the stick in its holder. Indigo lifts, along with a chuckle -- no, I need to look when I do this -- and William lifts. A hover over you. Now balanced upon knees and a hand to the fur beneath you. Fur that is once again at your back. A reach, and he is your canopy, and all that entails. Artisan fingers pluck the stick of incense into place within its holder. A griffin carved of Italian marble. Red. Something for your birthday...
     Dark hair, a black silken sheen, drapes forward as he bends his head. I love you. It is spoken in the dark eyes. It is confirmed in the smile. There is a brief lift, a survey to all that surrounds you. And then he lowers again, settling against you. And you feel his arms, the heavy knight. And the living warmth -- by magic, by fur, by fire. "Do you want the music to play again?" The Provencal leaves him in a languorous pull. His voice deep. Soft. And then his mouth ends the final word against your own.

     It has been such a Forever with you. Since the past was dusted off and opened, Ian has done nothing but smile wistfully, longing for some of those nights past. He would not trade them for anything, and your love has reminded him of how truly blessed he has been. No talk of the more complicated decades, for in truth, those were few. Everything he's wished has transpired with you, and everything he hopes still rests with you and between you shared. That...he has learned. The happiness he so seeks with you, begins with himself.
     I love you is conveyed in every look, every touch. How you bring smiles along with dear memories of past times. Times that needed dusting, pulled from the recesses of hidey holes and stuffed under more aching recollections. Ian has remembered the faintest of moments, his heart open and glad for you both to walk them again.
     "Sure," he whispers to the question, glad to see the world shadowed by you. Fingers stroke your upper arms, the connection between you visible, palpable. Manifest. His grey eyes look up and around to the world you have filled with your lives, from the massive bed...to the smallest figurine. Collected, treasured, given, stored, cared for, and now used as touchstones to the Joy rejoined.
     He sighs softly, "Sometimes, Will, I miss it all...how things used to be," he whispers, "...well, in the world." A hand reaches for the fur, and Ian closes his eyes to float upon memories of other furs, other times, other places. He is beatific in such drifting, his face but that of a young beauty, forever glorious.
     "Everything...it's marvelous, Will..." his words alighting as you see to the music. "So perfect...just...remembering. Sometimes, it's hard to do...when you are alone." To remember well. Moments unthought of for centuries. His quicksilver eyes seem to glaze, bordering on spilling with crystal tears.

     The key catches the light and sparkles brass. Something like gold but burnished more. Not so liquid, this metal -- not so fine -- but it serves for a tool. It glitters from the ribbon as the ribbon is plucked, lifted away from the book. Ah, the place is lost. Shall he start ... reading the Kama Sutra again from the beginning? And music starts again. The key turned to all seven stops. We will hear all seven songs. Magical sounds of chamber music heard long ago. When it was all new...
     Perhaps the illustrated manual, that art of the art of love, will be opened again. Sometime. Sometime soon, perhaps. But it is not looked at now, nor fingered through. It is left for the fire to read from its distance. The covering of fur lifts, readjusted, resettled. And his thumb trails your mouth. He is captured by it. Rapt. Did he hear you? Ah, you can tell by the smile, he did. But to touch you. To see you thus with and beneath him. Held golden by golden light. It is like loving Eros. Like having Ra in your bed. William smiles at this and at himself. And you. Three layers to every look. Love, Lust and Memory. Time is held on the blood. It can be recalled.
     Dark eyes are filled with blue and violet shards. The thousand upon a thousand miniscule explosions of blue of violet that together make the indigo. It is a cosmos, for every smile. Sensuous mouth, created for this, and for pleasure, spread in the smile. The smile that shall soon become one of his trademark grins.
     "Remembering," the word is said in your Gaelic, with its deeper expression and connotations. Overlaid with his Provencal accent, that flavor and drawl of southern France always upon him. "I think it is best done before a fire, like now. Together..." Settling, William props his head up upon his hand, the heel of his hand, his elbow in the fur. His other hand is free now to wander over your stomach and your chest -- ah, but... you know how he is, that not-so-secret delight with your stomach. His fingers lightly skim there. You can feel the memories of calluses on his fingertips, they are there... softened...but they are there.
     Leaning in, his eyes half-close. A kiss brushed upon an eyelid. "It is good to remember," comes his murmur there, "... to ... truly remember. Now that we are in the light, it is easier to see, hmm?" In the light of understanding. You and he. William smiles and settles back again. A chuckle sounding suddenly, as lyrically as the softly playing music. Haydn. "I remember the journeys in the east... our first one... it was so strange," dark eyes shift from you to the fire, and then back to you. In the hull of the ship from the Crusades. When he barely knew what he was. He smiles, eyes close and he shakes his head a little. "Non... the time when we went back..." he whispers, eyes opening. Brilliance. "And the clothes... I miss having to travel on horseback... and I miss the clothing..."

     Ah, travelling on horseback. When survival was as much about your mind and cunning as much as anything else. Ian chuckles, "I remember spending too much time in Cairo," he recalls, "...and enjoying every minute of it. I too like the clothes," he sighs, "...and the..." his knee bends, "...strange foreigness of it all? Clandestine ...often." Hard to put a finger on the feel. "Strangers in a land that we controlled...it was often so surreal." Laughter follows, "I try not to think of the very first one," he smiles, unable to remain still when you touch tender skin.
     "I was thinking about this...a few weeks ago," Ian lets you know, "...about us...travelling and some of the things we have done." Grey eyes look up, and he hums a few bars of the Mozart. "Well," Ian laughs, "I shouldn't be so disingenuous, hmm? It's a segue, of sorts to talk about your Yule gift..."

     Ah yes, the gift. Now you have his complete attention. You, your words. Not just your stomach. And you feel it. A throb against the air. Ah, I cannot help it! You feel the desire to kiss you there. And that he knows what that would start. Anew. And you feel the restraint, such restraint, in not doing so. Such control. You can remember when he had ... so little. He was a firebrand, your Angevin, then. And then... once he learned control?
     He became an artist...
     Fingers wander upward, landing lastly upon your lips. That mouth. Tempting. Tempting to capture and to taste -- yours. His? Temptation's Self is his smile. Come, it says. Kiss me. But then... it always says this. When he is sleeping, when he is waking. When it is brushing against you. When it is spreading in the damnable grin you simultaneously wish to slap and kiss away.
     William smiles. Warmth like light laying across his features. Beautiful, becoming more so with the look. A soft laugh. A softer exhale. "Ah, Cairo... that was... a delightful time... amours. We floated above the sand like kings..." Upon Andalusian stallions. Hardy desert horses from Spain. His war-mounts. His eyes, those deep eyes that are like the sky at night, they soften as he thinks of this. And remembers.
     ... The cool nights. So many stars. Clothed in the wrappings like bedouin...
     William stirs, a brow lifting as your words sink in again. The lingering smile spreads. Ah, there is that grin. That damnable grin. "This gift... I am anxious to see...so..." A kiss punctuates the word, the breath of it against your mouth as he leans in. "... what thoughts of Cairo transformed themselves into a gift for me?" Arabian horses? That would be a treat...

     "Trans...is a good prefix," Ian teases, squirming as you touch him. He laughs and brushes at your hand, suddenly sitting up to kiss that damnable smile. But something else has his attention now, he on his elbows, hands at your cheeks. Ian's eyes search yours and his smile warms. A tale he shall tell...you can feel it rise from his heart and now to his lips.
     "He was...is...the most amazing creature I have known. A man like no other. A friend like no other. I adored...you...as a child, and my heart was seized upon by the young man. When you spoke...it was like all of the earth pouring sweet into my ear. I was no longer for myself. I was for you."
     "But then I learned. I learned that to love him, I must learn to love myself. Maybe, that was the hardest lesson of all for me. But he taught me, reminded me. And as he grew and changed, I wanted to be better too...to not be as I was," Ian finishes. His hands lower and he twists fishing out a small figurine...
     The craftsmanship alone make the figurine worthwile. An old boat, the curved hull made of Lebanese cypress. The fine pieces curve and are joined by the tinest of fittings, mimicing the ships of old. A ship you once travelled in, so very long ago.
     On top, small sails of real canvas are held aloft by strong, intricately carved masts. Cargo, holds, and deck levels are all visible, shaped by the steadiest of fingers and the smallest of jeweling pins. A beautiful replica, fashioned from an old memory and plenty of books. Big enough to sit in your hand, there is a rather modern looking key resting on the deck, all wrapped in an indigo bow.
     "Her name is Rigel, registered out of Marseilles. I think she's registered in Monaco, also as Alpha Orionis," Ian whispers, hand leaving the craft as she's set into your hand. "Aye, but the version you'll see...is more modern," he smiles, "...but the idea is the same. A star...for my Star," his voice softening.
     "One hundred feet, twelve staterooms," Ian murmurs, eyes upon the older ship in your hand, "...regular staff of twenty, but able to accommodate more. Helicopter pad," he smirks, proud of himself, "...satellite...it's...all there..."
     "Oh, there's game rooms and...well...salons...and...you're her captain," Ian chuckles, "...well, in addition to the regular bridge staff. She's...in Monte Carlo...but we can have her in Mallorca...maybe...if you wanna go see her?" He looks sheepish now, wondering if it's too much...

     I remember what it was like... to hear the snap of flags. Of canvas sails. To know the power of the wind... when the wind was still master. When the sea still had dragons. When water was the most powerful force on earth.
     Before I knew you even... when we sailed from Langue d'Oc along the belly of our country. My mother took me to Italy when I was a boy...
     I can still smell the almond oil she would wear on her skin...
      And the snaps of the canvas, I can remember crusading winds. And after. And after. When I learned to sail by night, to see the sea at night. When I came to know that the sea was no different from the cosmos above my head. We floated on the spheres, my love, in between. When I came into this Life, when you brought me here. When you showed me more worlds than my eyes had seen. When I met beings who preceded my father's father's father and emperors and kings.
     I can hear the snaps of the canvas, and I smile at the ship in my hand.
     "Rigel," he murmurs, wonder in his voice, amazement in his eyes, shock upon the features of his face. Such pleased shock. And the smile spreads when he looks to you again, the miniature still held in his hands. "We will go... you and I ... we will sail the old routes in a new ship..." William sees the look, that sheepish look, and he grins, and a kiss claims your expression. Full and warm, a rush and a burn. And a parting with a breath. "I love it... and I love you...you are... incredible. And this... is... " Incredible.
     Fox fur sighs and breathes as he lowers to it, holding the ship still in his hands. "This is the kind of ship that carried us across the indigo sea," William murmurs. "Across our sea... we left from..." He pauses, trying to remember, "... was it Venice?... to the delta of the Nile..." Soft words. A breath. "Do you remember..."

     "I remember," Ian smiles, holding himself so that a rush of tears does not swell. "From Tyre, Al-zedif, Venice, Cairo...Algiers...everywhere to get us to here," he chuckles, remembering the love for you as much as the dread fear that he had cost you both your existences. "And we ran into the Tremere's archon near Malta..." he whispers, rolling his eyes. A chuckle and Ian looks at your ship, "Maybe we should forget that part," he smirks.
     "Hell," Ian blinks, "I felt like St. Paul on more than one occasion while on that ship," he teases, recalling the very travelled apostle. This, too, takes restraint. You can hear it on his voice. The emotion.

     It is like the plucking of an intrument. He sings beneath it. And you know him. To sing, with such, how can one not weep? But he blinks, and indigo eyes take on a watery, jewel-like quality with the crystalline moisture that is not freed. William laughs, the sound is soft. "I remember the archon being utterly forgettable..."
     Half upon his back and half upon his side, he holds the ship tenderly. That you both may see, and seeing...ride. And think of the coming nights when you shall. It is a dream and it is a memory both. Both given as a gift. How is it you do this after so long.
     "We will take your books," comes the lilt and the drag of Provencal. "It will ... help fill the nights, yes? We can get... a lot of ... reading in. And stargazing..." An exhale for that. Nothing is greater than to be upon the sea and to stare upward at the very face of God. Held upon His palm... even as the ship is now upon William's. William turns his head, grinning as you speak of the apostle. "Oui... very like... I had not thought of it thus." A chuckle is held in his throat, deep notes in the broad expanse of the Norman chest. "Who would that make me... "
     I remember how I was then. Young. Raw elemental of the vampire that is here now. It is ... funny. You were amusing, Plantagenet. "Something more of the golden ass, I think..." I cannot help it. It is true.

     "No," Ian grins, "...that would make you mine, is all." He leans back again, falling from his elbows. "How funny," Ian smirks, "...with all of the wonderful books and memories...that we ended up thinking the same way this Yule." Now, a way to see all of those memories. "I hope Rigel's staff don't mind us so much, hmm?"

     Laughter. The sound is soft. Warm. Distant in the thoughts, but present in the promise. William turns, now upon his side, his legs seeking to tangle with yours again. His hand reaching outward to place the ship upon the unfolded and painted pages of the Kama Sutra. Like the swells of the sea...
     And the fire flickers, and shadows dance upon the stone walls like waves. And cast to the far wall, the shadow of a ship, sitting upon a great curving swell. Can you smell the Mediterranean Sea? Feel the wind with every breeze. William exhales, and his arms surround you. Warmth sought as the mind feels remembered waves...

Posted by rowan at February 07, 2001 02:35 PM