Like any old house of its day, Kensington is a maze of apartments. Labyrinthine, hallways move through doors and more doors, a chamber here, a chamber there. One can seem to be traveling for days, and yet be only a ball's toss from where one last stood. So it is between the green chamber, where Victoria Whitethorne is sleeping, and the master apartment, where the two of you are accustomed to stay the few times every few years that you are actually here.
     She slept easily as you commanded. The surest way to rest, found at the end of a Ventrue benediction. Bishopric, did you lay a hand upon her hair as you bade her to rest? He can almost picture it...
     Having given her one last word of support for the night, William went to the master apartment. He stripped off his clothes, piece by piece, lastly removing the only jewelry he wears these days, the wedding band the two of you exchanged. Warm water cleansed him, soothed him, droplets and the condensation of the steam pricked against his skin. Though he was in no danger of regressing, it kept him steadfast in the Present. In the Present, between you all is well.
     It is some moments later. A quick fifteen minute drenching, and he puts a towel to his face. Indigo eyes see themselves in the mirror. He remembers one night... staring into the glass, not recognizing himself. But as the towel lowers, there is no such loss of recognition, no such forgetfulness. And there follows an exhale, and a smirk at his reflection. A piece of work, Plantagenet...
     Short hair, wet yet, lies flat. It will be mussed when it dries. Thick and dark, left as it is it almost has a wave to it. It is how he is wearing it these days. No sign of beard. No long hair to hide behind. No amulet to keep it so. He walks out of the bath, clothed in a towel and mostly dried.

     "Better?" Ian asks, lying glorious upon the folded back bedding. He rests on the sheets, feet covered by the covers. He feels better, in truth, taking his early departure from the bath in order to cool while he waited for you. "I've already poured a drink," he motions nearby, "...we can share." Indeed. It is an almost full glass of Scotch.
     A sigh and Ian rolls onto his back, hands slipping beneath his drying hair. "You look better," he says softly, looking at you stare at yourself for the briefest of instants. "Like what you saw?" he grins, teasing you about your habits with mirrors.

     Let he without sin in this house cast the first stone...
     There is color for the teasing, that look let he without sin in this house cast the first stone in the indigo, brilliant blue-violet. Opium has left him, finally, for a look of awareness you have not witnessed for nights now. And the power that has been unfolding all night, working in dominance of servants and majestic presence to calm the infirm, is now withdrawn once more, to fill him, to electrify the air around him. And between you.
     William smirks, coloring returning to near normal, he is not as dark as he shall be after another meal or two, but when the slight flush fades, the olive remains. "Oui... it was quite the sight. The mirror adds ten pounds." Pause. "Here and there." The bed sounds as he sits, towel and all. There is a glance for the scotch, and a nod, he will have some, but then the towel is pulled away, and he rolls over to lie between the sheets, warm from his shower, smelling of water and steam and soap and cinnamon. But not of blood. "I do feel better, mais oui... I needed some space. It is good... she needs to sleep. I think we," better said, you, "...should keep her resting until we get to Strathfayr and can better determine what she will need."
     William exhales, eyes to the ceiling, and then he turns his head to look to you as he settles on his back. "Did you.... hear any of my soliloquy? I would have made Hamlet proud..."

     "No, I missed it, fortunately," Ian murmurs oh-so-Englishly. He smiles and shifts, left foot coming flat on the bedding. "I've never been a good audience of one."
      "So, what think you, of all of it? Her, him. This. Now, I am sure," Ian grins, "...that you have plenty of thoughts. But...what's next for her?" Not you and I. "She has...a long road. And," despite his abilities and logical predilections, "...I cannot see where her paths go." There's no distress for it, just a fact. "It is...dark." A shrug. "Maybe her road is not one that we are on. Well," Ian waves a hand, finding himself droning on, "...not necessarily. I'm making too much of it. Just...that...I can't compute...the possibilities. Yet."
     Therein lies Ian's true talent.
     Despite his ramblings, Ian causes the bed to heave as he comes to lie on his side, facing you, bent arm cradling his head. "But what of you, Guillaume? What do you think of?"

     There is a glance for the scotch, but it begins and ends at you. Half-turning, his look transforming into a roll, he meets you in the middle. You feel one of those Plantagenet paws at your hip, as light a touch as they are apt to give. "I think she... will require a lot of diligence. A lot of support. Ultimately, it may not be with us, I do not know." Clearly by that look in those dark eyes he does not know. "I want to help her. Whatever I can do to help her. Short of opening the door for her at noon. I could not do that." I could not help her destroy herself.
     I would not ask that of any of my friends, were something like this to happen to me. No, I have seen what you are all capable of.
     William sniffs, a clearing breath only. "If we are able to help her, I would like her to stay with us. If not," he exhales mightily and shrugs. "I guess we call a Toreador we trust." A pause. "The list is short. Girault..." He pauses again, corners of his mouth upturning. "It is a short list indeed when Il Gatto di Firenze floats to the top of it."
     William leans forward. A close of his eyes, and he leaves a brief kiss upon your mouth. "It is dark, oui. And... perhaps it is not a road I should walk again, but like Virgil seeing Dante...what can I do when I know the way?" Great shoulders roll. "All we can do, as her friends, is love her, do for her what we can, or find her help elsewhere, amours."

     His brows raise at mention of Girault. But your hand rest at his hip, which brings about a barely perceptible lean forward.
      "She is not well," Ian states for the record. "I wonder if she should ever recover. And then? What do we do then? Are we to be her forever caretakers? Would Girault...or anyone else...care?"

     "If we cannot help her... and if no one else will..." William murmurs this, looks to you, dark brows knitting. Is this the question? "If she is unable to care for herself after a time, I suppose we will have to ask this again. And then? But now," he takes in a breath, it is exhaled a few moments later. "I think it is too soon, amours. She is not well," he confirms, he understands, he sees. It is upsetting. Dark eyes lift from you and look to the wall for a moment. He shakes his head, eyebrows raising helplessly. "We will have to see. If it becomes too much of a burden, or if we are doing more harm than good, then we will have to see if Girault would be interested. He... is a magister at heart... perhaps it would appeal to that nature. And... as the Dignitario... I would imagine he... has a duty to uphold. We have friendship."

      To a woman he does not know? It is much to ask an immortal to be saddled with another. Ian does not speak it, but looks at you sympathetically and smiles. His hand touches your cheek, a feathery brush.
     "What do you know of Girault's...abilities? Is he a Mentalist?" As some Toreador are. Many give the Ventrue too much credit. Granted, the ability to press a mind is one thing. The ability to tear into it or project onto it is another. "Maybe, he can help her before she gets worse? I know...I cannot do things like telepathy or conversing with her in another way. He might, or may know others trustworthy."

     "I know he has the ability to speak without speaking, presence ... well..." Of course he has that. "I know his sensory abilities are ... uncanny. He is renowned to have other abilities. I understand that he can do some things with utterance and vocalization, but... I have never seen such. That is rumor. He plays it close to the breast, Medici does. His mental abilities I am familiar with, most familiar with." And the fact he can't keep his eyes off of you, but I try not to think about that.
     William looks to you, at the touch upon his face he looks to you. "There is no...spa or sanitarium that I would trust to send her. I do not think I could live with myself if I ...packed her up when she became inconvenient and shipped her off like chatel to an institution." A pause. "Or a convent." Get thee to a nunnery, Ophelia. Again the sigh is mighty and William lifts his hand from your hip to massage his scalp for a moment. It returns soon enough, planting itself firmly at your hip. He even grips it. "We can call him. It would not hurt. It is not as if he isn't dying to hear from one of us." You. "I'm surprised he hasn't visited this year already. We are overdue. But ...oui...you are right, amours. Even if he does not, or cannot take her in, he would know others who perhaps could help..."
     Though this idea is not as appealing to his sensibilities. "I should have stepped in before. When I saw what kind of man he was. I should have done more then. I knew it would come to this..."

     "Indeed. Just as everyone knew that you should not be wed to that barbarian who barely knew how to speak," Ian chuckles. The silliness of what ifs. He waves it off with a grin and dip of his chin. "We should speak with Girault. And you are right. We...cannot send her off with anyone else." She will remain ours, until the end. Though he could easily muster the diffidence to do so, maybe a conscience secretly has grown...
     "We can call him before sunrise. Last thing. Let him travel or call us tomorrow," Ian smiles. The arm that rests along his body moves, and his hand lands on yours.

     You always know what to say. The smile slides, sensuous wind of that essential mouth and dark eyes glitter. "I thought I was the Great Unwashed," he murmurs, hand splaying. William draws you to him, the smile remaining in place until it is kissed away.
     "Very well, I will call him. Or maybe you should," the bed sounds as he rolls, rolling you with him until you are on your back and he is above you, settling against you. That heavy form finding its way, gracefully distributing its substantial weight between you and the bed, thick arms coming around you, and behind you, scooping. "I am sure he would rather hear your voice than mine, he can coo over you as much as he likes and I don't have to hear it. Hmmm... oui..." He likes the sound of that. Hearing Girault purr your name drives him to absolute distraction. William buries his face in the crook of your neck, his thighs spreading yours beneath the linen. "Maybe I will even purr back, in the background."

     "I will leave," Ian grins, pushing your shoulders, "...the sparring matches between you and Girault, thank you." He laughs, twisting to reach for the phone. "Maybe...you should call him now. It would be better for Victoria if he could come see her soon." Ian shakes his head, trying to get comfortable for a call, despite you all over him.

     "You enjoy it too much, you love it when men fight over you, and you love to see me... knotted up with it, don't you...and...alright," sudden English, "I will dial his number, but you must do the talking..." His English is so out of practice. The verbs are backwards, the accent is so thick Loire. As you twist for the phone, William lifts, reaching in turn for the whiskey. A sip of the scotch, he holds it on his tongue, lifting eyebrows at it. "Even for your stores, that is amazing, amours... which is it?" he wonders on the drink and then he settles once more, only half upon you this time.
     A heavy Angevin thigh rests across you, you feel the length of him at your hip, making itself known there with all the moving around. "His number is Italy... Venice..." for country and center code, "... 32... 3... 45... 13... 7....25."

     Ian looks at you skeptically. "No, actually," he replies, "I don't like it when men fight over me," he snorts, admitting the truth. Not his way, considering he never thought himself worth much compared to the man he loved. Ian glances at the drink upon its mention, distracted from his train of thought. "Um. I do not recall. Maybe the Balhwinnie."
     "And you should speak to Girault." The man makes him nervous.

     "As you wish..." comes the sigh, hand coming out for the phone. He takes it, small thing that it is, and rests his head upon your shoulder. "I love you," he murmurs there, as he dials. Italy. Venice. 32. 3. 45. And so on. "And I will promise not to fight," so he says.
     You should have any pick of the men in the world. You have chosen me. I am glad for it. But others see you. They see how handsome you are. They know how powerful you are. There are creatures among us who find you worthy, Ian Dunross. You should know this. Alire. Antonio. These just in the last couple of years.
     "Antonio... buona sera, signore, e come e voi?" William chuckles. "What? What do you mean you do not know this voice?" You can hear it on the other end, the Italian guilt trip: Who are you Strange Person Who Never Calls Me Anymore? William? William Who? "Listen...no seriously...I have a matter of importance..."
     I see how it is with you, d'Angevin. If I did not love you so much, I should not accept your calls. You call only when you need something these nights. What am I to think?
     And then as suddenly as it is begun, it is ended, the jesting, the guilt. And William turns as serious, indigo eyes lifting from their view of your neck and shoulders, to your face.
     "Do you remember Victoria Whitethorne... si, si... the young woman of Chinon who yelled at Christian. You have a very good memory for such an old man."

     She yelled at Christian? Ian doesn't remember that part. But ah well. Your head rests on his shoulder as you talk; he kisses your earlobe.
     But you are keeping him from a drink. Ian's head turns to see it, then swivels back as he lets his gaze spread across the canopy.
     Ack. There are holes up there.

     Well, that was Girault's interpretation, William merely echoed it. It is Chinon that was significant. "... She has suffered some trauma..."
     Again? She is very good at this, I am thinking. Some people have knack. What sort of trauma?
     "...Psychological. Emotional." William pauses, looking at you. He rolls off to give you your space again, giving his back once more to the bed. The bed squeaks. Girault can hear it...
     Tell Ian I said hello...so... emotional, psychological...what happened?
     "...Her bonded lover has died..."
     Ah...si...which is to say, I did not know this, but... I understand what you mean, Gui...
     "...We are going to take her to Strathfayr. But Ian and I... we are not certain that we can provide her much help. We may not be able to reach her... she comes in and out of lucidity, consciousness...."
     Dominate will not help you much, no...though you can keep her calm, si? Until I arrive. I can be in Strathfayr in three nights... I am currently in Paris, but I have a meeting tomorrow I cannot put it off. Villon is already having a fit. These nights, no Edward to keep him comforted, he is like an old man in need of warm soup and a shawl...
     William chuckles a little, as he must do when jokes are turned at Villon's expense. "Mais oui... I understand...three nights..."
     Maybe two, Gui, I will do my best. Two night, si. I can do this. I will meet you in Strathfayr... you will be there by then?
     "We will be..." Indigo fastens on you. "The weather was clearing when we left. I think we will be able to get back without too much delay..."

     Ian breathes deeply, as if he needed to catch his breath. He turns opposite you, long enough to reach over to the scotch and take a swallow from a half-propped position. His head tilts to the side, and he lifts the glass in delayed response to the greeting to him.
     Another swallow. Not bad, really. He hadn't been paying attention.
     Ian takes a last taste, setting glass back upon the nightstand. As he falls back against the bed, he emits a silent exhale between circled lips. There is very little like the burn of a good single-malt, that fades into sublime smoothness. He smiles to himself and his brows arch, as if he'd forgotten the power of his favorite drink.

     It has become William's favorite drink. Brandy now saved for summer and sometimes spring. When winter hits, it is all single malt. all the time. He motions for the glass, another sip? The conversation in mid-stream...
     I will be able to see what may be done. I am sorry to hear about her lover. Has the matter been passed through proper channels...?
     There is a look to you, indigo flickering. "I do not know... but if not... I suppose it cannot get more official than this, si... Il Dignatario?" I have not forgotten.
     It is Girault's turns to laugh. Si. Si. You have a point. Well... I will see you then in two days. I will bring one of my own young men, so you do not have to worry about losing your most beautiful boys, Gui... Until I see you, rest well... and call again if something happens...I will do what I can from Paris until then...
     A dark eyebrow cocks up and William smirks. "Good of you to come prepared...oui... I will see you then, and I will call... if I need to ..."
     And with that, it is ended...

     Ian moves again, twisting to pick up the glass. When safely in his hand, he reclines again, bringing the drink over himself and out to you. He is quiet a second, then says, "I think...we are done. And I could use darkness, quiet, and you." Is that a sleep request?

     A twist, a groan and the phone is set aside. William returns, a rub of his eyes and then he looks to you. He takes the glass, he takes a sip. Holds the flavor a moment and then nods. "I am done. I have no more to give it tonight. I just want to ...be here, with you. No lights, no clothes, no worries." He must have respite. He cannot give it all to her, emotion brought to the surface must be allowed to wane.
     As he surrenders the glass, William turns, twisting to turn off the end-table light. There is only one light left. Sinking to the bed, he turns to face you, settling in the bedding, between sheets and beneath duvay and coverlet his hands seek you.

     Agreed. Ian nods and performs his previous action in reverse. He leans out to click off his light, leaving you both in a pitch black room.
     The bed sounds, letting you know that he's turned about. The sheets move to his hip, and Ian slides closer, nose nearly to your own. Only then does he sigh a scotch-laden breath, then chuckles at the fumes.

Posted by rowan at July 03, 2003 03:58 PM