In the old myths, Prince Theseus used a thread, stringing it behind him to get through the labyrinth. The string had been given to him by the woman who loved him, Ariadne...
      ... And so I am making notes in a book I will leave on a table, a book like any other book in this house, but it will contain artist's notes, made when the artist remembered his work. I have painted pears, solitary pears, pears in the hand of an unseen boy...
     I slice through a pear. I watch the flesh part, splitting, its juice running like blood upon the edge of the blade...
     I plan for the inevitable... hoping to subvert it. No different from Prince Theseus...
     He handles a knife like no other man you know or have known. It moves in his hands with all the precision of a paintbrush. It creates precisely what he wishes it to create, destroys precisely what he wishes to destroy.
     And he has been planning, for evenings, not unlike for battle... knowing the players, knowing the ramparts, understanding the earth, walking over it and over it in his mind. A general to the end, your Plantagenet.
     Of this work he has said next to nothing. Nothing more than what was first revealed to you. Its significance is carried in the silence, in the looks that pass you by, and in the clues he is leaving...
     Breadcrumbs like threads...
     Leaving them in trailing remembrance, keys each one to a box that he may not, in the end, know exists. He is leaving nothing to chance, especially not his own mind.
     Such a keen intellect. Most do not realize it, expect it, believe in it, but it is there as it has always been, in the quiet when Plantagenet is at rest, in solitude, thinking. As much as he would protest to the contrary, he does much of that, and he always has.
     You will not find him far from the bedroom tonight. Not in his studio tonight, no. He is just opposite the grand hall from the bedroom, in the master suites. You will find him there as those who have loved him in the past have found him, sitting in a chair and staring intently upon the space in front of him, knowing it, seeing the matter laid out before him. Sitting like a Norman Caesar. With the short hair, the image rather suits him.
     William sets the knife aside and picks up a piece of the pear he cut, a pear from the market of his own ville, and he eats it. A simple motion fraught with symbolism.
     The summer evening is warm. A eastern breeze moves from Orleans to glide through the open chamber and from that to the library that adjoins it. His clothing is an afterthought, simple white cotton and nothing else. The only other adornment is the ring you gave him: your question and his answer.

     "You're quiet," Ian says, hating to disturb. He had put his head through the open door to see, and instead of finding you up and about, you're sitting in a chair. Not new, this process of thinking, feeling, visualizing before heading to a canvas. Ian knows it may take you weeks or months before you touch any paints or canvas. For now, the pear (and its coming relatives) serves as your hands' focal point.
     "Sorry," Ian murmurs, hating giving voice during this period. The most critical parts, in some ways. "Nevermind me," he murmurs, dressed not unlike you...white tee and gently casual slacks. Ian's barefoot most of the time here, making his approaches doubly silent.
     With bend of his head, he begins to back away and close the door.

     You are so silent! And he, so focused on his own thoughts, did not hear you coming. When you are in view, there is first a look of wakening realization, and then there is a smile. Slight, first just at the edges and then smoothening the mouth. Blue-violet fire backs it. All of that focus, all of that keen mental energy, finds you as its focus. "No no..." he says, soft, quick. And then much more slowly, "Come in, please..."
     He rises from the Genoan chair, leaving fruit and books and pen and pears behind. He doesn't bother to close the book. He isn't secretive about it. He merely will share the information when it is time to do so.
     He is in the doorway a moment later, folding the space between you until there is none. He is bending in the next moment, placing the first kiss of this evening on your forehead, one of his favorite morning benedictions. Even if it is full-on evening.

     "Guillaume," Ian murmurs. French has become a second native tongue in a millenia. Your name is a greeting now, good morning and I love you combined. Ian closes his eyes for the kiss, smiling as he knows he is always willing to accept more. "I'm sorry if I've bothered you," he whispers, hand firm at your waist. A gentle squeeze seeks out the man beneath the cotton.
     "Are you...preparing?" Ian asks. He lets the door go, stepping back into the archway. Not much further. He'll wait for you to lead him inside. Ian peers around you as he stands, getting a view of the room. "How are the pears?" he asks, pulling back to see your face.

     You know all the smells. They, like years, like centuries, like all of Time, rest in layers, each one, like the memories you and he have shared, peeling back as you stand with him. There is the cinnamon -- it bears the memories of Spain and of lessons learned and earned in sweat. There is the pear -- it was in the Past, it is in the Present. There is something... it is not Mortality.. it is the smell of his skin, his own personal signal in all the sensations of the universe.
     Each one greets you, each sensation is there, reminding you of its existence.
     There are new habits that intermingle the old. There is, always and without fail, the first kiss of the evening. Always tender, openly affectionate. And it is always followed by a second kiss -- one not being enough -- upon your lips, a brush. You know what is behind the brush like you know what is past the curtains of a canopy bed. But there are new words now. Rarely is morning spoken of now, rarely the simple 'good evenings' of a day. There is your name, just as you speak his, and in it the culmination of a thousand such greetings. You and he once joked that there would come a night when you would not even have to speak. Is it strange now to be in such nights at last?
     "No," he says, and then he smiles. "You are not bothering me. Never." The French. The Occitan. It is all he speaks and all traces of his Island accent are gone. When it comes, is there any more powerful, more openly seductive sound? Even when he is talking about the weather, he can make it sound like pillow talk. He smiles, and there is a deepening expression. "The pears are very good, just ripe enough. The painting..." he exhales and he turns, an arm sliding around you to scoop you in with him. "I will be ready to start soon." I already want it to be over -- I must combat this feeling.
     His arm is strong around you, his skin is warm, smelling of Chinon summers. "I am finished with the journaling. There is nothing more I can say. Now," a slight exhale, "... I have to trust that I have done enough."
     Enough...
     Pears like breadcrumbs. Notes like thread through the labyrinth....

     "Good," Ian says. He walks beside you. "Really," Ian grins, "I don't have much to say. I only wanted to see you before I took my walk." At the arm of the sofa, he seats himself. Not to linger long. "I wanted to take a ride," he grins, "...then I remembered that the horses are gone."

     "We should go to Chenonceau," he sits and he suddenly decides it. It comes out like a declaration: like we should have a war or we should have a national holiday. Soft proclamation as it was, it bears the cadence of an edict. "I need a few nights away from my thoughts. Do you think it's possible," William continues, sitting back on the sofa and leaning his head upon the back cushion, he looks to you, "... that I could leave my brain here and take my body on a vacation." He smiles, he glances to the book, and then returns his attention to you. "We can go tonight, if you want. It's not so long a drive as all that. What is it, an hour and a half?"
     He thinks. Yes, this is what I need. A ride. Horses. Fresh air. You. His hand comes up and plants itself on the small of your back, an idle rub.

     Ian bobs his head, "We can," he nods, "...if you are sure." His energy level picks up. "But, I do not know about your brain and body. They are rather connected..."

     There is a snort for that. "Sometimes, amours, that is debatable, no? I should have you make me forget now and remember it later..."
     He says it as a joke, meaning it as a joke, and then the thought that had not occurred to him quite suddenly occurs.
     I have been making notes, writing a journal, painting pieces of the painting as remembered by other artists and forgot the most obvious solution to the problem, should the problem exist.
     Indigo eyes settle on you, fixing there, and he smiles, his hand resting on your back, a pat. "Yes... Chenonceau... we will ride, in silk and otherwise," bed and horses, as you might well imagine.

     Ian sighs dramatically. "Is that all you think about?" he asks, pushing off the sofa's edge. "You could have just mentioned the horses, but no, you have to bring up...well, the natural follow on. Subtlety, Will," he grins.

     He just laughs, rolling a shoulder as he does when he knows he is caught. Yes, as if he meant to be caught. It is a lion's shrug. "I am not even going to answer this, there is no answer I can give." He exhales, he smiles. He knows himself. There is no answer he can give to that statement. It is simply too true.
     "I say what I think," he murmurs. "Shall it always be my undoing? Mais oui," he says, and he stands. He closes the book, but he does not shelve it. He takes up another piece of pear. He looks at the knife that cut it in two.
     "Ian..."
     There is a moment, a slight hesitation. But only slight.
     "Something...just occurred to me. An insurance policy." Back to the painting. He turns to look to you. "If I asked you for a favor," which he never does. When was the last time. "...would you be prepared to grant it...?"

     Ian turns about, head slightly tilted. He smiles, but his brows flatten, as if to give a blankness. "How can I answer that, Will," Ian grins, shaking his head. "The words...are even silly to say..."
     Of course. Anything.

     "I don't know, amours, it is a big one," William murmurs. A soft tease upon a serious matter. "I want you to dominate me... I want you to leave a key behind..." Be my Ariadne. "If you do it," he steps forward, his voice softening, "... it may, with the notes I am leaving behind, be enough to jog it back. If," he notes, with a smile, "... I lose my other bargaining chips." He is taking no chances. "Would you do this for me," he asks again.

      He looks confused. "I don't understand," Ian says, stepping back towards you. "Dominate you why? A key for what?"

     "I made a joke earlier... but it reminded me of something. When you were in torpor... I refused to eat. Alexandra used dominate to... prevent me from starving myself. If I began doing it again, it would trigger that thought and I would eat. Why couldn't that same technique be used to trigger the memory of the work I am about to enact, once the prince's domination is done..." Prince. Which Prince? Ah, perhaps you begin to see the seriousness of the situation. "Before the work is returned to its owner... and before I return to Scotland, would there be a way for you to do this? Can it be done?"
     His eyes entreat it, his mind working two to three to four steps ahead. "I am still placing my hope on my own ... ability to get things my way," that Plantagenet smile, "... but ... if I cannot. If the circumstances are simply... too large for this... I want to remember I did it. I don't care if I don't remember whom I did it for... but to do this work and not to remember. I ...simply can't imagine it."

     "If you want to remember," Ian murmurs, "...you will." No matter for whom this is for or with whom you've made agreements. "We may see to that," he affirms.
     "Come on, let's go find our horses."

Posted by rowan at August 04, 2003 07:46 PM