Out of the ordinary from the past several weeks, William was not in bed when you woke. It wasn't a simple matter of rolling over and finding him, or finding him as is more usual, taking up your side of the bed, and part of you, with himself....
...But he was here. You could feel the resonance from the bed, see the evidence of clothing, an open closet door, a half a glass of wine. And the condensation in the bathroom. The warmth of a shower that surrounded him in steam, for the first time in a while without you there. Either the servants were in after him or he has finally learned how to hang up towels. There was nothing on the counter or the floor that was not meant to be...
It has been an hour...
Of sounds and footfalls along the stairs and in the upper chambers. Guests seen to, a sleeping or resting guest comforted. He sat with her a while. You could feel a tremor of something helpless on the air. In Former Days, that helpless feeling would have led to a night time's drinking, a little fighting, something, anything, to feel empowered. He cannot abide helplessness. And still, it is not a preferred feeling, though Plantagenet has learned.... he cannot solve everything. He does not have the world on his shoulders. He does not need to.
William emerges beneath the archway from the billiards room, seeking you out. He is covered in a wrap from the bed -- one of the furs -- beneath it a black turtleneck sweater, the cashmere of Scottish sheep, and black wool trousers. The fur is one of the large throws constructed of ermine. Quite the lord he is in his darks, setting off the olive in his complexion.
"Why are you wrapped up?" Ian asks, billiards cue in his hand. He's already had a round or two on his own, but had left his drink in here. "You cannot be sick..." he grins, dressed casually in slacks and an untucked silk shirt. "Are you alright?" He'd certainly felt your concern when you were upstairs with the guest.
Moving around, Ian takes a seat on a sofa. He drops his cue aside, content to hold his drink. "Come here," he murmurs, hand patting the space next to him.
"I am a southerner with delicate skin," comes the murmured exhale. "And, for me... only ermine will do, ne c'est pas?" Well, he has his sense of humor. There is that. "I could do with a spot of sofa, you and a drink." A pause. "Maybe a smoke." His voice is quiet, warm, even and the Gaelic he speaks comes with the slow drawl of southern Loire valley.
Troubled. For her. Bothered by being helpless to do anything to stop it. Remembering what it was like to be where she is. It is all these things.
The warmth and energy he exudes are soon with you, a press against you, and the ermine is comes to cover you both. Soft, sumptuous, the fur has been heated by his own closeness. William exhales as he settles on the sofa. "What are you drinking, amours?" As if he has to ask.
An arm comes out, an opening to you, come here. To warm form, to muscle, to cashmere, to me. "She is resting. Girault is with her."
"Ah good," Ian sighs, kicking off loafers to crawl against you. "Brandy," he motions at the table, the flame still lit from where it sat in the warming cradle. "Here," he whispers, offering you the snifter. A shudder, and Ian's head settles at your shoulder.
"How was she this evening?" Ian asks, opening the topic. He'd rather discuss other topics, but this is near and dear to you. He cares, certainly, but Ian has always been fortunate -- arguably -- with a surprising level of distance from this world. "Better yet, how do you feel?" he wonders, looking up.
He takes the snifter and he takes the drink. You know the look, you've seen it for eight hundred years. That look from indigo that focuses forward, the commander's look. He wishes he could do something. William takes another swallow of the brandy and looks to you. "There is nothing I can do other than sit around wishing I could do something."
His mouth forms a smile, smiles born there could never be anything but warm, moving with sensual care. "Sometimes, I think I should not feel as if she is my child or my little sister, that I am obligated to act. And yet, I have a hard time with it. I have never been able to watch people suffer. Not you, not my brothers, not my sisters, not my family or friends. I am not good at it. Not even now, when one should think that I would be acclimated to suffering." William settles back, his legs stretching out, his body given to you to hold as you please.
He does not speak of her. What is there to say? Girault is with her. One day maybe she will smile again. One day maybe she will sing again. One day, one day, and one day.
"It makes me think of how my friends must have felt when I was without you. I do not think I ever thanked them."
"You did," Ian smiles, leaning his weight against you. Toes wiggle beneath the fur around you both. Ian's legs are comfortably folded on the sofa's length. "We had this conversation then," he reminds. "You felt that you owed them for putting up with you," Ian remembers, his hand at the inside of your thigh. "But, if you wish, maybe you could thank them again, now that some time has passed."
William smiles, he looks down the length of himself to find you there. The hand upon his thigh -- it brings focus to his universe. "Non, non... besides, I have had to put up with them the last few years. We are probably even by now. Well..." an exhale, a clearing breath. "I will not let it bother me that I can't do anything about it." Oh really. Well, he will try. You see the look.
His hand finds you, large it lands upon your hip. "Good evening, by the way. You have been playing billiards and drinking good brandy. What else have you been doing? Tell me all the details of your early night. I want to hear it. Ah, I should give you warning, mais oui. Stephen and Henry should be here in a couple of nights. We will have a full house. All the handsome men, and eyes only for you. Hmmm... with the exception of Stephen. I forget, he likes women." And there is a wrinkle of his nose at that. As if anyone could want to be with anything so squishy and soft. Indigo sparkles in a wink.
"I am going to talk to the twins about the next century and see if Henry still wants to fly. I ... find so little need for the concorde these nights. Do you think we should keep it..." We, he says even though the concorde is his expense.
"It's useful," Ian remarks, fingers pressing firmer. "My evening has been fine. I have not been up that long," he notes. "I didn't even finish dressing," he looks down. And no worry for it. "I was practicing a few shots, in case Henry wished a challenge." He already knew, the smile saying so. "I'm sorry," Ian laughs, "I figured it out last night." Something in your mind. Something across the Bond.
"Other than that, it is a quiet evening. You're sleeping later," he murmurs. "Tired? Or is old age showing?"
"I think it is neither," but the olive complexion deepens slightly. He lifts the glass, taking the final sip from it. His eyes wander the ceiling for a moment and finally he looks to you again. "Do you want to know why? It is because I am happy. All the ghosts are gone. No more nightmares to stir me from my rest. No more battle dreams, no more dreams of finding you with another man," a chuckle at himself, his own jealousy, his own projection, "... and so, instead of waking up when the sun is still out, I sleep. Long and deep and comfortably." William bends, his mouth brushing your golden hair.
He closes his eyes for a moment, simply enjoying holding you. And the truth. "I like waking up with you. Having you wake me up. We are in the bed and it is crowded and warm, and you are everywhere with me. My time is spent as I like it best, with you." William smirks at your knowledge of Henry's (and Stephen's) impending visit. "Stephen from London, Henry from Edinburgh. He's living there now, I understand. The better to see our Paddy, I presume."
A roll of his eyes. Ian shakes his head, finding the whole concept astounding still. His skin flushes with embarrassment of the thought of those two together. But the dreams are more urgent. "That's good," he whispers, "...about the sleeping. Amazing," Ian notes, "...that it comes so easy for you now." Oh, how things can still change, even after centuries. "It's funny...you sleep longer. I...am up a little earlier. Reasons there for both of us." To having shifting clocks. Nature, emotion, something compelling. Whatever it is, Ian smiles for it.
"Question," Ian says suddenly, finger lifting as if he's remembering something. "What would Marco and Amadeo think...if they were allowed to our rooms and do nothing but sit in a chair?" And watch the two of you. He looks up, shrugging at the concept. He doesn't know what the reaction might be, but the thought's crossed his mind. Maybe it would not be a wise idea.
"I have noticed this," William murmurs, his hand lifting to your hair. His fingers curl and uncurl in the shorter gold, and he holds you to him. Though he is all muscular frame beneath the cashmere and the wool, he makes a comfortable bed. There is so much of him. "I am enjoying the compromise, whatever the reason. And... I do not know why the dreams suddenly fled. Perhaps it is because they ... did not have any reason to exist. We are happy, our lives are good, we are together and in love, so... what is there to have nightmares about?"
Nothing. There is nothing. Even the dread that Tori's situation initially caused was more surface. Uncomfortable, but not deep.
"Hmmm," he says as you lift your finger and you ask your question. "Amadeo would be more patient than Marco. It is why he is a better model than Marco. Marco does not mind watching, he does not mind being still, but he would rather do, or do to Amadeo while he is watching." So easily and candidly may such decadent matters be spoken. His fingers curl and uncurl in your hair. I love you. "I know that they both would... welcome any opportunity. They are loyal," he murmurs, "... and they are eager to show us their love and affection..." William's mouth pulls in a slant. Among other things.
"They enjoy us both, equally. You wish them to watch us. Do you want them to keep their hands to themselves as well?"
"You're leaping ahead," Ian grins, "...as you always do." A sigh, followed by a grin. "I don't know," Ian shrugs. "It was just a thought." Something to keep everyone on their toes, as it were. Ian quiets, more than likely falling into his own imagination and assessments.
William chuckles and it ends upon an exhale. Some things are just human nature. "Give Plantagenet a piece of string and he comes back with a tapestry. Give him an inch, he shows up on your land with an army, oui." He lifts his shoulders as well. "To answer the question you asked then," he murmurs, bending his head to look at you, "I think that they would do whatever we asked, would enjoy it, and Marco would have a harder time sitting still than Amadeo. But... would they do it? Oui."
William settles back, his other hand adjusting the ermine. "It was a thought, oui," he confirms, his voice held deep, resonating in the chest that is your pillow. "Care to share any more of them?" Another short laugh, and quiet. I need a cigarette. I am too meditative. Maybe it is because it is spring and I am still cold.
"Thoughts?" Ian asks, averting his gaze as he trolls through his brain. "What do people think about when they're engaged in anal sex?" He blinks, wondering for a moment. "I mean, are people's minds blank? It is just a black void? Are there words? Thoughts? Pondering the news or daily events? Imagining what's going on inside? Is there thought at all and if they say not...is that really possible? One has to think all the time. Or is it a case of just poor memory, which I can imagine, at those times?"
Ian looks at you, as if you have answers.
"Maybe," Ian posits, they can only think as far as the muscles of their body and emotions can let them. I can imagine that's not so far ahead...just in the moment. The instant, in fact. But some manage words, whole thoughts! They can express them. Or does it only make them want to see dirty words? See, I do not understand that part...when some speak...why is it they can only use words to describe what they're presently doing, like 'fuck'? Or is it a lack of expressive vocabulary to describe what you want, what is happening and what it makes you feel physically or emotionally?"
This is followed by another blank stare at you.
You're looking at me like I would know. What? "What do you want? Shakespeare? Donne?" William chuckles. He is as you describe, he knows. "The only thing I can think about is the sensory elements. How I feel, how you feel, how it feels, how you squirm or how I squirm, depending. I think about how I love you, how it makes you feel. How much I love to hear you call out my name. But that is me. I speak, when I speak, of that..." and his hand grasps you, grasps your hips, pulls you against him, "...visceral, physical, emotional explosion. Sometimes it is simply... fuck."
He grins, that mouth of his set into that face. "I think mortal men must think of something else or it will be over too soon, so maybe they think of Shakespeare or baseball scores. What do you think about? When I am inside you... or when you are inside me. What comes to your mind..." His hand lifts again, lifts to your hair, brushing it, and his mouth dips downward, a brush of his mouth to yours. Yes, what do you think...
"I don't remember," Ian says, not really meaning his question at you. He shrugs. "Wait," he blinks, hand lifting from your thigh. "I know, sometimes, well, sometimes it simply aches and straining." To be accommodating. "No, that's not it either. I don't know," Ian shrugs, "...it's hard to describe in any words that would make sense. Not nearly as romantic as you put it or as neatly describable." You used real words. "Exploding. That sounds like a novel." It's nothing like that, in reality. He sighs, not really knowing how to discuss it.
"I could not blame you for thinking of the aching," comes the languid roll of his voice. "It is a wonder you let me anywhere near you." He pauses. "I do not know what mortal men think during anal sex. Women, for that matter. Maybe it is not so much thinking as it is feeling. Unless you do not want to orgasm quickly, then maybe you are counting sheep or singing 100 bottles of beer on the wall. Me, I do not have this problem..."
William's arms surround you, the ermine held close and warm. This is what he has needed this night. He rose before you. He should have waited. He should have held you in the shower. The rest of the world just dissolves. "I did not know I was being romantic. It is good, non, that I do not have to try to be so." A smirk and a wink to you. William rests his head against your head, he closes his eyes. "Next time we make love, maybe you should write down what you think afterwards. Or, if you feel daring, during." A pause. "Or... we could record it and watch it after..."
He was settling in, until you said that.
Ian blinks, rather horrified.
"I don't think I could...do that. I mean, I wouldn't think of the thing...filming...during...but later? To watch?" He hates photos of himself now. How long has it taken to be public? But to see himself in the most intimate and exposing of acts?
He shudders to think.
"I don't think I want to know what I look like," he grimaces.
"Maybe some things are better unknown," William posits. "What if I am not as good at it as I think I am? I would have eight-hundred years worth of vanity crashing down around my ankles like yesterday's trousers. It would not be a pretty thing to see, mais oui." His hand gives you a nudge. Do not worry.
"But I will tell you, being the one who gets to watch you, you are amazing." His words end against your skin, the brush of his lips at your forehead. William settles back with a wide and heated smile. Memories of you in his mind. "Hmmm... oui, I do love to watch you. You are... stunning. I am ... amazed, more so it seems with every passing night. The things you make me feel..." He exhales. He needs a drink.
Hm. Ian lifts to let you move, eyes focused on the table. Amateur anthropologist he is. "Maybe I'll never understand it. How...seeing someone can bring a physical reaction. What's each step in between?" Oh well. He looks up to find where the glass went.
"Want to go riding?" Ian asks softly. Anything but sitting here. He's bored now. Hands pat his own thighs, as he prepares to stand.
"That would be good. A romp through the heather...that is what I need..."
He is in motion after you, like the wake of a rock in water, a large ripple of your initial motion. "Maybe along the stream... the moon is high and almost full. We should have plenty of light for it." William is agreed. Enough sitting. There is a time and a place for it. Now is the time to move.
The ermine lifts and a portion of the warmth departs.
Ian stands and suddenly stops.
"Maybe we should ask Charles to bring the horses out back."
At least we'll get past the stables this time...
That stops his progress as he stands. William looks to you and slow is the smile that claims him. "Good idea..." For how many nightly rights have been ended before they were begun? In the stables, the haylofts or the tack room...
There are enough memories to warm many the Scottish evening, that is for certain. Who needs the ermine with such thoughts?
It is still chilly, but gone is the bitter wind of winter and the severe faces of weather beaten trees. The sodden earth, wet with these three nights of mist and fog and intermittent showers, smells of life. Sod, turf, white flowers first springing from the mud to remind us all that persistance pays off, the smell of bark and rain, has it ever been this palpable? The smells in all variety from fresh to musty, from flowery to mildew, land upon the skin and senses like the fine mist tha hovers close to the ground.
The brook is full with the thaw. Its voice is constant, sounding over wind, sounding over branches, even over the footfalls of two horses moving slowly upon the soft earth.
The lights from the castle are dim, but you can see how its reflection touches even here. And the moon's light eases between the branches of awakening trees. There is just enough illumination to light the way. And you and your husband move slowly through the wood that has been your wood since God was a boy.
All Andalus stallions but one have returned to France to populate the fields of Chenonceau. The one remaining was dark silver dapple once, but creeping age is turning him ghostly white. He is large, his neck arched strongly, every motion becoming bold as he tempers into full adulthood in his sixth winter. Hard to believe this animal was once the foal who followed your William into an American ranch house and ate the pears from his palm, just as his ancestor had done.
And what of the man upon the beast. It is just as hard to believe that he was the man who showed up to that ranch house on that night, in that year after a thirty year argument. But how much more he seems like the man you knew he could be, and the one with whom you wanted to have tea and scotch. Life is a funny thing, Ian Dunross. Close your eyes for a moment and suddenly you have everything you ever wanted.
Such as an Angevin duke upon a Spanish stallion in a Scottish wood wearing a Scottish kilt.
Beside you, Ian rides upon a mottled English gelding who has seen many years as your stallion and more. He's dressed warmly, Ian is, with a long riding coat to keep his legs warm. His cowl is down, keeping him fully visible to you. Gloves hold the reins lightly as the horse certainly knows where to go.
In the moonlight, Ian's smile is radiant. He cannot ask for more in his existence, and it still sends him into shock and wonder when he thinks about the Now.
"Do you think I've changed much, laird?" Ian asks softly, little noise in the night to cause him need to project his voice. "Do you think you've changed? Or...are we...as we always should have been?" he asks, hands upon the knob of his English saddle. A shrug and Ian looks to the water nearby to see the moon's shimmer.
Who needs pants when the horse is warm? There is no saddle, not but a blanket between them, nothing between them but warm cottons and wools, nor is there any sign of discomfort. It's not as cold as all that -- but it is damp, it'll sink in by the time the ride is through. The rest is bold Fraser and pure Fraser, a traitorous kilt to wear in Rosshire lands. It could be worse, however. It could be Campbell...
"Yes and no," he murmurs Gaelic, turning his head to you, the smile easy, slight in his thinking. "We both have... but I think not who we are at our most essential, but ...more how we are. How we act. How we listen. How we approach life. This has changed a great deal." Open. Honest. How wide the doors have been swinging this past year. "We are, I think, how we would have wanted to be from the beginning. We are very fortunate, you and I. The fortune came at a high price and a lot of sweat, but ... we are here, and we are happy."
William looks forward, to the ground, and then back to you, monitoring the way even as his stallion continues his stroll. In the moonlight, the ivory cashmere, covered over though it is by an outer coat, lies against him like fog around a mountain. "I think we've changed our vision and our view. It's easier to see oneself, and one another, with all the ghosts gone, yours and mine." And the ghosts of lovers real or legendary that once crowded the bed you shared. "And you..." William smiles, glancing over then fixing his eyes between his horse's ears. "...what do you think?"
"I think you're too poetic in an attempt to say that we have," Ian smiles, enjoying goading you now. If honesty is the core, by God, let it be so. He grins and looks away coyly, anticipating a lover's typical remarks. "I'd say that we have," he goes on, looking at the trees ahead, but because we have become less of what we were. Some baggage has gone. Traumatic," he agrees, "...but gone. And different selves have appeared." There. That's an answer.
Ian makes a low noise beneath his breath, causing his gelding to pick up the pace slightly. Deeper into the woods, as if with purpose.
"Oh, by the by...you might have your people keep Midlothian and not sell short...we are going to make the earnings and beat them," Ian notes. "Seventeen points," he says softly, rather proud of it. It shows in the dip of his chin and the glowing smile. "I...am going to beat the spread." Bastards. The grin turns to you and Ian wiggles his brows.
"I'll race you to the...building," he calls it, motioning further in. The shelter you found.
"Poetic?" he murmurs. There's an exhale for that. Well, what can you do, Plantagenet. Maybe, you are just that way. "I did not mean to be Donne about it. I am still the rascal you loved, I'm simply smarter about it." And he grins, looking to you. That mouth, that smile -- the wise do not trust it, but you have the benefit of greater knowledge. You know the truth behind the poetry as you call it. "That is what I was getting too, mais oui," he drops into French. "...Siatz de mos tortz perdonans," comes the Langue d'Oc. Forgive me my sins. William grins. His only sinning these days is poetry? He'll take that.
There is quiet as you speak of Midlothian and as you smile, that smile... who needs the moon? One eyebrow lifts in its dark way, soon joined by its other, a surprised arch, but a pleased one. "I will make sure to tell Stephen to hold his hand..." the languid baritone pulls and then he grins. "You are winning. I like to watch you win. It is good, ne c'est pas?" And he chuckles. He has as much glee for you on your behalf as you have for yourself.
William's thighs, half visible, press to equine sides. Strength to strength and the andalusian picks up his pace immediately. He's been aching to run all night. Down the tumble of earth, along the brook, the horse half leaps, and William glances back. Still grinning.
Winning? Is it still allowed? Once, when Ian won, he'd simply smile smugly. Of course he did. He always conquers in business. It was expected. But the cost was a part of his life seemingly out of his control. And the tighter he held on to work, some modicum of success, the more ephermeral his grasp was on what he really wanted.
It's like a breeze, when change comes. The doors fly open, the windows lift, and a wind barrels through that takes the stale, stolid air away. When it's a hurricane, all you can do is hold on. Ian just held on for a few years, not knowing what would happen when the winds died.
But the gales did die down.
And he was on his feet.
The doors and windows stood open.
Midlothian was changed.
And you were standing beside him.
Now Ian smiles, not sensing another storm front in the distance. Instead, he walks around his space, unsure of what's in any room or behind any door, but confident as your hand tightly holds his own.
He laughs and his gelding slows as the space becomes a bit more enclosed. Trees make galloping harder, and a border of stream and shelter limits the way. In the clearing, Ian turns his horse about, letting it dance the remainder of its energy off in an angled half-walk. His cheeks have become ruddied and Ian's eyes sparkle brightly in the darkest parts of the forest.
"I can't believe it," he says, laughing louder now and looking up to the trees' canopy. Ian's eyes close and he exhales loudly, letting tensions go. Perhaps you didn't know he had them...thinking of Midlothian the last year. I am winning. And they should know better. All of them. They should know me by now. There is no one better than I am...no one...
"Goddess," Ian whispers, grinning in relief. "I fucking can't believe it..."
The woods open out into a half-meadow, the trees thinning. But has anyone ever noticed that the woods here are in a circle? Perhaps it was due to the circular building built long ago. But before this there were the standing stones, stones that still stand today in their orderly array, moss-covered...
It was a race of a kind. A trotting race after the first leap, and it ended in a draw, the andalus with its lengthened gait covering space as only a warhorse can. William halts him in the center of the clearing, in the center of the ring, a sudden halt that becomes an equine dance in place until the horse stops. Wearing that selfsame smile, William comes to you. He leans in from his andalus height and he kisses you, a sudden warmth in the spring chill, and you create fog between you when warm meets cold. There's your storm.
"I did," William murmurs, and his smile deepens. I knew you would win. "No doubt, amours, from the one who loved you."
Somewhere in my gut, though I had made a thousand mistakes, I knew that we would win, too.
William lifts his hand, his fingers moving against your face and he kisses you again. In the center of an old druid's ring, which spiraled on the edges of an older faerie ring, which surrounds you both and the shelter. If you look straight up and overhead, you see nothing but sky and stars. He lowers his hand from your face, but the kiss does not break. It widens and it claims.
There is no one like you. No one more stunning to me. I am proud of you. And I am proud to be yours.
Ian smiles, returning to the larger space and you in it. He exhales and swings from the back of his gelding. Apparently, horse time is done.
"You..." Ian twists, a proper gentlemen in full riding coat and frock, "...want to...check out inside...um...with me?" A twist left and right. A look to you, a look to the building. Ian shrugs a little, not knowing what to say suddenly. Right. Another exhale and he marches for the door, arms and hands out and stiff at his sides, finger splayed. He looks as if he's going in to have an argument, feet crunching in the semi-ice.
You swing from your horse's back, and there is a soft whistling sound made. The Andalus stallion lowers his head, arched and muscled as it is, but not so far as for his nose to bury itself into the early spring grass. It is merely the settling stance of a horse that will be staying put -- no matter who shows or says otherwise. Sitting as he does upon the grey-going-white horse, he makes a halfway proper Scot, even as you make a proper gentleman.
Six months ago, a year ago, or two is it now? He would have stared you for saying such a thing. He would have asked you whether you were alright. He would have worried. But the worry has gone and William does not question.
He slides off and he takes one of the blankets with him and the fur that was beneath it, leaving a riding blanket behind on the horse. And only after William turns to follow you in does Curtmantle put his nose to the ground in search of buried treasures. Nuts, tender shoots.
The hunting shelter is rounded, and though more structurally sound than it was two years ago, trees still criss-cross over its roof, it still sits half hidden in the thickening growth. "Be careful," William quietly cautions, moving behind you but more slowly. "You never know what's calling it home these days..." Boar, fox, wood rat.
The circular building seems roomy, but that is only due to a lack of furnishings. It is no larger than the average room and its floor is of the soft earth of Rosshire itself. There are no windows -- the only opening is through the thatch roof itself. The small opening is designed not for viewing but for the release of smoke. It would allow for only one shaft of light to enter.
Directly beneath the small opening is a circular indentation in the floor, ringed by stones. Room enough for a serviceable fire, though in heavy rainfall one might find keeping a fire lit to be quite the adventure. The rest of the floor is smoothened earth. Worn down where bodies long ago may have rested.
He may have heard you before barrelling through the door. A lean of his shoulder and push...it opened easily. Once open, Ian steps just into the lintel, hand on the door's edge.
He's rather quiet and still. Grey eyes pan the room, then pan again. And again. Only then does Ian's body seem to expand and contract, a large breath take and let go. It's audible, rushing across parted lips. A swallow brings quiet once more.
Then, out of nowhere...Ian chuckles.
He dares not rush in -- he might get a concussion on the lintel. Ducking in, and it required a bit more duck than you, William moves in behind you. You feel the warmth of his body behind you. You can even detect the shadow he casts against shadows as light is blocked by the great Angevin duke.
Immediately, and still in a partial duck, his indigo eyes lift to the ceiling, as if wondering whether it will hold, a lifted brow to punctuate his question. And then against the stone your laughter moves. Moves against him, and also within him.
William looks to you, letting the door close behind him, its hinges nearly done for. You laugh, he waits for the punchline, but his smile is warm, slight. Welcome to Shangri La, it might say. But then there is quiet. Quiet. He listens to your laughter, but more than this he pays attention to your soul.
Did he not once speak of this place with a kind of reverence? This is your place. And Iain's. It is that respect that is with him still. He places a hand lightly at the small of your back then draws it away to lay the fur and blanket on the floor.
Ian comes out of his bemused state as you seem to prepare something. "We're staying?" he asks, apparently not having any such plans. "You've seen this dodgy roof, haven't you?" He's not staying here. And it's too cold. And not comfortable. The dismay ripples between you. Not likely, mate.
"Let's go," Ian says softly, gentle voice mostly for your benefit. Perhaps you expected something else. Ian smiles and lets his hand drop from the door. He turns about and heads outside again.
He wasn't expecting to stay. You can see the relief, and the slight amusement. "I was getting tired of ducking," is all he says by way of explanation. Yes, he was going to have a sit, look at the roof, ponder gravity and wait for you to... do whatever it is you wanted to do. He's no mindreader. Blanket and fur come up easily and around him, as he ducks back out. The door barely closes any more. The hinges have perhaps two more years of this weather before they'll be gone entirely. Surprising moreso that they lasted as long as they did. Good Medieval construction that. No... earlier.
"It's not so bad," he murmurs, eyes drifting upward. "A fog rolling in from the creek," and he nods in the direction of the lifting and swirling mist. "Dunsinane at its finest laird." He gives a smile to you as he moves by you, Fraser kilt and cashmere and all. The grey Andalus lifts his head, ears pricked forward and with a rumbling murmur of his own, he moves toward your mate, his master. "So... where now, Ross," Plantagenet-turned-Fraser says, blanket and fur tossed upon the horse's back.
"Eh," Ian shrugs, spinning aimlessly in circles near his horse. So anti-climactic. "How about we follow the creek back," he suggests, not really committed to anything here. "How about you choose?" he says, hands reaching up as foot goes into stirrup. His coat parts to allow his swing and straddle room.
There is a low sound held in throat and chest. Sometimes that sound comes at your ear with your name punctuating pleasure. Sometimes, like now, it is with thought. But the thought that is more for effect's sake. A swing of Fraser regalia overlying Plantagenet territory, and he is mounted once more, warmed by horse and fur.
"Then I choose the open run," William says, nodding to a different path, "...taking the riding path to the open moors and lastly to Aonach Fair," Curtmantle swings around. "And lastly to the warmth of my bed, the company of my husband, and a good brandy."
The trail from the gardens leads straight way through the heart of Dunsinane. The riding path, however, leads more along the periphery, through lighter portions of the woods, better for riding, and ultimately spills like a river into the ocean of the wide and flat moors.
The andalus knows the way. As soon as William turns toward the path, the spanish horse breaks into a canter. And there is nothing more glorious than an Andalusian in gallop, or a Norman in the saddle...
"I take it that I agree," Ian supposes to say under his breath, but comes forth loudly enough for vampiric ears. He laughs and his horse swings around, heading off after you in a rousing gallop without any encouragement...
"Of course," comes the reply. It could have been spoken by any one of Them. The great Them you once knew. The assumption of a king. Or a duke. It is followed by laughter.
Self awareness, though it has come at a great price (as if it could come at a price less dear than life itself), is a grand thing and worth the sacrifice. Now, the son and brother of kings can laugh at old jokes and new, toy with the noblesse oblige that once was a weighty world all its own. As much as he knows it was once so serious, he now knows it means nothing at all. It is a great day indeed when a Plantagenet can look in the mirror and know he's full of shit...
Quick, someone check the temperature in hell...
The relaxed canter transformed into a gallop, and again from gallop to race when the trees were left behind and the flat open fields laid themselves low beneath the hooves. Across the bridge, a castle's evening lights, a kind of ambered hue began to soften, signs of staff departing for their beds.
Shall it be a race, up and over the bridge? Shall we tear past the guards of our own gate? Shall we ride nearly as far as the keep itself, dismount in the bailey and find ourselves to a warm bed and a warmer fire. And will you talk of it.
Will you mention anything about the release of air, the release of tension and the end of a chapter...
Posted by rowan at July 07, 2003 10:31 PM
