Rising from the rolling glen north and west of Inverness, Strathfayr Castle is reminiscent of the one on the hill in Edinburgh...but better kept. This time of year, the green grass is covered in white and the fireplaces roar inside, sending all the chimneys reeling with billowing steam and smoke. The old grey stone is weathered, but certainly not beaten. It's seen centuries of this sort of treatment.
     Within, the castle is alive again. The servants speak loud and run about doing their duties -- the sometime Earl is actually within her walls. Calls, dishes, linens, feet, trays, and the smell of heat and cooking pervade the household, sending everyone into a tizzy. Even though they do much of the work for themselves, your presence there gives it even more meaning. They were thrilled to greet you, see to your things, and have rooms, drinks, and animals all prepared for your every whim. There's nothing but smiles when any servant passes one of the two masters, even sometimes stopping you for a chat to see that you are doing well.
     This night, greetings done, the house rumbles, but they generally have left you to reassume your roles in the house. Your corridors and apartments have noise, but it is careful to stay out of the rooms you take up time in. They are there, they want you to know, but do not wish to intrude upon your rest, holiday, and evening....

     When first he stood upon the snow and his breath hung heavy with freezing mist, there came crimson to his eyes. Tears that were held there, upon lashes, and in the tightening of his throat. A thrill surged against the Bond, as surely as the wind surges against the castle stone. He hugged several of the house, and for the first time in generations... it seemed to be as much his home and his space as ever it was yours. Remember when in older days and more ancient nights when it was thus. It was again, his home. And you witnessed William embrace it. He stood in the snow and then created angels as he watched the stars rise over the Northern Sky...
     This night, the servants' business creates a musical hum. It stirred him past early evening, and now as he holds you waiting for you to wake, he smiles at it. Home. And all it means. It wells up in him again and he can hardly lie still. William lifts his eyes to the ceiling. Remembering when he woke here for the first time. When he first loved you here. When he first made love to you here. And when you asked him... to marry you. The first time. And he cannot help it. Indigo eyes narrow, glinting. But the tears find their way. Crimson, for the ritual has not yet been cast. But even if it had he would have begged for blood to shed it. For the joy is too great and too dear for crystalline tears. William swallows, and his own energy hums. How like to the energy of this place. It is a part of him. Irrevocably. Inseparably. As much as you are...

     He cannot remain asleep when you move within him so. There was a time, so long ago, when he wanted this to be your new home. To place you as Lord of it. Now, he stirs, face frowning a little at the emotion that suddenly courses through him. Something...wrong? Eyes are hardly opened, and a hand reaches out instinctively, seeking. "Will..." he mumbles, the name hardly pronounced. More of a groan. Where are you? And before he can lift a bit, the waking sudden and hard, he calls again, "Will?"

     You find him easily, for he has hardly moved. Just closer to you. Your hand lands against hard muscle, his chest. And the few golden hairs that are flecked against it. William swallows and then he turns his head against his pillow and to look to you. Indigo eyes brilliant. Black hair half curtaining his eyes. Lips are pulled in a slight smile. Even as another crimson tear rolls over a high cheekbone. "Oui," he murmurs, thickly. A question lilting just at its edge. He clears his throat and lifts a hand to his eyes. To wipe the evidence from him. "I am here, amours... still in bed... " And his large form moves closer to you, legs seeking to entangle. The Bond is alive with it. Overwhelming joy. Emotion. Just as when you found him huddled by the seashore in New Port. Only now... moreso...

     Ah. The fear that was rising in him subsides and Ian's eyes open fully, a sleepy smile on his face. It's still a little early for him. "Oh..." he swallows, licking his dry lips, "...okay..." and he huddles closer too, so glad to be at home...huddled in piles of handmade linens and wools and animal skins. While the life of the aristocracy is nice, with those adorable sheets, this is him as well. Moreso in its way. The bed's canopy is but a very old, very thick velvet, makeshift loops stitched to hold it firmly around the low-set bedframe. A small room leaves little distance between the bed and the enclosed hearth, and the dank stone floors are littered with more stitched coverlets and furs. No one wants to walk on the floors...and they soak up any drafts rather well.
     Ian stretches before he collapses in your arms again, chin at your shoulder. "I thought something was wrong," he whispers, letting his eyes close again, "...but I guess not..." one eye opens and he murmurs, "...you were...sad? Overwhelmed?" By something. He knows it is not real sadness, but something sudden swelled and threatened to overflow. "What happened?" he wonders, closing his eyes again.

     There is the sound of laughter, soft and not quite as smooth as it shall be. William looks to you with a grin, broad and smooth. Half wicked in its Norman languor. "Non," he whispers. And the energy dissipates -- no, it does not dissipate. It transforms. From tears to chuckling. "It is.... I was just homesick. I... am so happy to be ...home." Indigo eyes hold the glow of the nearby fire -- and thank god for that -- as William's gaze drifts over you... as his head tilts back. Arms slowly enfold you -- he, yet slow in waking. Yet half in dreams.
     "I was just remembering... when I woke up in this room for the first time... and..." He leans in, placing a kiss upon the crown of your head. "...was able to make love to you for the first time..." And that gets an exhale. "When you proposed to me... so much has happened in this room, and here I am... again. That ... is what overwhelmed me. Hearing the entire castle... singing for us..." Dark eyes hold such light when they look to you. "I had forgotten... how much I missed it..." Suddenly the grin slants, "...wind and snow and all..."

     "Wind and snow and all," Ian sings, letting his voice bounce. He sighs and feels the same as you -- nothing can describe the joy he feels. Everything...so complete. As if having come around to the beginning again and this time, things between you better understood. Fear, shame...all of those gone. "I remember," he whispers softly, "...I remember, you lying here and us seeming to have another night of quiet..." he laughs, "I remember thinking that I was just glad you could lie beside me, even if it was further over than I would have liked..."
     He smiles, pausing to look at you. "But...then you touched me..." Ian smiles, eyes bright in the recollection, "...and...it was different, somehow..."

     A chuckle moves against you -- the shuddering of his stomach against you as you are held, the sound of it against you. Warmth. A dark brow lifts, a cocking arch, and William inclines his head. His dark eyes taking you in, in a downward sweep of lashes. He can see the night play out before him. "I was a little ...nervous....mais oui..." William murmurs. A grin is born upon his lips, pulling wide and warm. You can see the edge of canines distended. His strong arms pull you against him. An embrace that does not release. Fade. "I like to hear you tell it..." comes the languid ease of his voice, deep and soft. Which is his way of saying... he would like to hear you tell it.

     "No, no, no," Ian smirks, knowing what that meant, "....I have my memory...I know how it goes." He chuckles too, squirming a little to feel you closer. "I will keep my memory to myself," he smiles, warmth pouring through him as he revels in it. A beautiful memory it was...a night to erase anything harsh of the past. He loved you already. After that night, he was mated. But, you? Perhaps you were...and you did not know it.

     I loved you Then... A soft confirmation. It is followed by an image. A quick image. Much earlier than when he came to you from Florence, heady with ... a renewed masculinity. Hundreds of years before that. The image is of this castle... and searching eyes. Indigo. Reaching out. For understanding. Feeling a surge in him then, not so different from how it is now. Love. He loved you when he was very young. He has always loved you. There was just so much between you. The space has grown small now. Has it not.
     William lifts his hand to your cheek, a soft stroke following there. Warm. Strong. "I love you," he murmurs. And then William grins. "And I have a surprise for you. But..." Dark brows knit together. "What day is it?"

     You ask him? Ian is too busy nuzzling your hand. "Hmm?" he returns, thinking a moment. "It is...the twenty-second...first?" He's not sure himself. "We..." yes, he could use a drink, and sits up as he thinks it, "...could find out..." Ask someone. That's easiest.

     Flesh stirs at such seemingly simple expressions. The nuzzling of his hand by you moves through him, electric, and he starts at it. You can feel a tightening around you. And a resurrection of Living in him. Against you. If you do not leave the bed and furs now, you shall not all night. But as you sit up, William shifts upon the bedding, lying upon his back. A royal... sprawl. Indeed. William stretches with a groan. "Hmmm... we could... aye," he rattles off in your Gaelic. French lying heavily upon it. "I need to... do my daily anointing and get some ...good scotch... " But the bed is ...so warm... William grins, a deep sound clinging to his throat. A kind of leonine purr.

     Ah, the daily anointing. Ian looks back, smiling. That word shall never be the same. But to wit: a drink, a stretch. He has enjoyed visiting the servants...they are getting no younger...and in the last thirty years, he has been away. He grins, hand brushing his own cheek, and he looks to the door as, oddly, someone opens it. A call satisfied. "Ah, Dhiannach," he says, beginning the Gaelic litany, "...can y' bring us somethin' hmm?"
     His awakening early has caught them unprepared. The older lady smiles and bows...this is not a house that doesn't know what you both do, "...Aye, I'll see 't," she replies, turning to go. More like it used to be, before 18th century formalities came to the household staff...and everyone expected distance and rank and file...even to get a fucking drink of water.

     He is reluctant to leave you. That shivers against the Bond. Reluctance to part, even for a moment. Perhaps it is due to the chill in the air? Non. It is deeper than this. He at least waits for the older lady to leave. No need to give her a heart attack by throwing back the colors and revealing himself in all his Norman glory.
     One more stretch and with an exhale, William throws back the coverlets and furs, easing feet to the floor coverings. Ah, more furs. He is in his element. He rakes a hand through his hair and then rises. Norman glory indeed. Fingers curl at his stomach, where waves of muscles are formed into a show of strength, with a line of dark hair beginning just above his navel. William begins rummaging for the cinnamon oil -- yet waking eyes wondering where last he saw it. His motions languid. Yet half in dreams. "Shall we take drinks in the Hall tonight... ?" Indigo flickers as he lifts his gaze to you.

     "Sure," Ian comes back, mirroring your own motion. He takes a long, appreciative look, then twirls around to find a pair of canvas pants and a shirt. Scottish casual. He'd tie the pants to his waist with rope, but then that'd be too flip. "I'm sure the boys wouldn't mind challengin' ya to a bit of drink." Talk about an evening to fear.

     That bids a rise of laughter. "But who'd bet against me and my constitution?" The first brag of the trip. Indigo flicker as a wink is cast in your direction and he lifts, holding a vial in his hands. Slow and spreading is the grin that follows. "You will thank me, yes, that I do this... " William pauses, inclining his head as his gaze fastens upon you. "Or... my love... would you prefer to do the ...honors this morning..." Since you are awake. Usually, he does this when you are yet sleeping. Dark brows lift and lower, and then the bed shifts with his weight again.

     His tongue is held between his lips as he twists to see you upon the bed. You tempt me mercilessly Ian thinks, letting the color rise to his cheeks. "If I do..." he whispers, "...you condemn us to a night in this bed," explained matter-of-factly. Is that what you want? Or to challenge the men outside? Turning around, Ian tosses his canvas pants to the foot of the bed, allowing himself to be seduced...with a smile upon his face.

     There is little doubt as to what he desires. When he looks to you, this can be known. But the clear vial, sienna liquid held captured within, is handed to you. "I do not condemn," William murmurs in reply as he settles beside you, a lordly sprawl taking up his portion of the bed. "I promise," he echoes with a grin. He closes his eyes, his lips yet parted a moment. A breath taken. Held for a number of counts and released. Lashes lift, and indigo glimmers when eyes crack open. "Do you ...remember where I place it..." Dark hair moves before his eyes, touching just past cheekbones as he turns his head to you. "...or do you need me to... guide your hands and remind you...."

     There comes a harsh knock at the door, followed by a push and someone entering....

     About to speak, Ian leaves the question left there, eyes falling to the bed upon which he sits. The khaki pants and canvas shirt flutter as the air in the room shifts, the woman arriving with a tray upon which sits the requested beverages. "Aye," she grunts, just a noise of arrival, "...the buillahbor's stormin' tonight," she understanding why you both might want something to warm you up. The house is loud, to be sure, but with the way things are sounding, they might be closing up shop securely soon. "Is there anythin' else I can be gettin' ye," she shuffles in, putting the tray on a table not so far from the fireplace.
     Not only is the tea and cider there, but scotch, a few tarts and cookies are also upon the tray, along with a few slices of today's pheasant, some crusty bread and a pot of something steaming. A bit of soup. She knows you do not eat so much, and really, there's only food for one. Young men who do not eat...you must pay attention to your figures.

     A glance to you is part blush, still on the image you've presented to him. Ian's lips purse as he looks to the bedding, hand reaching out to brush along the covers. He shall let you answer for you both, foot coming up to rest on the bed, knee beneath his chin.

     The loud knocking captured his attention, but the prince did not so much as shift to the sound. Only his gaze. And as the elder woman enters, there was no move to cover what of him may be seen. Which, just now, is quite a bit of him. Having returned to the bed, he did not likewise return beneath the covers just yet. The smile is warm, and his attention turns to the young man with him. An unseen hand brushing against the younger-seeming golden one. His golden avatar -- that makes his smile deepen.
     But at the sensations of food and drink, William turns. A grin for the woman. "You know the quickest way to my heart," he says, in her tongue. "Non... I think this shall keep us until we're brave enough to leave the warmth... " Indigo is full of fire, of dark brilliance. Like the deepest hue of a gem, as he looks back to you. "What of you?" he murmurs, Gaelic claiming his tongue with a lilt. Do you have enough to... keep you a while? A raven brow lifts, and the sensuous mouth pulls in a slant.

     "I think that is all, Dhiannach," Ian offers gently, lifting his chin to the woman. A largesse takes him when he is home, a young lord, indeed. "Tell everyone to take care for the night, make sure there is plenty to eat and drink and to keep warm with." Food, blankets, fire, and plenty of alcohol. He smirks and waves at her, letting her go see about things with the others. A real buillahbor it is, for the night, the kind of storm and wind that even a Scotsman fears.

     She nods at that, reddening brave at the lazy lie of the darker lord. What a pair you are. "Aye, twill see t' it," Dhiannach responds, curling her hands in her apron and wiping. "We'll be lettin' y' know when we're all set in the by and by," frilled cap around her head barely holding a mane of greying curls.

     A bull-of-what? A typical Norman response. Perhaps it was expected, but William held his tongue. As the young lord.... indeed quite the Lord of the Manor here...unfolds himself -- beautiful in authority -- William is content to rest upon his lord's bed, against the softness over coverlets and lie in his love and lord's shadow. It is comfortable there. Here. William murmurs a goodnight to her, and upon his lips is a parting smile. Lazy lie. It is more decadent than lazy, in truth. The sensuality that is so open, so revealed -- that were he fully clothed, it would seem scandalous still. There is nothing hidden of him. Not merely his physical qualities, but all of him is unpacked. Poor woman, though.. yes? It is enough perhaps to see him physically unpacked...

     A half-curtsey, and the elder lady turns to head out of the room. She only showed shades of dark reds, but her tongue will wag once she is back to the kitchens. And once her story is told--she'll tell the cackling crowds to shut up. Ah, the structures of a country manor.

     A sigh and Ian pushes off the bed quickly, landing on his still bare feet. "I wonder what's here," he murmurs, padding over to crane his neck as he looks from left to right of the tray. "Mm," he nods, finger tilting a piece of bread to see beneath it, "...it's beef and mushroom." The soup. "And some cheese...scotch...ah...and Lanneil's butter cookies..." His accent has not fully returned, but the Gaelic is thick. It will only be a matter of time before he becomes as indecipherable as the others....but perhaps not as much to you anymore.

     You move so quickly, and yet he can see each portion of you in the motion. You move like a young stag. With grace in equal parts to prowess. With a gait that causes the world to hush before you. And he would be, just now, a rooted oak. Whose world is moving much more slowly -- or so it seems. William chuckles as your words begin to transform before him.
     He turns his head against the pillow, his gaze -- can you feel it? -- it is a touch against your back. And then you feel it withdraw. He closes his eyes and breathes it in. And then you hear the bedding shift. Silence. And then the soft sigh of his hand about to make contact with your skin. William leans in, his hand upon one of your hips. The cinnamon and the seduction left behind on the bed. "Butter cookies, aye?... Stew." There is reverence for that. There were days, he remembers them, when that was a real treasure. William bends his head slightly, lips pressed to your temple, and William steps to the side, hand reaching out for the scotch. And a tart.
     "I do not think I shall be too social tonight," William adds in a hush, grinning after. "I have too much here to keep me in bed and happy...."

     "Stew," Ian nods, smiling as he is touched, held, and kissed. "Cider and tea," he bends a little, taking the top off to get a whiff. "Oh..." he smirks, "...straw," then cocks his head as he comes upright to your comment. Oh, nothing's wrong, so he smiles and bends again at the tea. "There is a lot here...but the halls will get cooler soon," he comments, sticking a finger into the field tea. It does have a grassy, blooming aroma. He sees the tarts, but chooses to pass on them now. Instead, lid to tea is replaced, and he picks up a tiny sliver of pheasant.
     "It is...so nice to be home," he murmurs, eyes drinking in the tray as if it were water. Food for the soul. Smells for the heart. And you. People who are family around...his castle is their home and they treat it as such. No commands needed. He and you are more the slow-moving furniture around which the estate blusters and passes by. Regardless of where you are, Strathfayr will go on. "What do you think?" Ian asks of the spread and things in general. "Feeling alright?" he wonders, putting the teeny bite upon his lips.

     This is what life is. A thousand moments brushing softly by. Trailing fingertips. Touches that get attention one moment, and pass by the next. Immortals such as you and he... you may watch it do so. You understand the beauty of it. The simplicity of it. It is profound. And finally... out of America and its noise, it has hit him again. What it is like to truly be who and what he is. Everything holds a reverence.
     William studies the scotch, its color, feeling its resonance against his tongue -- though he has not taken a single sip of it yet, he knows it -- and his hand sets it down a moment. The tart will be plucked at for a time. And he turns his head to you. All the feelings surging against the Bond are evident in the slow pull of his smile. In his gaze. I am home. William grins, "I'm feeling...everything..." He has to chuckle at his answer, and his eyes hold a brilliance. He, resplendent. "There is just... so much..." he murmurs after, his gaze moving to the ...near buffet of food. But is he speaking of that or of it all? Both.
     His fingers pluck another portion of the tart and lift to his lips. Time and space fold for vampires, and in the next moment he is standing at you again. The slight distance made before, closed again. Dark hair drapes forward slightly, and his kiss is sweet. Not only in expression, but at the hint of tart there. But as of yet, not the cinnamon you have become accustomed to. "What would you like to do this evening, amours," he murmurs there. His own accent is shifting, becoming more... Anglicized? Eventually it shall lilt and roll like yours, if he stays here long enough. A strange Gallic Gaelic...

     He licks his lips, the taste a strange combination of wild game and sugar. Ian grins, touching a finger to his mouth softly, as if wondered by the sensation. "If they are closin' the house," he thinks, "...then we best not wander so far. We could...see their preparations?" an offer. Something to do without getting in their way. "Someone will tend the fire and bring us more blankets, if we wanted to walk around?" Brows lift, not beholden to his own suggestion, and look curiously as to whether you have a better idea.

     There is something in that which appeals to him. Walking around the castle like a couple of lords. "I... would like that," he says quietly, his voice lifting and lowering. In a week, the lilt will lift the southern drawl of Provence and make every spoken word a song. The tart is set aside, and his hands reach for you. Your hips. You can hear the touch even as you feel it. The soft chime of fingers to your skin. "To walk the halls with you..." His lips pull warmly, smoothly. The smile more fond than wicked -- but with that mouth, when can his smiles ever be totally innocent? "I will... have to get dressed though," he adds in a whisper conspiratorial. As if you didn't know.
     "I used to walk the halls of my Mirabeau," his residence as Duke of Normandy, for Chinon yet belonged to his Mother and Brother then. "... with the captain of my own guard. It is a... pleasure only you understand..." No one else would 'get' it as they say in America. William grins, indigo flickering in a wink. "I suppose I will have to do the... anointing later.... " comes the languid baritone as he begins to part from you. "What... shall I wear...hmm..."

     He grins, enjoying now the feel of you behind him, surrounding him. "Trousers and a robe? Robe and shoes," Ian replies. And so easily, he slips from the grasp, smile surely intended to keep you interested for now. "Something warm," he assesses, "....we won't go outside then, hmm?" Certainly not.

     And he likes being behind you. Being able to surround you. Holding you to him. These are his chief joys. Your smile does, indeed, keep his interest high. As if it should ever wane. And yet, captivated by it, you know you hold him in the very curve of it. Smile and he shall know Joy. William turns, eyes turning to the wardrobe. You and he have had time to unpack but little else in the past night or so. It is still a matter of... settling in.
     "If I leave this chamber in so little as a robe, my poor Norman flesh would freeze," comes the droll sound of his voice. Self-directed humor. An exaggeration. But not a gross exaggeration. William half-turns, showing his grin to you, and then he turns back. His stride carrying him to the wardrobe in a Moment's passing. Little more. He removes a thick but soft woolen sweater, both grey and black. It is tossed on the bed behind him. And leathers, soft and pliant -- they will be easy to pull on. Indigo is full of fire as he glances up to you, chuckling. "Non... not outside. Holy Jesus... I'd freeze solid...then what would you do with me..." The Gaelic clip of humor.

     That could be interesting. Ian chuckles to himself as he does walk towards his own wardrobe, fishing through garments and selecting a heavy robe to wear over his canvas and cotton. He bends and plucks a pair of slippers, dropping them to the floor. Grey eyes glance over as his chuckle becomes a knowing smirk and parting of his lips. No, he really will not seek to give that a response. Shuffling left and right, he gets into the slippers and closes his door. "Maybe," he just goes on, grinning, "...we could see the kitchens? I don't want to get in the way in the front or rear of things," where large doors are tended to, "...but we could see what goes in the scullery...or underground?" The rooms where last time, you and he first began this part of your story.

     It was a shared thought. And you can watch it move against him, in a slow effusion of red. Blood, moving. It is not a living lift, as it would be with the magic cast. That has not been done tonight... and you perhaps are alone in being able to tell the difference. The sweater is now on him, and fingers give a tug at the front. It fits close to him, this knit. And though it is new, it has the look and feel of something nearly as ancient as he is. The leathers were tugged on as you spoke, but are as of yet unfastened. He'll have to stand for that, and he is yet sitting upon a corner of the bed, tugging on boots, and tucking them beneath his leathers. "Oh aye... the kitchens are a must. Mind if we detour through the Great Hall? I want to get my coat..." His mistranslation of robe. It is thicker than a robe, however. So perhaps 'coat' is right.
     William rises, fingers moving to the fore of him, making an adjustment to the leathers and what they confine before giving laces a tug. The smile pulls slow and smooth. The underground. "And then the underground. It's... been years since I ... have visited the old rooms..." That last said with a baritone hush. Reverence for that time. And what that time made him.

     "Co--" Ian ahs and nods, the robe. "Which old rooms," Ian wonders, moving past you and towards the doors. He will wait for you to get together before exposing you both to the cooler hallway outside. Not deadly cold, just not the closed warmth of an encased fire and a small space.

     Laughter lights in the gaze at the moment it touches and leaves him. And the smile that comes with it is warm and wide. Canines distended, showing themselves in it. "All of them..." He is almost ready. William moves to follow you, his stride languid... slower than your own, but he does not lag behind overmuch. For the natural length of his stride will keep the pace with you. "The new boots are working nicely," he mutters. "Lamb fleece on the inside..." Ah. And he moves with barely a sound. You hear it. But you are among the very few who could. William half-pauses, tending to the last tie of the leathers, and then he looks to you. Dark eyes holding a dual colored glimmer. His expression placid but warm. "Presentable?"

     "Every time," Ian grins winsomely, winking at you as he finally pulls at the door to step into the hallway. He pulls his robe around himself once in the hall, then looks to the right to the shortest path to the great hall. "Ah, it's not so bad," he calls, and behind it, something that sounded like, "..yet..."

     It was never this friendly when he wandered the halls with his captain. This is much better. But it is a Medieval Prince's ...simple joy. To walk the halls of a castle. And now, with his love? What could be better, apart from staying in bed and chambers? William prepared himself for the worst -- drafts bearing a touch colder than a Ventrue Woman's kiss -- but, as you say, it is not so bad. There is a smile of relief and he moves behind and slightly beside you. A touch landing at the small of your back. I am here, it says. And you are mine. "Every time?" William quips softly. Do you catch the scant wink after it. William pauses a half moment, eyes looking here... and there. Acclimating himself. Again. "We should do a tour of secret passages and play with the minds of our young charges," he murmurs after a moment of sublime reflection. William grins blithely. "Lead on, MacDuff..."

     Ugh. McDuff. Ian stops, half-turning to see you. "I knew him," he laments, "...until he decided that -he- should rule Scotland from Cawdor," he tells with a bit of a burn. Oi. He rolls his eyes and goes on down the stone passage with you, keeping to the middle of the line instead of the outside where torches and lights burn. "Everyone is nice...until they decide they need to run things," he says to you, as if giving advice. Isn't it the way of the world?
     "And yes, every time," he brings up again, out of the blue. He was listening and gives a warm smile to you, as if to wash away his blatherings of before. "Here," he says, motioning to the half-steps that curve within a low circle downwards to the main floor.

     The Norman listens to the ...advice with a smile. That damnable, and endearing, smile. As if to nod and to smile and murmur Yes, dear... He of all knows that, yes? And it is the way of things. William raises his hands, a gentle motion of half-humored apology. You are adorable when you're rankled. To be sure, it was said deliberately. He moves behind you, content to be there. To watch you move before him. "You shall not be able to live with me come the end of the night, if you keep stroking the ego, my love," comes the languid mull of his voice. For your warm smile, you receive a half grin and a wink. William crosses his arms against his chest. To hold in warmth. No magic to stir it around him.
     A song begins to stir in his throat, held there. Not quite put into words yet, but you know the ballad. It is the one you sing and whistle so often.

Posted by rowan at December 09, 1999 08:39 PM