One night turned to three. While the art was removed from the walls, packed up and prepped for travel, visitors have come in and out Royal Mile 9 with such regularity one might wonder upon the addition of revolving doors. From early evening up to the latest, social hours of night, you have become reacquainted with old friends, talked about the passing of time, caught up on the latest news, and even traffiked in a bit of gossip -- not the least of which was William Plantagenet's supposed "retirement" and the re-affirmation of Ian Dunross' power and influence.
     Needless to say, it's been a busy two nights...
     But now it's over. Most everyone's returned home by now. Davydd and Sandrine are back to Wales. Edward and Valan are returning to London, at least before heading off again. Girault is returning to Germany. And Victoria will be joining the Great They of Ian and William in France.
     William lingers in the den. He seems all the taller for some reason, perhaps it is simply a matter of the presence of the man. Perhaps it is his attire, the short style of his hair. He wears a mixture of blues and browns. Earth and sea. And elemental, he stands and pours himself a parting glass.
     The bags are by the door. They sit beside the ghosts of bags that have come and gone before....

... The stairs sound with Ian's arrival. He's again in dress-browns, and all conversation with Gerald is over. "I'll have MrCrarie's people clean up," Ian says softly, hand futzing at his starchy collar. He hates the uniforms; he hates what it means he has to do, really. Ian grins at you, one of the few times he's been vertical these last nights.
     A sigh. He comes to a halt and looks at both of your duffel bags. His will go in a car to a waiting plane that will drop him back into Germany. Yours will accompany you to God-knows-where in France. Ian's eyes seek yours as he faces you.
     "Yule?" Ian says as much as asks. Will it be so long? Is that the next time -- God say it isn't so. That I'm wrong. A frown follows his exasperated longing. When will this end?

     I've never been any good at this. Try to be serious and endearing and you end up sounding like Irving Berlin. The glass of scotch is held, the gold within the glass inspected, absorbed before being swallowed. It is a prelude to savoring.
     William turns to you as you appear, glass in his hand, dressed in his gear. His eyes say: I hope. But his mouth makes an easier smile. "I think so." And with that, the scotch is swallowed and the glass is set down. There follows a clearing breath. Where indeed. "I will try..."
     Indigo eyes drift to the two sets of bags, but then he rises to his full height, a smile crossing over his features, warming them, claiming them. "It will depend in part on Hitler and the Americans. It's like being caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea..."
     I cannot become melancholy. There is too much to do...
     William reaches for his overcoat, the pilot and the lord, the prince and the knight found so easily within that role, the overcoat a seeming mantle. "I will pass the messages in the usual manner..." William assures. "Or I will send in the Swiss," Alire, "... yet again..." That's been convenient.

     "I...don't want him in Germany," Ian confesses. "It's not...safe." Even for him. Things crumbling. "I'd rather send a message out than have him come..."
     He grows quiet, William. There's sadness upon the air, along with an attempt to find resolve.
     "Kiss me?" Ian asks, seeing you girding up, too, for the departing. Coat becomes shield.

     There is a nod for that and then for moments after, William says nothing. His pulls on his jacket, he pulls out his gloves. He takes comfort in the minutiae, the unimportant movements. He is stalling.
     There is sadness, there is melancholy. It cannot be entertained. It also cannot be helped. His arms come round you, his eyes closing, and he holds you there. His large hand spreads against your back then ends up in your hair. The kiss is immediate, deliberate and full.
     Hands clutch and his soul clasps against your blood. William exhales as his mouth lifts from yours, presses to your forehead and he holds you there for a moment. "Meet me here. Yule. I will be here waiting," he murmurs.

     "I'll be here," Ian says firmly. He holds you tightly, a hand at the small of your back, the other between broad scapulae. He sighs there and asserts his hold a second time.
     Outside, a car has pulled up on the Royal Mile, sitting patiently. Timed at 8 pm. Enough time to get Ian to Norway and then to Hamburg.
     "Make sure you meet me," Ian whispers, tilting to look at your face fully. Don't make me come find you. He tries to smile, as if his words were humor. Yet humor does not betray truth. A kiss is given to your lips again, then a second and third. Ian's mouth pulls after each, leaving a physical reminder of his presence there.
     "I'll see you," Ian ends softly, beginning to draw from your arms.

     You won't have to come find me. The expression softens into humored gravity, serious levity. "We will plan for Edinburgh, we will hope for Berlin," he says, it has become a mantra. One last kiss, one more. His mouth pulls upon yours to leave something of him behind for you, and then he stands back. The immediacy hovers around and between you. William bends to take his bag.
     He will not watch you go, he cannot do that. He makes a last check of cigarettes, lighter, and other mundanities. He waits for you to go ahead.
     Be safe and know that I am there with you...
     William draws in a breath, he holds it, and straightening, duffle over his shoulders, he readies himself to go as well. Davydd should be roaring down the street at any minute.
     And I will sit in silence all the way to my plane. I will sit in silence as the propellers and engine are activated. When the sea is beneath me, when the Channel is under my feet, I will try not to worry, I will try not to dwell.
     Bombing something always seems to help...

     "Hey," comes Ian's voice and a shove of his arm. He stands next to you, finishing counting the bags again. "Did you hear me?" he smiles, leaning into you with a smirk. "The car's outside," he smiles, seeing you daydream. "Eamonn with Stephen," he notes for the record. Stephen will come in and pick up the suitcases.
     "Are you ready?" Ian asks, bemused at you standing there. Ah. Recalling something. He smiles and takes your hand. Black sleeves twine between you...his turtleneck is too long. "The quicker," he reminds, "...we go to Strathfayr, the quicker we go to Chinon." A sweet goal, love. I can see the memories and melancholy in your indigo eyes.

     Hands slide over the wool of his light sweater (a sweater even in summer), its colors brown and grey like falling leaves and earth, a mock turtleneck over brown trousers. One hand is captured by your own. Indigo both deepens and brightens as William wakes to your touch and to the sound of your voice. "Hmm? Oh... oui... yes," no he didn't hear you before but he does now. William looks around, looks at the bags at your feet and then looks to you, recollections in his eyes.
     William smiles, sudden and warm. The smile spreads across that mouth and moves over every feature, creating layered expressions. Happy, melancholy, remembering, living. "Alright, I am ready..." he says, hand clasping yours, looking at the sleeve, his smile quirking. Is that sweater mine? It has to be...
     There is a glance back past the foyer's reach and into the living room, but then he turns with you and heads out the front door. Behind, two sets of bags sitting with the ghosts of bags past all around them. But this time, their destination is the same...