Regret. For the day... or the night... that Spain ever became a burden. A sorrow. A contention. That sandy shores and balmy winds ever became cooled, not by weather but by insinuation. Had it run with blood and mud and war, it would have been easier to swallow.
     Much easier than her silence...
     Silence allows for echoes. Echoes of past deeds, past words. And on the sea, away from the noise of the city, it is easy to remember...
     Too easy...
     Barcelona. She rests out there in gleaming brightness. From this distance, like a jewel. Her modern lights, structures. Shops that have replaced markets. Clubs and discos that have replaced shops. There is only the hum from out here... only if you listen very closely with immortal ears can you hear it -- if the wind's whim carries it. And The Rigel is moving past her. Not stopping. No, let's not. It was instant agreement, held only in looks. And then William came out to look at the sea. The stars. To watch the city as the shipped passed by.
     White. Glorious. The cotton covers him and uncovers him. Drifting, spectral, when the wind moves against him. Barefoot, he stands upon the upper deck, the observation deck, leaning against the railing. And his glass of wine dangles perilously from his fingertips. Loosely, lightly held. And as he turns his head to look from the city, dark hair is moved by the wind. A black veil.
     I may pass by the city under the cover of night. But I cannot pass by the monument of rumor, innuendo and ill-repute she has built for me over the years. Not even the sea can shake off the last four hundred years...

     "You're staring," Ian murmurs, sitting in one of the lounge chairs. It is turned parallel to the Rigel's shadowing of the coast, letting Ian choose whether to look or not. And now, he is not.
     Dressed as you, his ankles are crossed on the canvas ottoman before him. He is comfortable in his cotton canvas and wood chair, presently reading the evening's paper. The cross gleams against his skin that has been warmed from the last few weeks' holiday. Even Ian managed to stay up later and wake up earlier. The pallor of Scotland threatens to be replaced by something more southern.
     "Here, come sit," he offers half-heartedly. He does not mean it...you are aged and can make up your own mind...but it is an offer, in case you could not bear to tear yourself away without some impetus. "The spiced tea is good...well..." Ian grins, "...of course, as we're going to the best parts of Spain, hmm?" The Moorish Influence.
     Dinner was more than passable. The last few nights, he has taken more to the precious cadre of youths you suggested to bring. A fine idea. Their nectar flows through him, and as always, it leads Ian to a seat and the paper. Therein is Happiness.

     Blood hums beneath his skin. Life though unending Life. It revives. It illuminates. It youthens and darkens him. He, who has not lost a single night after Arsuf. And in the warmth, full of blood, tempting the sun, he is as bronzed as he was that last day that led into his last night.
     His first night...
     Are you reminded of this yet again as he turns? Straightening, coming off the railing. Twisting. The white lifts off his skin, and robust complexion is revealed. The wine is finished. And even so, he is having trouble simply turning away. He needed your voice to remind him.
     We're past all that now...
     "I forget," William quietly begins, his eyes on the glass. After a pausing moment, they lift and settle on you. Electric morning glory indigo. A touch to you, not just your skin, but your blood. Your soul. Like a finger's skimming, then pressing. "...how much I miss the orange trees, clove and cinnamon, spices in everything. Even on the skin of Spain's children," there were a few in the islands. Remember the nights... he watched you with one for a while, then joined you himself. Until you both had cinnamon in your blood. And then you wallowed in one another. As should be...
     But everytime I come here, I remember why we... don't come often...
     William pushes off the railing altogether, and of his own volition, and he approaches you. Footfalls so soft, even for you. For his bulk, a herculean effort toward stillness. And he does join you. In your nearness, taking comfort. In the tea, reminding himself of the pleasant things of Spain. Spices. Young men.
     But those brought from Chinon... Marco and Amadeo... they resonate through both of you, even though they sleep soundly down below.
     "I am glad we did not stop," he whispers. And as he sits, William turns his head against the other canvas lounge chair, black hair captured by it, held. His hands cup the tea he poured, lifting it to him. William closes his eyes, breathing it in. "It is a loss," he says, deep voice mulling in thought. "Pity that Spain ever became a symbol ... forgotten only in the islands, that are like a different world altogether." He pauses, opening his eyes, looking to you. And finally... a smile. Sensuous the mouth in its spreading. Slanting. "And Cadiz... forgotten in the bodies of its young men...si?"

     He reaches over for you, but that does not stop Ian's gaze at his paper. But you understand that, yes? That is being occupied. "Si," Ian smiles at your last comment, hand brushing you and then picking up his cup.
     "Are you really glad we didn't stop?" he wonders, cup tipping up to his lipz. Ian sighs faintly, mostly cooling his drink.
     With that, the paper rustles. He looks over to you, interested in your comments. The Spanish-language news falls on his lap. "I hate that we did not stop," Ian confesses, the lines above his eyes not furrowed at all, but even and calm. He's annoyed. Cheeks are ruddy, and he glances over finally at the city you both pass.

     There is a single nod. "Oui." A short reply. "I never have a good time in Barcelona," William replies smoothly after. So dry, one can hear humor and buried upset crackling upon the languid tones. He watches the sky now, your William. Looking there, as if he can see pictures of all that has happened arranged there. He sips at his tea, soothed by it, by the previous touch. "Never. Only Cadiz and the islands... the rest..." He snorts to it. "I have had a few victories... Alhambra... Granada...but so distant, amours. Recent memory fails to find a decent evening ever passed in Barcelona and Navarre..."
     You have heard that tone before. As if she were here, in fact. He is trading barbs with the spirit of that woman perhaps.
     But there is a quiet moment. Indigo falls to the cup of tea, the brown, the orange, the flavor of it that is so rich its nearly visible. "Really?" he wonders. And William looks to you, a dark brow lifting in arch. Why, amours, are we not in bed? Why are we here on the deck where we can see it there, laughing gorgeous on the shore. Like it knows...
     "She's probably there. I don't want to see her. Let her know that I am off-shore, refusing her..."
     The Angevin flick of fire. How his mouth and tongue form it. Legs pull up, knees bending and thighs bow wide. A comfortable perch. Quite the langorous display. Clothed, perhaps he is even more decadent and sensual. When he is hidden and not hidden. Blatant.

     He did not need the direct parallels. Ian nods at your question, setting down his cup and fetching his paper again. He pops the news taut, straightening out any ruffles. "It annoys me that we do not stop," he goes on, reading something in the main section of the paper. "That was pass by...as if we could not leave this boat. As if we cannot go into the city." There, he said it. And he'd rather not discuss it much more. But as with all things of late, it will be drawn out, he will be upset, and you two will discuss it. Even if the talk makes him visibly cringe.
     "Cadiz is nice," Ian whispers. "We will go there and enjoy ourselves, hmm? Girault is generous with his villa," he says softly. "Maybe, we should call an agent and see about having our own there..."

     It will be discussed. With Angevin fire. With the passion held in the blood from the last sip of Italian taken. With hands gesticulating as they do when he speaks intensely. Becoming the fiery young man for whom Flagrante was named. When instead he should confess how much it bothers him. How much it has always bothered him. Saddened him. Made him feel ... insignificant.
     It is why, he supposes, that he does not and will not have a city of Europe beneath his wings. You are seen as a leader by most, even if reluctantly. He? A childe who has never lived up to his potential...
     And who was the one who most often said it to his face and behind his back?
     William frowns, he sips at his tea but there is no joy taken in it. He barely tastes it. "We can have him turn the boat in, it is not out of the way... but I refuse to see her. She will call if we land, she will send someone, you know her..." A hand makes a wave. Let her call, I will not go.
     And he is quiet now. Quiet for some moments since that outburst. Full mouth downturned. It is bad enough I have to live with the reputation she was more than happy to encourage, I do not have to court it.
     There is a clearing breath, another sip of tea. "I would like a villa in Cadiz," William murmurs, warmth at last to his words, rather than the flick of flame. "A villa full of life, where I can please myself by watching you with Spain's young sons..."
     Now... that soothes him... the connection your share is plucked and strummed with visions. Memories recent and past. You and the youths of Ibiza. He and you with Felipe, when you taught him the magic.
     "I could be persuaded," he whispers at last. By you.

     He smirks, but the issue is upon the table. "I see that," Ian grins, sighing as he leans back in his seat, closing his eyes. The paper will not be read. Instead, it is crumbled loudly by his hands, energy expended in the process of destroying something. Summarily the wad is tossed overboard. Fuck.
     "What will we do if we go?" Ian shrugs. "Barcelona is boring, save for the faces," he concludes. "And if she sends someone...we don't need to go. We say we are not interested. It is that simple, really."
     "In truth, Will," Ian says, looking at you, "...we don't want to be in Barcelona. What we hate is...we are afraid of how it feels to go to Barcelona and what might happen..."

     His jaw sets. Oh, what beauteous indignation. It is not you. Non. It is not this conversation. Non. It is all that has gone before. The tea is set gently aside and he leans back against the lounger, a great sigh exhaled for the motion. As if it took effort.
     "You're right," the answer is a simple one. The truth of it, easy to see. It is a hard pill to swallow. But not as hard to swallow as her company. "I've never..." Dieu! So blessedly stubborn! How have you endured it? "There's nothing in Barcelona that I care to see, and she," still her name is unspoken, "is among the chief things I'd just rather not... she's never been my ally, she's never been my friend, she's never been faithful, true or kind. And we have better men on this ship to entertain than we shall find in the discos..."
     He says he may be persuaded. You can see it would take some work. But you have the persuasion skills necessary. In touch of hand. In brush of mouth. He would blush to reveal how ... easy he is for you to move. Some great Norman... so easily swayed...
     Indigo eyes have avoided looking at you through that rant, but such could never last long. Just a few minutes. And you feel and see the indigo again. Dark and rich. Vibrant blue-violet. And there is a relinquishing look. You're right. You're right.
     William smirks, a sudden wry expression. "Should we go... oui?... for the pleasure of refusing the invitation?" Dark brows lift. "We can dance, press some young man against a club wall and then come back to the ship," a hand waves as if to say just another night for us. The smile eases, becoming true rather than simply wry. "And take back how we feel about Espana..." William finishes in a whisper. He turns toward you and he reaches outward. "Maybe... on that alone, amours, we should go. Maybe..." great shoulders roll, "... if I do this... repairing what she has done to me... will be a little more..." Another shrug. Realized? Possible?
     Have you ever known how deep the cuts went? How much damage she has done, even if subtle?

     "Maybe," Ian says, cheek to the canvas that folds and holds the blonde slats of his lounge chair together. It is an affectionate look -- he is not interested in her per se, but more so in how the two of you feel. "The young men here are finer..." he shrugs, "I need no discoteca. It does nothing for me to prey upon the men of her city. That means nothing to her either."
     "So, what does have meaning," Ian murmurs, as if walking through the puzzle's solution. "What..." and he goes on without truly confessing the injuries he now feels have been done to you both, "...what do...we want?"

     "I want her not to gain... even though I have lost," speaks the Angevin. A most political answer. "I want her not to have... pleasure in what has been wrought of her own hands. Though I may never clear myself of it... that is what I want..." In such general terms, Plantagenet...
     Suddenly, Willliam chuckles. Quiet, still... it is a surprising sound considering the topic of conversation. "I want to walk with you in the gardens of Malaga... hmmm... stop in Cadiz... watch you drown yourself in luxury. I want to be your saving hand, reaching in time to pull you out. I want to hear my name on your voice..."
     Canvas whispers. Wood squeaks. He moves...
     Joining you on your lounger. Do you think he means to distract you both from this conversation? Times have changed, Dunross. William's expression is serious, quietly beautiful. Earnest, your William. "I do not know, amours. I ...do not know what I want of this..."
     It takes time. It takes careful manuevering. But he manages it. Reclining beside you. Chin against your blond hair. The scent of cinnamon and spices lie upon his skin. Subtle, but now nearer to him... more apparent. Heady. And his skin is so warm. Living. The sound of thought lingers in his chest, his throat. It reverberates against you. "What has meaning to me... in this... maybe just to know how well the world listens when she speaks. To have the question answered. To know my past is not hanging on display around my neck when I walk into a room of European brothers..."

     "I doubt that," Ian says softly, scooting to accommodate you. He sighs too, but his grey eyes look straight ahead, out across the murky waters. There is silence for the longest while, he filling his senses with more of you and less of this.
     He has avoided thinking of this forever. And why think of it? What good will it do? She must know that she has lost Ian's good will. But how far does it go? Shall a friendship...that is what it was, be honest...of centuries be so discarded? Yet, how much of a friendship was it? Now I question, Ian blinks. I would have not questioned before. Perhaps I was always convenient. The safest business associate is one you make your friend. Which came first?
     Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
     He sighs upon that, face firming as he looks down to his lap. Now it is all a fucking mess. A jumble of half-truths. Ian knows his hand came out to her in friendship. He did not know the maid. But she knew him before he even knew himself....and lied....
     His hand suddenly comes to his face. How long as he been still beside you. A statue coming to life again. You can hear him exhale and clear his mouth. Something pendulous. Something real to emerge. A solution.
     "I want her stuff."
     "Eight centuries of lies," Ian murmurs. "I don't want...injury. I just want...things..." he says, not quite sure of what it means.

     "I want her land..."
     A soft echo of your own words, even as his own thoughts traveled over his desires. Older desires. A proper retribution. For abusing his husband, for a deal made over royal property -- himself -- for the murder of his son, his mortal wife. For the slander of centuries. It is the only thing that will right it. It is the only justice for a king's son, an empress' grandson when faced with a naughty vassel.
     And the smile spreads warmth across his features as he lifts and looks to you. Thin, it carries the weight of agreement and decision. Proclamation and promise. And a dark brow lifts. Agreed? "You will have her things," William whispers. "I will have her land..."
     Oh, you can hear it. As you have not heard it for centuries. The throb of Norman on his voice. The realization of the Angevin presence beside you, who shows himself only rarely. Only when needed.
     "Navarre will return to the grasp of Anjou," he murmurs. "Where it belongs..."
     The removal of a great weight is sighed upon as William settles against beside you. Around you. Strong. Certain. Warm. Smelling of cinnamon and the recent Italian vintage. "Perhaps the... changes..." his voice mulls on that word for a few moments, "...forthcoming in European politics," namely what is occurring in London, "... might afford us an ... unforeseen opportunity?"

     "You take her land, I take her company..." Ian looks up at you, still not done, "...she will have nothing Will." And that is unfair. She has done her part for them in the ages. "I just want...balance." That's all.

     He frowns in silence. What other recompense for an abused husband, a slain heir and a slain wife? If not land...
     She has my blood on her hands...
     He is quiet for a time. So still. He doesn't move, but for what part of him the wind shifts in its motion across the deck. No, he is not happy with that. Wronged, he can be incredibly vengeful. Wronged over centuries. Wronged. It is difficult to think of... fair. To pity her. To have sympathy.
     You feel he has none...
     "Why should she have more than her life... when lives were nothing to her. Not yours..." he tightens. "Not my heir's, not my wife's. More merciful to them," there is a growl to his voice, "... she at least had them killed. But sat by... sat so still and so quiet... as you were wounded for the next eight-hundred years." And that... that knowing that she knew of it all and did not tell you, did not save you, pretended and feigned and lied... this angers him more than the deaths. The death of one he never met, his son, and the one he only barely remembers. It is not so much Catherine at this point. He has dealt with this. It is for your cause.
     "Let alone making me a whore...the 'Toreador Ventrue'... hurting if not assuring that I should never hold position in name or title in Europe..."
      The quiet ranting could go on for hours. You've seen him do it... but he is older now. And though the Angevin blood is roiling, William only sighs. And falls silent. There's not rising. No storming about. No pacing. He's come such a long way, this son of Henry...
     Perhaps you thought him sleeping. Perhaps it was too much and he fell into a spell. For he is quiet for a while. And he softens, muscles tensed... relaxing. Until he sighs again. "Very well..." a pause. "I will settle for an apology and the clearing of my reputation at the next Conclave."
      Oh my.

     "I cannot stop how you feel or change it," Ian whispers. And the issue, more than anything, is the gulf between you on what is 'fair'. He does not say you are wrong. Instead, he falls into his silence. He cannot muster the anger or passion you feel on his behalf.
     It is the same silence when Liam is mentioned. There is passivity. Shame.
     Ian's hand lifts to cover his eyes, his elbow on the arm of the lounger. He sighs then, fingers quivering over his closed orbs.
     It is hard to think of the past. Of feelings felt. Of being mistreated and maligned. Where you find justifiable anger, he retreats, becoming younger and younger by the moment.
     "I..." he whispers, "I just want to be treated...fair," his voice trembling. By Alex. By the others. By Liam. Ian makes a noise of disgust with himself, fingers now wiping at his face.

     What he hears in your voice. What he understands in the tremble. He cannot rant and ignore it. It would... make him no better than either of them. Any of them. It stops him.
     William half rolls, a lift to place a kiss to your temple. A touch of strength, yes, and a touch of tenderness. "I'm sorry," he murmurs there. I will never be satisfied. Maybe you can be. "I know..." William closes his eyes. With an exhale, you are swallowed in the Norman hold. A hand, large but fine, reaches upward, brushing against your face. "Take her property... it should be yours... it is a just recompense. It will hurt her most, to lose. Do it well, it will answer all of the rest. And it will be just..."
     I will... just learn to not care...
     Maybe with time I can learn to ...not care. "I will help you... if I can... I will not ... stand in your way or... ask that you do more."
     Even though my heart is unsatisfied. Perhaps there is no winning for me. Perhaps there is not justice possible after such that she has done. Perhaps with the wrongs to you answered, my heart will find some peace with that. And become satisfied...
     "I love you, Ian... and despite them all," Liam, Alexandra, Henri, "...we are stronger than we have ever been. Fuck them..." And he laughs, a sound in his throat. Anger given new direction. Fuck it.

     "You're a good man, Will Plantagenet," Ian says softly, grinning at your humor, but feeling the rest. No, no that is not an acceptable answer either. Your humor is met by his expression of appreciation and understanding. "That...is not it either," he whispers. "You...need...what you need. You should have it. And I should not feel sorry for her...or deny her the consequences of her actions," he states, hand at your cheek now.
     Ian shifts, so that he is upon his side and facing you. "I think," he begins, "...she has relied on any answer from us would be joint. And therefore less than if we had demanded from her separately. What you want...is what you want. What I want...is what I want. I cannot...help her. I can only deal with her in a way that I find just for me. And you...you are your own being. I must...understand that. I would not stand in the way if she..." he shrugs and looks off, thinking, "...had done something to..." he chooses someone else he is fond of, "...Robert...and he had decided to exact payment. Why you? Because...we are together?" he wonders, looking to you again. "Perhaps. But that...is not fair to you. It would not be fair to Robert to ask him to feel sorry for her. I will not ask that of you."
     "And I will learn...to live." And not feel guilty that she was punished twice. "Two acts done against two beings..." and you are not he..he is not you...even if the reasons were twined, "...and she will know...their favor." Used negatively.
     "What you want..." Ian tries to wrap his head around, "...is not what I want. And...maybe I should not be so..." weak. Passive. Afraid. Young. Fearful. Sad. Wanting to make things better but unable to do so. He simply shrugs, leaving the rest to you. He looks into your eyes and tries to smile.

     Amazing, is it not...
     That it takes only... understanding... recognition, of a type, to satisfy him. Give sudden peace to his heart. Like a magician's hand in motion, dispelling a storm. So were your words.
     And so for the first time in many minutes there is peace. Because there is understanding. And even though there is still anger, anger that has dwelled in silence for centuries, never having a home, a place or person upon whom to be laid, an aim or focus, there is also comfort.
     He leans forward...
     He closes his eyes...
     And he kisses you...
     And it is long and sweet. It is full of love. It is heated. It bears in its fullness, Truth... in its tenderness, Love...in its warmth, Passion.
      And then it parts...
     William settles with another exhale, he echoes your try of a smile. Tried long enough, it will become true. It will not take long, though. You can already see it living, warming within those indigo eyes, smoothening against his features. "You do not have to.. be anything you do not wish to be. Exact the payment you think is proper. Do not give her answer for my cause, and you will find your payment is enough," comes the languid baritone, the provencal coiling. And he breathes a sound. "I do not know yet... what is enough for me. I will have to think of it. Maybe... I should be a bigger man..." He chuckles lowly. "Just ask for an apology before her peers...maybe I would seem... less of the William she has created and more of the William I am...maybe... that simple act would be enough to undo all of her work. Maybe, with just that I will gain respect that has been missing..." He shrugs. "I will think of it some other time. I am tired of thinking about it tonight."
     And forms entwine upon the canvas lounger, as much as can be done and yet be comfortable and yet still in the lounger.
     "Would you like some ...wine or...some fruit?"

      Ian watches you for a moment before speaking. He nods and then sighs, murmuring, "...fruit is nice." He tilts his head, however, and asks, "Why...do you think you have no respect, Will? That...everywhere we go...that is...not how they treat you..."

     "When was the last time... we were at such a political function. It has been... how long? Fifty years? One hundred? And who have I ever been in European politics? The 'Toreador Ventrue'? The artist? The eight-hundred year old childe, not considered an elder until... what... five or six years ago?"
     That is Alexandra speaking. The clan says you are this, William, they clan says you are that, William. When will you ever grow up? When will you stop ...dabbling in politics and do what you were embraced to do?
     "I do not know... my circle knows me well... I do not know how it is for the rest of them. Maybe... I just... have heard her say it so much, for so long, that I ... cannot believe the rest are not saying it too..." he murmurs. "I have done good work," he adds in a whisper. "I have worked hard... I have made mistakes, I know. Chosen things that did not help with this. I played into it... I guess, because I felt it was..."
     He shrugs and frowns. Dieu, I sound like a childe...
      "Nevermind... it's just me... not feeling I have done enough... that's all... and mad at her for all the shit..." Such language...
     The canvas shifts again, the wood creaks, as William sits up. "Anything else from the kitchen...?"

     Ian nods his head, considering your words carefully. "No, thank you," he whispers, mostly to himself. Lost in thought. As you go, Ian stares blankly at his lap and his open hands, mulling your observations and his own part in them....

     The sky is so full of stars. Not even Barcelona there in the distance can dim them. The city is like a distant star itself now. Behind you. Above you, should you look, the Milky Way. Ursa Major. Minor. Orion. Taurus. Cassopeia. Does it remind you of the music room's ceiling...
     "I sound like Geoffrey... why doesn't mother love me, why doesn't father respect me," he has returned, a bottle of brandy and two apples and a knife. He'll do the cutting, naturally. It gives his hands something to do. William chuckles, seeming amused at himself. Warmly grinning. "I know better..." he rolls his shoulders as he stands before you, setting the bottle of Normandy brandy aside.
     "It was and is my life. If I seemed to have wasted my youth, well... maybe I did. And I should take that on myself. Give Alexandra her part of it, but accept my own. I'll have to see... where I stand with the clan in two years..."
     And he lets it go, sitting upon the other lounger again, but facing you. Dark eyes settle on you and the placid expression, no longer showing troubled thoughts, breaks for you. "Are you alright, amours?"
      Hands begin to move, the sharp knife cutting into the apple. So graceful. A warrior's hands. An artist's hands. He doesn't even look, so confident is he.

     "Hmm?" Ian looks up, a bit absent. "Oh," he frowns, some character lines forming, "...oui, I am fine, Will," voice trailing off in thought again. It is a second before he inhales and then asks, "I am sorry, Will..." face curious and at the same time concerned, "...if I...did not speak...when I...should have." Almost a question.
     Grey eyes wander to your hands and the cutting. "I...should have said something. And I didn't. To be honest...I think the next...conclave...will be most topsy-turvy..."

     "And what should you have said?" he murmurs, eyes lowering to his hands a moment. And with the lifting of indigo a wedge of golden apple is offered to you. He sits not far from you, just a whisper of space, in truth. "What were you supposed to say? No, don't pay attention to what he does... try to move past that?" William shakes his head. "Non... Ian... you tried to speak to me... that is what lovers do. Had you spoken," he shrugs, "...it would have just seemed as if you were making up for what was obvious. Those who want to believe that of me, despite the work I have done, then... they will believe that. What could you or I have done then? I can just... be who I am now. Right wrongs by being right..."
     When he looks up to you he smiles. A reassuring look. "I will simply be myself. Those who have a problem with that can fuck off... how's that for a philosophy?" And the grin is smooth and wicked. But the wickedness fades for genuine amusement. "I doubt any will recognize me at the conclave. It will be shocking...oui?"

     He grins suddenly. "Oui...ah..it will be really different." The world has changed much in the last five years. Old needs fall by the wayside. Things change. New needs of the group come from new places. And so it goes with all things Kindred.
     Ian settles back into the lounger, sufficiently more bright. He watches you and then looks up to the night sky filled with stars. "I want to be left alone, Will," he murmurs, closing his eyes as if making a wish. "I want to be with you, I want us to do the things we want, when we want. I want...to occasionally be needed by them. Be given the fear and respect I keep trying to instill." That causes Ian to smile from ear to ear, something self-deprecating in it. But his needs are not yours. Yours are different. Following the open door, Ian's eyes open and he looks at you. "I think they will know that they were wrong, those who have not said or shown you so before. This is a new time...and they will find that their greatest friend was one they did not know. They will show regret." Ian smiles, speaking not of those you and he already call friends and associates. But those who lurk and watch. Who talk. He shrugs, "They will give you the respect you deserve, Will. I really think so..."
     He looks at your hands again. "And I have the nibbles, hmm?"

     Illumination...
     In laughter that brightens him. From eyes to the accompanying grin. From the air around him, to the expression and even the posture. The uncertainty of earlier conversation is gone. He is not that young vampire who didn't know what sort of place he should have in the world, who did his best -- and sometimes didn't do his best -- in his effort to try to find one. He is the one who knows who he is and is content with what he knows.
     "You and I... we want the same things. To feel feared...when fear is handy... to feel respected... to be asked for advice..." William's voice trails off and he looks to you, grin smoothening across that mouth, "...to lie in furs with my husband in the north country. This is what I want... I have no desire to do what Davydd is doing..."
     There is a wink, "...and, oui, the nibbles are for you... here, love..." an apple for now, something else later perhaps. The wedge given to you. The next one he cuts is for himself. "Seeing regret would be nice. Even incredulous gaping would satisfy me." He chuckles quietly. "Ah, thank you though... for your words. You always know how to soothe the bruised, Angevin ego..." William bows his head as he watches the blade move through the apple's flesh. "You have the greatest hands in history, to have done so well, so long. And what they do to me... cannot be said enough..." Such words fall softly as his eyes are half-veiled by his black hair. "I do not envy you your task in handling such an ego. How do you do it, laird of Rosshire?"

     "Mmph," Ian gurgles, having just bitten into his apple. It will take him a few minutes to finish the small bit. He swallows and smiles, "Stroking is something I do decently," not one for making such double-entendres. He likes it though, settling back into his seat, arms folded across his chest and apple near to his mouth.
     "Do you think we should spend all summer out on the seas, Will?" Ian wonders. "Sometimes, I think we are very much the type to remain at home..." another bite taken. "Granted..." he smiles, "...you were right," Ian's head swinging left, "...and I was wrong," head moving right, "...about bringing the cadre with us. Maybe you are right about many things," he observes, winking at you.

     "I have my moments," comes the soft admittance. "Maybe more than I thought and others expected... but I do have them..." And so the conversation begins to quiet. Troubled words left behind, just like Barcelona...
     And his hands move, cutting the remaining, even as you have seen him do a thousand times. A comforting motion to the old knight. The solid feel of metal, the soft sensation of flesh parting for it -- an apple serves...
     And the rest is hushed. Quiet understanding and a sky full of stars. There's no talk of shortening the trip. Ah, but maybe... a little homesickness is to be expected. We, the old men of the mountain as we are...
     He joins you again, and here for a while he will remain. Whispering of the cadre, grinning at the choices, agreeing that ... yes... sometimes the Norman is right. As much as that may gall the rest of the world...

~*~   ~*~      When he is right... Plantagenet is... very ... right...      You abandoned stars for more earthly pleasures. The oceanscape for the luxury of the cabin suite that has been your home for the past month. The cool of the evening breeze for ...something decidedly warmer...       And the passion your husband and lover displayed in his earlier anger was revived and transformed. And multiplied...      And upon the bed, you are surrounded. William, close at hand, and Marco too -- your dark-haired favorites. More still than in the previous moments, but hands, fingers and mouths are still in motion. And at your stomach, tangled in legs and sheets, is the red-brown haired Amadeo.      William's touch always comes with fire, pulling at your blood from beneath your skin, with energy that the other two, no matter how energetic and...talented, cannot match. And he leaves a kiss at your ear. A murmur of your name. And the brush of his mouth there, in a wide grin.      The italian? It is spoken in praise. To you both. But when you feel a mouth brushing against your own, it is not your husband's.

     Never, in a thousand years, would I have seen this. Myself with the one for whom I waited. Two centuries passed. And I was grateful then.
     But now? It is beyond all hope, all imagination. We sail the seas, living our life together. Fortune lets us share a bed, but she has seen fit to bring two others that also stir me.
     And my love and I persevere.
     The noise of my own sighing startles me. Cradled in luxury, the waters rock us gentler than we treated each other. And now spent, we rest.
     This is when I am most reminded of Plantagenet. Handsome Plantagenet. Even now, just to think of his name, his face...part of me wishes to please him, to know him again. But he is here, whispering to me. Never so far away, never again.
     And that? That...is someone else. I smile for him too. He is as Plantagenet said. How amazing it is that my eternal love allows me such joy. It is redoubled over and over again.
     But the sound of my own body calls me. Disturbs my silent thoughts. I reach my hand out, fingers curling at Plantagenet's side. There is my rock, that which makes everything possible. And once I know him again, I grin for the others kindnesses.
     The kiss upon my lips is returned. Gratitude and thanks for a time well spent. They may stay, indeed, but the next hour is not theirs. It belongs to him, if he wishes it.
     My eyes open to find a canopy above me. Feet and legs stir only to find others twined there. And Plantagenet calls my name. I love you too. I so love you.
     "What did he say?" I ask, missing something in all of that. Maybe I am tired or simply I was not paying close attention. Syllables in the Italian's speech escaped me. My head turns to find William's mouth, to hear his voice as much as feel lips upon my skin. What do you think, laird?

     "That you thrill him to his soul... and he wants you again... he asks if he may feel you again..."
     Five years ago, even five short years ago, whoever thought you and William should be here, let alone with these two delights in tow. Not William. No indeed. Never did he think he would ever feel so free that he could sit back with a glass of wine while two men made love with you, you with them. Or that you should ever share him likewise. And that, at the end of it, you and he would turn, unchanged, unhurt, unfettered, and find that love had but increased with such freedom.
     It is a joy. It is a true joy to have you, hold you and to know, without a moment of fear, that he is yours and you are his. It is the only thing that matters...
     Languid, the last syllable transforms into a coiling kiss. The kiss turning to a suckle. And William smiles there. "But," he says in provencal, "... it is my turn..." And though his arms draw you to him and the kiss deepens, wanders, wavers between teasing and rapture.
     I know I love you. I think my Italian models and horse-trainers love you. I think I do not mind it... too much. So long as they know my love comes first.
     And the other two...?
     They are not dissuaded by his ancient French, having missed most of it. Amadeo's mouth wanders your hip. And Marco's your other shoulder, and then your chest. And there is no rise of complaint from William.

     That brings a lazy smile. "It is," Ian murmurs, cocking one eye open at the lurid thought: service here, no waiting.
     "I think I am gathering sudden scruples," he says surprised, wondering where the streak of temperence suddenly came from. Maybe a pause is in order. Leaving your French, Ian looks down himself and suggests, "Rest. I need a bit of time with Prince William." He gives the young men a smile with the dismissal, not wanting it to be too harsh, yet sure that he wished them out of the immediate space.
     "Now...what were you saying?" Ian continues, looking to you once more.

     It does not take much from you, for, though seemingly eternally eager, there have been several interludes now between you all. Suggestion of rest? Easily absorbed. And the bed is in motion, as Amadeo moves from your stomach and thighs to rest alongside Marco. That is as far as Amadeo got. Marco, less far. He closed his eyes as he looked last at you and half-rolled back. He and Amadeo seem such a loving pile of male flesh. Look... how in their sleeping they lightly hold...
     "Hmmm... that is better...but they are beautiful, oui?" His mouth plays against your own as he speaks. Knightly arms and form roll you in his hold, until he is your canopy once again. "You like them," he whispers, he smiles against you mouth, your chin, your neck...
     And then lower...
     "I do not blame them," his mouth is at your chest, parted, wandering. "You are so..."
     The rest is just a gutteral noise. A simple, sublime sound of extreme pleasure. You have heard this sound from him several times today...
     "So..." is murmured again, the breath of that against your stomach. He will linger there a while. It is his...weak spot, your stomach. "I am having... such a wonderful journey. Do you know how ...amazing it has been... do you know how amazing it is to watch you with them..." A deep chuckle lingers in his throat, resounds in the expanse of his chest. And he sighs at your navel.

     "No," Ian chuckles a little, hands at your back. He angles so he might see where you wander, a chiding magister. "For I cannot see myself with them, so I cannot wonder how amazing it is." Logic impeccable. He laughs at himself, letting his eyes close at the ceiling once again.
     "It has been a marvelous time...how did I ever let you talk me into going with you?" Ian smirks, his blonde hair falling askance as his cheek touches the pillow. "They are beautiful," his French comes. "As beautiful as any I remember. I'd forgotten," Ian finishes, trailing off into a memory.
     "To have them...and you, Will," he goes on, "..it is...more than any soul or body could ever wish or stand. I like them..." Ian whispers, "...but I need you." Never forget.
     "As for the rest," Ian chuckles, "...I could sit and have my cup of tea over there," his hand motions to a sofa, "...while listening to you with them. Perhaps work on the puzzle in the arts section in the meantime..."

     "That interesting is it?"
     And suddenly he is your canopy again, his laughter sounding against, within your mouth, only half swallowed by the kiss. When it parts, laughter has ended, but the warmth of it still resides in the gaze. It is his turn, and he is spending it, not in grasping and pulling at you and tangling in the sheets, but in holding you. In quiet words interrupted by the pulling of his mouth against yours, plucking the fullness of your mouth like the sweet fruit that it is.
     "And I need you," William whispers. "You are first..."
     His teeth tug at your lower lip...
     "...last..."
     And his mouth wanders to your ear as he speaks, down the line of your neck...
      "...and always..."
     You are rolled in his arms again, and his mouth descends to your thighs and between them. Ah, where he has lived since sea was first seen. Has a night passed when he has not set it in his heart to please you?

     Always.
     As you spoke and moved to punctuate your point, Ian's closed eyes opened, widened, and closed again. There. Lax hands grasp your shoulders. Lazily lying legs flex and stiffen. Someone has strummed a chord, and it vibrates through him, paralyzing him for a moment with a startling spasm of intensity.
     And then it passes.
     Ian relaxes, smile pulling at one corner of his lips. He would look at the young men, but pleasure demands his eyes to close. Breathe. His hands dust across your skin, keeping time with you. Muscles of his thighs move in synchrony, tensing and relaxing though a slow crescendo.
     Look how my fingers disappear into the darkness of his silken hair. That too makes me smile. How his mouth tightens about me. How he enjoys how he makes me feel. How does it make him feel? Happiness, I think. It feels that way, inside.
     How do I tell the world of my continual joy? It is upon my face as I look to the ceiling? In the sounds I make? It must be. It shines from me as radiantly as the sun shines, or the moon on a full night. Illuminating the world.
     He does that to me. I always knew he could. He would.
     Have I won? After a thousand years? I think so, but it is hard to tell. We have such a long way to go.

Posted by rowan at April 18, 2003 05:58 PM