You are no stranger to the Angevin Temper...
     Though you have seen it in the past in all its... unfurling glory... it has been many years since you have noted him quite this... caught up in it. How quickly you know his hot blood can boil. But he has worked on it... over Time... to contain it to a simmer, or translate it to ... other passions...
     You were his teacher in this. And, magister, you feel your student coming...
     Even before you hear his feet upon the winding stone stairs, you can feel the press of him upon the air. Against your blood, the bond you share is kinetic with it. But it is nowhere near frenzy. It is just... honest, visceral anger.
     And you feel his march upon the stone. And then you hear him clear his throat. You hear him sigh. And then the door opens...
     Swift, the Plantagenet stride that carries him in the chamber of the king like a conqueror. His beautiful countenance is placid. But the indigo is sparkling with the energy. The door is closed quietly enough. That took effort. And with another exhale, William crosses the vast living area, heading for brandy.

     Ah, it burns hotly tonight.
     And so I go.
     "There you are," comes His voice, shimmering with lightness. Where you are taut, he is limber and carefree. Reclining upon pillows, your young man has expected you. Many were the things you had to take care of, but once done, he knew you would return here and to him. And so he was prepared.
     "Things...settling?" Not alright, but in motion to some sense of normalcy that pleases you. In the question, a suggestion that staff was working to ease things, as well as you. The burgundy pillows sigh as he rolls onto his back, surrounded by cotton and silks. There is no floor beneath Aithlen, and indeed, it is he that presents himself to you.
     The silk of Aithlen's boxers shimmers in the red-gold light...or hadn't you noticed the lights were gone and all that remained was the hearth. Your room filled with things you like. And the brandy...it sits open, two snifters prepared. A plate upon the pillows, toppled with slices of apple and a bit of persimmon. That from somewhere magical.

     In the stride and blur that was his entry, he had not noticed it. You were seen. Felt... how could you not be seen? But there was no stopping him before he poured a glass of liquid... equally as fiery as himself. Perhaps tonight he should be limited to milk...
     And now he stands in darkness that is lit only by you... and the hearth. Gold glitters and the ancient bedchamber of kings seems truly royal. And so, the first tactic was a success. You have stilled him...
     At least for the moment.
     Indigo eyes flicker upward as his gaze lifts from the fruit and brandy -- you were crafty, magister, you left open the pear, knowing he would reach for the first thing to his hands, and not the potent plum. Better to go with the apples and persimmon, oui, but also less likely to turn the Angevin boil to a furnace.
     William stares at you a moment, and then long dark lashes downsweep as his gaze lowers again to his hands. A lift of the brandy for a sip and then, again, to you. He cannot keep from looking to you. "Settled, yes," comes the murmur of Occitan. "Fortunate. No domination required..." No, you did notice that. He has far too much energy to have had to go through that process. "It is finally quiet," William adds. And the brandy is swallowed again.
     The other glass is lifted, prepared and poured as it was, he holds it out to you. A courtesy returned for your courtesy already given. "I've opened the interiors."
     But I am still not happy. I am too much reminded of what invasion feels like. And I don't like it. "Merci," William says upon an exhale as he sits upon the bed. For all of this. For the quiet and the thought. He looks to you, past a shoulder. But though he sits, he does not relax. It is... truly... amazing that the glass is not crushed in his grasp.

     He nods, understanding the annoyance and frustration. Aithlen smiles, relocating behind you. "You were all brilliant tonight, Will," he says in his gaeliced Provencal. Hand touches your flank, fingers landing individually. Soon, his blonde head appears at your side, a peep around your hip as he leans elbow firmly into the bedding for support. The other hand...it takes the proffered drink.
     "You have good people, Will. I...was impressed, laird, really," he goes on, breath landing upon your skin. "And I'm glad everyone is alright." Chinon is a fine place, Will. You know this.

     You touch me... and what was already intense love moves over me in a wave. It is like being inundated. Completely covered. Until it fills my mouth. Fills my lungs. You...
     He inhales, a deep breath taken... a settling breath, it seems... as he feels your own breath against his skin. All he is wearing is the lambskin now. Even the shoes are gone. Left in the Great Hall. Somewhere. Pieces of him all over. The glass was handed to you, his touch light there, and his look lingered, but then... it settles on the gold in his glass. And the deep breath taken moments before is now set free in a quiet sigh. "The young men did a wonderful job, oui. It was... as it should have been. I was proud of them. They will all get a large bonus in gratitude. I owe Edward a drink at least..." But no mention of myself. What did I do in truth? What I could. Sit and wait. Dieu, it's maddening. The glass is lifted and the brandy is downed in a long swallow. He leans against you, head tipped back for that one. The empty glass is set aside for the time being. "Merci," he whispers again.
     And then you feel him shift, to lie upon the bed, yet leathered up but seeking some sort of physical comfort -- since any other sort of comfort shall be fleeting tonight. and a great arm lifts, resting over his head. And the mouth, so sensuous in the formation of every expression, is downturned in a slight frown. "I don't like feeling helpless. And I don't like feeling invaded... it reminds me too much of a life I should sooner wish to forget..."
     He was the veteran of more than a few battles by the time he went on Crusades. All but one was against his own family...

     "Helpless?" Ian asks, moving to be your sky. His loose hair hangs forward, a sort of halo. "You?" That brings a smile. "I don't think helpless was the word that comes to mind."
     Glass held, the youth sighs as hand sinks into his hair and elbow comes near your arm. A propping, with brandy at your chest. "I don't think...Al Seif...thought you helpless. Or Morgan. What's left of either of them. And..." his grin slants at the thought, "...nor the packs that this will get back to. Helpless...is not what they're going to say about those who crushed..." emphasis, "...two of theirs at Chinon. It will..." now that he thinks about it, grey eyes to yours, "...I think it will become a legendary story hmm?" A little humor. "How Plantagenet, Meurelle, and a girl managed to see to the demise of Al Seif and Frederick Morgan..." a great battle indeed.
     "But...still..." Ian smiles, returning to the matter at hand, "...you're upset, laird. And I'm sorry this happened to your house..."
     "I..." he breathes, chin at your torso, resting upon the rising musculature, "...I am...still amazed...at them...and well," he smiles, "...how it all went."

     I didn't do anything. I was too busy chasing the golden goose through the streets of Poitiers... And when I returned, my house was not in my hands...
     Indigo eyes slant their way to you at the mention of legendary and dark brows lift in an arch. But you smile. And I am helpless. Look at that smile, what may I do? "I am upset," William murmurs, his body spreading beneath the glass, an expansive breath causing it to rise and fall, and leathered thighs move against the bedding, seeking comfort. But... he is as tight as stone. Living... seeming... but preternaturally strong. Blatant virility, made moreso by potence beyond the mortal. "I am glad no one was hurt. I just can't fucking believe they waltzed in..." The rest is bitten off and swallowed. You're right.
     "Merci," he says again. And then for a moment or two he is completely still and silent. Only looking at you. "It is good to see someone concerned. I thought for a minute I was the only one bothered by the fact that I had sabbat running around Chinon..."
     A large but fine hand reaches upward, skimming the gold of your hair. Thank you.
     But he is stubborn in his anger. It has not diminished. "That legened will have to be amended somewhat, amours. Plantagenet only supervised...but..." an exhale, he is trying to relax, it is just not working, "... no matter. I will go to Spain. They can sing about that for ages. Those that survive it..."

     "When did you ever see Patton on the front lines, amours?"
     The brandy is swallowed whole and the snifter dispensed with behind him. When Ian turns around, hand lands open upon your chest. "You helped the goose -- we had no idea what could have befallen him -- got back and caught the roosters in the henhouse. Your people...yours, laird...took care of things. That...is the way of the King. You know this, Prince Guillaume..."
     The chin lands softly again and Ian sighs, looking up at you. "But yes, the gall, mm? And...they have been shown the light."

     "I know," he murmurs. "She ... did quite a job on her adversary..." The topic is switched. The old general will let it go eventually. You feel the first stirrings of the knot loosening. Stubborn though he is, fiery though he is. When his gaze lowers in a sweep to look at you, the frown is no longer present... though they sparkle no less. "And Edward... did his usual professional job. For all the bullets let loose in the courtyard, not a single stone was overturned, nor window broken. Al Seif managed to catch them all, actually..."
     William closes his eyes, "We Plantagenets have no stomach for rebellion or invasion. We like to... as they say... dish it out... we don't like to take it." And then the mouth spreads in a sensuous grin. Broad and heated. And his torso shifts beneath you in his quiet, chest-held laughter. "You are so good to me... you know the ways, yes...."

     "I do," Ian whispers, grinning from ear to ear. "A Plantagenet man is the star for my chariot, hmm? I threw my lot in with your kind a long time ago, Guillaume."
     Ian's cheek softly caresses your chest, his head turned aside now. Words rumble at your skin, gentle waves of speech. "You should be proud of tonight, Gui. Everything...went as you would have expected. As you would have wanted. As you planned...if any such thing would happen." His grey eyes look up at you. "That's...your brilliance, amours."

     How do you do this?
     When I should want to rant and rave, you still me. When I wish to thunder and storm, you steal the wind and with the slightest touch dissolve the lightning. How do you do it. Is it just a matter of knowing me so well? Or is it an older magic. You speak such obvious truth. You show me the way. You are the magister. You ... are the only one to truly understand the Plantagenet Mind -- and know what to do to quiet it. I love you.
     "I love you..." he whispers. The Occitan syllables coming in a breath. "And, oui... I am proud. It did go as it should have. And... no one was hurt." He grins, twisting slightly so that he may look at you. "Come here," William murmurs. Closer. Up here.

     How did this begin?
     Ah. Here you come, hotly. My own Plantagenet.
     Ian moves up, slithering in silk. There is pride in his blushing smile, but also expectation of how you shall love him. "What is it?" he asks, as if the question's routine. "Did you want some apple?" he wonders gently, peering over his shoulder and down his leg, trying to spy the dish.

     "Not just yet," comes the murmur. And he watches the slither. He doesn't miss a moment of it. Not a ripple of fabric passes him by. Silken. And your skin...
     And his hand reaches upward and loses itself in the gold. And he leads you downward, even as he lifts from the surface of the bed...
     Where did the storm go? It is found in the shock of the kiss. Where the thunder? In the thudding of his pulse, a gift of the magic you taught me, magister. Where is the anger? It rolls upward, a transformation in fire of a different kind. And your mouth is consumed. The apples would burn, non?
     And the energy that preceded him before?
     It has turned to languor. Of tongue, of mouth, of arms that grasp and hands that splay...

     Eagerly he meets you, knowing full well how the energy must and will dissipate. Ian smiles as you gather him to yourself, laughing lightly at the bruskness that moves your hands.
     Yes, that's it. And I sigh for it. It is not as if such things are planned, but they are delightful when they transpire. When we choose to turn our energy into something shared. Then, we become perfect. A fit. Well met, well made, well mated.
     His hands press at your shoulders, asking you to pause an instant. The beautiful youth smiles, words at his lips. "Promise me...you'll smile a little..." when we make love? When the fire burns and consumes you, and you turn to ash the harsh wood that's built up tonight?

     And he not only smiles, he laughs. A chuckle that passes quietly upon the breath at the parting of the kiss. It is the first time in hours. Hours... it seems like days and nights have passed since he last grinned. Certainly not in Poitiers so much, standing in the rain, and certainly not after the call and the drive to the house. But now, you smile and shine golden on him, and in touching you, he can't help it.
     William nods once and slightly, "I promise," he murmurs, mouth lifting and returning to yours. A brush and then a pull. "I may even laugh," comes the languid baritone, voice deep and soft and smooth. "...do not take offense..."
     He does not cover you. No... instead his hands are leading. Fingers losing in the gold, his other finding your side and guiding you in a roll to him. And for all the anger... for all the tightness in him that has not loosened, but only transformed in purpose... his every motion and touch is languid gentleness. Likewise the renewal of the kiss. The capture of your lips. The half-roll that brings broad shoulders to the surface of the bed. The slow tangle.
     And you can feel it there... against your mouth... even as tongue surrounds and lips pull... so, too, does a smile.

Posted by rowan at February 10, 2001 11:34 AM