It was somewhere in the second hour, past the stream running through our frozen world, you halted your dark brown horse, the bay and reached for my hand. The first hour had passed in silence, but there was no need for speaking. Breath froze on the air, horse and man, and Winter itself was dared. Hunted, as surely as we have hunted anything. This was my gift. I knew it as soon as we left the keep, as soon as we mounted and journeyed into Dunsinane. Old wood for old men.
     But we don't look bad for all that, the woods and we.
     We stopped a good ways from the keep, in the heart of the forest, grown thick with our care of it. The water ran and we sat in silence for a time, the horses shifting beneath us. I, on the last remaining offspring of the Andalusian that once hurled me to the Infidel, a white echo of a strong horse in a painting somewhere, and am I not also an echo of that man on that night, heading to his last day? You were stunning then, you are stunning now. I could have frozen solid out there, staring at you, had you not handed me the box.
     It woke me. And then it struck me. A small, old thing, an echo too. My brother Richard's face on an English coin, worn by time, but I knew it was him by the profile, by the beard. I remembered this commemoration. When my brother became the king. He did not name me his heir, he wanted me to be king of Jerusalem. Can you imagine that? Me, king of the holy city like my uncle Raymond before me?
     For me, amours, the ride was sufficient, the quiet time with you, it was enough. So simple. So much meaning. But then you handed me the medallion, I know you told me of how you came by it, a mention more than a story, I heard you but I did not hear you. It felt like I held it for an hour. I smiled, my face red with the magic and the pinpricks I could feel of the cold, and were it not so cold the liquid that was gathered at my eyes would have spilled, and surely would have frozen on my cheek had it done so.
     It has been three hours now, and for the sake of the beasts we must return, we leave the forest and we crest the beginning of your garden, heading for the backway to the stables. The ride is slow -- as it has been all night -- and there is little said, there is little that needs to be said. The medallion held in my left hand, I reach out to you with my right...

     ...Three hours it has been since they left for their ride, from nine to midnight now and the longest night deepens. Outside the keep, past the greenhouse, heading into the gardens, there is some sound and some activity. Light from the stable shocks against the white of the snow as a door is opened to receive the lords of Strathfayr.

     Their arrival always seems to bring a buzz. A whirl of a storm around a calm and quiet eye. Two enter, but they are like one. Snow and ice fall from hands and coats, from boots and hoods. A couple of ground floor servants take the coats at the kitchen entrance to the keep, as to not let their mess get too far.
     It's doubtless that the two lords notice.
     For his part, Ian has a smile affixed to his face, given often to the man beside him. Even as his coat lifts from his shoulders and drops down his back or as his boots are removed for more comfortable shoes, Ian seems oblivious to the hands that pull and crawl delicately upon him. It's been a Yule ride with the Yule exchange. For him, that was all that mattered.
     "The horses seemed to deal well," he randomly offers, eyes falling downwards to see Robert place heavy slippers on the floor at his feet. "Thank you, Robert," he murmurs absently, immediately looking over to William.
     Near you, dear Tori, there had been tray and drink for one, in case you chose to indulge in holiday treats. Now, that is removed in favor of a larger tray of baked sweets and chocolates, along with warm wine and the traditional course of scotch and brandies.

     Perhaps you don't hear it at first...
     It is such a soft sound that perhaps it would merely seem like the wind caressing the outer walls of this place. Low and lilting, it comes quietly through the corridors of the great castle, slipping past walls and passing through doorways. Perhaps the blonde one of the two of you is able to pick up on it, so soft it is.
     Slowly, it builds, becoming more noticeable -- that is no wind; that is a voice you hear. Still too soft to make out the words, a melody floats gently about you. It is slow and haunting, being unaccompanied by any instrument, save any that might be in the singer's head.
     Do you recognize the voice as its volume increases yet a bit more? That nearly ethereal voice which has not been heard on this side of the globe in well over a century? The voice of an angel swirls around you both like a gentle wave of another time, daring you to get lost in its ebb and flow, and to be pulled away in its tide.
     And again, the volume rises a bit more, until it seems the voice's owner should be in the same room with you...but she is not.

     "Good breeding always does," William remarks, and a quiet word of thanks, given generally -- both to the servants around him, pulling off the outer layer, white, ultramodern. Beneath that, a layer of black, a pullover thermal also removed, beneath this lying both shirt and pants that fit like a second skin, This is left on, it'll have to be stripped off later, for there's nothing at all and whatsoever beneath it. And it silhouettes...everything.
     Both pairs of socks are removed, slippers warming the feet, it comes with an audible sigh, and he gets a fleece overcoat, made for the indoors. And thus ends the duke's transformation.
     Indigo eyes settle their attention, full and weighty, on Ian, the smile is quick to come -- the eyes themselves still hold the significance of the ride and the gift in their color, in the warmth and in the solemnity of the look.
     Other words are stilled on the tongue as he begins to ...hear something. Then, louder. William looks past Ian for the first time in hours, eyes peering to find the owner of the voice. But there is no one there. A raven brow cocks up. At least this ghost has a lovely voice. If she starts talking to him about 12th Century family matters, he's going to go back outside.
     His senses are not as refined as Ian's, certainly not as much as Tori. It takes him a few more moments before he recognizes it, and then that questioning look softens. How lovely. "We're being serenaded," William murmurs, and his hands find Ian, his mouth soon after. A kiss, brief but pulling. And he thaws in it.

     We are? The expression wanders around the main floor, and seeing no one immediately responsible, Ian looks up, as if he could see through the floors. How strange. Ian blinks a few times, eyes now skyward.
     But then the kiss comes, suddenly. He was distracted for the instant, and now focus returns. His nose touches William's as they part, but a curious look remains upon his face.
     "That is Victoria?" he asks, just make sure. Buried in the question is an implicit, Why?

     Her song is without words or phrases, relying strictly on hums and gentle sounds to express the emotion of the song. There is something vaguely Celtic in it -- or something even older. Perhaps the use of the sounds instead of words merely gives it the appearance of age and mysticism. It surrounds, engulfs and beckons, reverberating through the very stones in the walls.. the floors, ceilings and walls, even the stairs all echo her voice... the voice you both know... the woman you both know...
     Others move about the castle as if nothing is amiss. They do not hear this message. They do not hear anything but the wind outside and the usual sounds within. Not even the dogs in the kennel or the horses outside fidget or whine about the ghostly voice.
     It seems it is not Victoria's voice singing to you, but her very soul... giving only to you both her special gift on this eve. A sense of peace permeates the room you stand in...peace, contentment, yet maybe a bit of longing -- the singer's own prevalent emotions cannot help but enter into this a bit.

     He can hear it as clearly as if the entire staff could hear it. But the servants have moved off without a second look, a pause, a question in their looks. As if they weren't hearing it at all. "That is Victoria," William murmurs. "At first," his smile slants, wicked beauty, "I thought maybe I was being haunted again. If I see anything floating, you realize, I will be sleeping outside." And he has to laugh. He's come a long way with all of that.
     His left hand still holds the medallion, his right hand finds yours again. "I think... this may be the gift she was mentioning," William whispers in explanation, eyes closing, a brush of his mouth warm against your forehead. "Would you like to go upstairs?" he wonders. "A fire would be good..."
     And still the voice comes. No words, but much conveyed. After such a ride, such a gift, it is a heady thing, this song. So easily it makes him drift back to that place. As if you and he were still in the snow.

      Victoria singing. He's never heard her voice like this: only in the louder crunch of The Inferno. It is ethereal, and it takes Ian a glance left and right to see the departing servants and their lack of awareness. How utterly strange. All of it really. A voice singing in the winter's snow.
     Ian continues to stand in his spot, warm shoes and housecoat on, until William takes his hand and provides a kiss. That always returns him to the here and now.
     "Upstairs, sure," Ian smiles, taking the voice for what it is -- a gift. He should like to ask how its all being done and what did we do to deserve it. But Ian decides silence is the better course, and he walks towards the staircase instead.

     Slowly, the song begins to slow and lower in volume. It recedes, pulling ever so gently away from you. Victoria's presence slowly backs out of the room as the voice lowers to a hush, then a whisper until it finally seems like the stone walls whisper to you, echoing what is left of her song. And then, even that moves away, leaving the room, leaving you, trailing back to its source.
      And then, there is nothing but silence surrounding you, throbbing so loud in the wake of her song.

     Now, he wonders...
     How is this possible? Where is she? Is it due to the acoustics of Strathfayr, old Scottish stone? Who knew that the acoustics were so good. Or if not, is it a phantom gift, given to us by her in a secretive package, transported by blood. Is such even possible?
     It is far beyond him. Though there are rumors of such...gifts? It is even said that Girault-Antonio has such a gift.
     But it is in silence William moves toward the turret. A look to Ian. Do you notice? It does not get louder when we move toward the stairwell. As if it were a constant. And he smiles. "Once, I was going to ask Girault to serenade you," William murmurs, and that essential mouth pulls wide in a grin, "...but then I was afraid if Il Gato serenaded you, you might run away with him. This, this is better," he continues in a whisper, heading upstairs.
     As he proceeds upstairs, he looks to the medallion cradled safely in his palm. "Thank you... for a wonderful Yule... a wonderful ride...and a very thoughtful gift." Something of my brother.

     His steps are slow onto the landing and as he wends upwards. Ian glances over his shoulder once or twice, indeed taking notice of the otherworldly effects of the voice.
     "I made my choice long ago," Ian says softly as he rises higher. "And thank you," he pauses and twists, looking back at William, "...for a marvelous life."
     Ian inhales and continues around the helix, feet upon the stone. It almost sounds like sand beneath his feet, echoing up the turret. He arrives at the second floor in silence, not having much to say this yule evening. But the quiet today seems filled with emotion and meaning.

     The halls no longer echo her song, but she is far from gone. Tori slowly enters the hall after you have both left and gone up to the second floor. She accepts a glass of brandy and then moves out of the room. She seems intent on wandering the halls this eve, trailing slender fingertips along the stone walls...
      ...listening and caught in her own trance, intoxicated by the perfumed oil she wears behind her ears and drained from the effort of performance. And tonight, was her best one yet. It meant the most -- even more than her first appearance after the riots in New Port.
     And so, weak from exhaustion and lost to the echoes of the memories of the castle and scents from her Yule gift, she merely wanders at a slow, lazy pace, softly smiling to herself.

     He stops on the stairs, following behind you -- he likes the view, oui -- and he smiles. "It has been marvelous," but with that said, he says no more. The rest bounces against the stone, as surely as the echoes of the steps. And then the voice stops. A receding, like a shadow with the shifting of daylight.
     Hmm... interesting...
     William follows you to the second floor. The bedroom waits just down the hall, a large fireplace and a healthy fire. Warmth and silk. Those are in his look as he smiles to you.

Posted by rowan at June 16, 2003 02:23 PM