You followed fast on foot to deep Dunsinane, and trees held firm. They did not move. Nor sway, that you could see. Perhaps the crowns of these eldest of kings -- apart from yourselves -- are shaking at winds high above. They do not so much as creak. Is this a comfort, that the legendary wood is so still?
     Breath comes in yet freezing mist from your lover's mouth. Though it is spring, evening air is still crisp. And moisture -- the promise of spring rain -- holds constant. Even in this midnight. It shall rain by morning, even as it had the better of this day until sunfall. Moisture lives against him. His hair is slick and inky black. Mud adorns him where else your keen eyes can tell. And holding still, his back to a tree, his hands poised upon his bow. Even as his eyes flicker toward you. You, who even in this darkness can see the indigo dancing, fully. A sign between you. He turns his head, your lover, in the direction of where the stag has paused...
     Breath hits the air in grunted puffs. Could this have been the source of all those dragon-stories? The many-tined stag lifts his head. He is wounded, but not enough to land upon your table. Enough, that he must stand a moment on trembling legs. Listening for you, even as his body tenses beneath his hide. His eyes are wide. You can taste the fear, and smell it. And the blood. The red stag, native to your forest, lifts his head high. Smelling fear and dread and worst of all...Darkness. Ears prick forward and rotate, and with a snort and a grunt, he turns. He will soon bolt... which of you shall shoot...
     You catch the flicker of your love's eyes again. Instants only, all of this has been...

     Sometimes, it's simply unfair being undead. Perhaps it's the seeming disconnect from the universe that animals can sense. Is the distinction so sharp? Or is it that mortals no longer know how to listen to the instincts held deep inside. Whichever it is, the stag is even aware of preternatural existence. Amazing how the universe's creatures can tap into Knowledge.
     Across from you, Ian is still. Dressed in black spandex and neoprene, is your Lover. His hair is drawn back, dark streaks pulled through to keep the glint down, and like you, mud splatters his face and hands. Feet are dark as well. Grey eyes are flat matte, glints of rain and moon subdued. It's your stag, Lord William, he is but this night's companion. There's almost a hint of sympathy for the creature, but it is not enough to halt his hand. Eyes glance in the direction of the stag, a bit of tensing at it's motion. It's about to leave, take a shot, hmm? And in it, Ian closes his eyes, signaling that this is not his moment. His was the last...and he'd only wounded it.

     There is something between the stag and your lover this moment that mortal men only ever glimpse or skim their fingers against the notion of it. Drawn to it, they leave their wives for long excursions with alcohol-laden companions. But they miss the point. The point that those of Our Kind feel intrinsically. If the stag in his death were to be given his Due, it would be that he should have lost to two such as you. And, signal passed, the bow is drawn. Composite -- not crossbow -- for even as light-weight and relatively easy the crossbows have become with time, they are not half so silent.
     Is it so unfair being undead? For though the stag may well have sensed you, as much any other creature in the forest, you and he both move four-times as fast as this poor creature. The bow is drawn as soon as the signal is given. The arrow leaves for its mark even as the stag is lifting, turning to veer and bolt. You and your lover can watch it -- in every frame of Existence until the arrow hits. And can you hear that? That which even William cannot? The sound of flesh being parted, soundly struck. The neck.
     There is a smile, and your lover begins to move. You can watch him unfold. So like himself. So... something else. There is something of the crusader in him yet -- it ever shall be. Muddy and armed, he moves between the spaces in nightfall. The stag, frightened, trumpets out and bolts. We must run again, or lose where he falls. Breath leaves your lovers lips in a frozen cloud as he moves out of the tree's shelter.
     Indigo finds you. A focused look that, but you can see the grin beginning. The first stage -- fire in the eyes. Run with me... says the gaze...

     There was only a smile below Ian's closed eyes. No, he shall not have seen your moment, save in the flash as he turned his head to see the stag depart. Between all the noises of Dunsinane, none is more sounding than any other, all filling his senses. And thus, death blends with the living. Even if the stag knows it not yet. Seeing your motion and grin, Ian winks as the forest seems to come brashingly vibrant again, feet and hooves in rapid lead and chase. He's with you, smirking as he throws himself from his shielding tree and lunges into the open dark and wet, half-bent in his gallop across fallen logs and underbrush. His bow choice is the same as yours, and in a flash, he takes up a stride not so far from your own.

     Now is the time when the horses and dogs would be set loose and hounds would fell the wounded deer. Until a lord's spear could send the stag upon his way to forest gods. But there is no horse, nor hound. Only feet to the tangled trails of the deep woods. The stag could yet lose you, yet there is One now he cannot escape. The One now clinging to wearied legs. A spent heart. Heavy. So heavy. But the ground is torn by his refusal to relent. Not yet. Not yet. He has not lived so long, this stag, by falling at the first... or second... sting of pain. But though he remains on his feet, he has slowed. He is shaking.
     Three pursuers. Death, and his two sons. Death is faster than you both, but you and your lover lunge. The wood, vibrant even ... or perhaps especially... at midnight... is a blur around you both. Along the trail, muddy and littered with leaves and fronds that could not withstand last night's winds...
     Moments are blurs once the running has begun. But time passes, as trees are passed. You see your William's hands. Large, gloved -- how like a knight now seeming, so seldom in His Element as he is now -- and the stag, faltering, within reach. He will fell him, and become both hound and lord. A move crusaders used upon the field of battle follows -- one that has been echoed even in the wilderness of the Colonies, by ranchers and ranchers' sons. The head of the stag is jerked around, antlers grasped and neck and head twisted toward the ground...

     There is a noise from the falling stag, as he is leapt upon by something so dark. How could this have happened? If Fear has not come to it, it does now, in rushing terror and baying noise. Horror, as not only is its life jerked away in a fatal twist of its many-pointed antlers, but in the legs that seem to have left the ground, causing the stag to land on its hind quarters instead of its knees.
     He breathes still, Ian does, his heart racing in false tremors. It reminds him of living, these moments, as much as it reminds him of his own dying. Perhaps that is the shimmer that strums along the bond. The fear shared. He blinks, shaking it off, hands still upon the stag's legs as he rises a little, to evaluate what your next desire is....

     It is all a flash. Like battle. A flash that takes forever. Oh, you should have seen him after his first charge. How had an hour passed so slowly? So swiftly? He had stood upon the field, numb. And trembling. This is to be my life? But as much of a shock as it was, something happened to him then that is repeated in these moments. Far more subtle than victory. It is tasting the salt of survival on the tongue. And the very thin fabric that ripples in a veil over the face of Life and Death. William sits in the mud, hands gripping the antlers firm. The stag and you around him. He remains still, making certain the soul has passed before he moves again. Or is it stillness borne of being caught up in a memory? The same memory that has stayed with him through every life he has ever taken, as mortal or immortal. The fear you felt, the stag felt, William felt. The same fear that carried him like Mars through every battle, even his final one -- that one you do recall.
     Indigo eyes lift to you and his breathing begins to calm. Mist leaves him yet. Pounding, his heart is pounding. As if it were living -- it is magic. But it is real. The energy pounds likewise from his eyes. "He's gone," William whispers. A moment of reverence. Two good shots -- one to the shoulder, yours, another to the throat, his. And the twisting of his neck. All have ended the life. All in an hour's time. William closes his eyes for a moment. When they open, the first smile twists upon his lips. Gloved hands let the antlers loose. Slowly. His next desire? He reaches for the dagger that is held tight at his side. It glints in the moonlight. You know the tradition, yes? To grasp the heart in its final beating. To bloody the tongue and the cheeks with it.

     As stag and lover fall, so does Ian. He sinks to his knees, not so far from you, at the stag's hind-quarters. For a long moment, he too is still, blank as it were. Some memory and feeling passing through him again. Unthought of before, at least in this context. Hunter and hunted. Where you find understanding and symmetry with the universe in once more surviving, there is little of that for him. There has been in the past, but then again, that was another young man.
     As you speak, Ian's grey eyes remain on the stag. Absently, as if voice called to him from the ether, his expression turns to you, slow in its draw to his left where you sit. "Huh?" he murmurs, lost from the ritual at the moment. Oh, right, as he sees the dagger glint, that part, yes. "Oh," he whispers, nodding in assent. But he is distracted. He'll let you start the next part of the ceremony as well, altar of deer ahead at your laps.

     It will take at least an hour to wash him free of the mud. But in this, could he be more beautiful. For a moment, he becomes his father's father and the ancestors of his mother's Aquitaine. Only the gentle pass of his hand over the fallen stag's hide -- a tender honor given -- on its way to the beast's heart belies the barbarian scene. Were he blonde, he'd seem the half-Viking that he is. But the Frank in his hour was no less primal. It is something you and he share in your blood, Dunross. Barbaroi.
     He rises to a half-kneel, leaning over the capture, hands moving to the stag's ribcage. The hand that passes to the chest of the deer does so with an artistic grace. It is not so much that the ceremony is done with full solemnity -- it is merely done as it has been done a thousand times before. The hand knows the way. Well-practiced and learned, it seems purposeful, deliberate. Ceremonial without trying to be. Blood hits the air. Not human, but the copper is still there. Different. William bends his head, and wet hair, longer now that it has grown back, drapes forward, half-veiling your view of him.
     You do not have the same memories as he does, this is true. Yours, perhaps are closer to this event. You, who hunted even more than he, though his mortal life extended nearly seven years beyond your own. You, who ran with the gameskeeper, rather than with the cavalry of an army.

     He'll not disturb you, grey eyes watching in distant quiet. Frames of a movie scrolling by, a film that he is not so much a part of. Yes, he knows the tradition, has participated in it. But for you, it is somehow different. This he notices now. Maybe the two of you have always been hunters of alternate veins, and he has never stopped to realize how you were the same...and not. Can it be there are distinctions of hunters? Those for whom the experience rests in victory and gratitude for survival and respect for the vanquished? The Natural fight, upon which things could sway any direction. There is goodness in it, recognition of one's place in some eternal struggle, wherein one day, you might not be so successful...
     The other? The experience rests in the replay of one's own helplessness. A hunter whose connection rests in self-identification and sympathy, and thus, each hunt is a hope to restore something tarnished to himself. Perhaps, this time, the one hunted will have another ending...and perhaps ease of heart will come. Ian looks away, eyes seeking something further in the woods. Another sound heard. Perhaps a brook, or more than likely, the approaching rain making its way through the forest. That is where he shall lose himself, content to be...himself...in that.

     The differences are subtle, but they have always been there. It does not matter, ultimately, what is hunted. Be it man or woman or beast. But there are similarities, many, between the two of you. It is like when two pairs of eyes see a painting and speak of it later. Sometimes it may seem that the two saw utterly different works. This is, perhaps, along that vein. For William, every hunt is like a battle. There are lines and strategies. There is motion and chaos. There is the challenge -- and the fear -- that he on his best day might not stand victorious at the end of an evening. But it is the way a warrior exists. It is the way a warrior understands. It is how he hunts two-footed targets as well, though with humans the battle may take more than one guise. And is usually not so muddy...
     The heart is lifted. It is still in his hand, and upon the air -- blending with swell of approaching rain - there is the twinge of blood. Stag's blood. Strange and familiar in simultaneous moments. A slice of air and a thud -- his dagger stands embedded in the earth by his left side. And with the deer's head and body half resting upon his lap as he sits back, William lifts the heart to his mouth. Even as dark eyes lift to the canopy of the forest. Rain. Perfect. I'm going to have to carry the beast back. "You'll be able to find our way back through the rain, aye?" comes the flow of Gaelic, muffled a half-moment. Sour -- William makes a slight face at the taste. You feel a nudge of his hand against your shoulder, lightly -- even with stretching forward, the stag gets in the way of his forward motion. "Love..." The heart is offered, in the palm of your own true love. What a medieval romance this is.

     The tip-tap rhythm begins. Before rain is ever felt here, it is heard. The old birch and older oak catch it first. Tip-tap, falling water shall find its way to the soil, and those below.

     "Hmm?" Ian murmurs, turning his attention from the line of droplets that is making itself known. He blinks, natural reaction, then looks to the heart offered and the source. "Oh, aye, I should," Gaelic coming slow from him, "...I think I still know my way around." He grins and bends to instead kiss your lips. Medieval romance, indeed. "Tart, hmm?" he wonders, licking his lips to the same expression you just had. The meat is given a smirk and wiggle of his nose in decline. It will not sit well, such flesh. He has all he needs of it from your mouth. He sighs and looks out towards the rain, squinting up at the green canopy and how it shields you from the sky. He cannot see the clouds. "I don't know...if this is passing or not," he murmurs, thinking it best to wend back towards the castle. Wet and muddy, he looks at his own hands and wipes them against the black of his chest.

     "It's been too long for me..." comes the lilt of natural Gaelic from his lips. How quickly French seems to have fled from him. It will return, you know, once Chinon is breached and the first plum brandy of the vineyards there passes his lips. "And you know... I would not walk it alone...." A chuckle at that. Medieval and superstitious of old forests. Particularly one with such a ...legend as Dunsinane. The first sign of the forest moving on its own and even the brother of Lionheart would have to hasten back. Not that he would try to show such, mind you. But the admittance is in his gaze. Bloodied mouth seeks your own and finds it again before you can rise. Tasting of the stag's blood. Tasting of his own sweat. Salty sunlight. The scents of mud and water, the earth and leather all around him. "We will take our comrade to the gaming room, let the lads clean him up...while you clean me..." Such a look. And then agreement. Was a bit tart, wasn't it...
     The rain begins to mist. A fog to rise. Warm air near the earth meeting the cold spring rain. Thudding, heavy drops fall to the earth where grasping branches and leaves missed their mark. The remainder of the heart is buried in the soil. It will someday become another deer, so it goes. William exhales, breath catching on the air as he looks at the deer. Still, he has not felt the rain. But it will not be long before shall. You can see him crouch. You can see him beginning to maneuver the deer deliberately. No horse here to carry it out -- he shall... Lord bless him. "Best to get back before we lose the trail," he murmurs, agreement. "I don't want to get lost in Dunsinane..." He chuckles to that and indigo flickers in a wink.

     Ian smirks, shaking his head. But yes, he too would rather not be caught in Dunsinane this night. He grinned at the kiss, lingering as he needed it much, and then pushed himself from the ground. "I'll get the bows," he murmurs, looking around to retrieve fletching and place arrows into the quiver at his thigh. "I'm sure they will all be thrilled to see fresh venison," he chortles, certainly sure otherwise. It is labor-intensive.
     Stepping away from you, Ian returns to where the stag fell. He bends to find a broken arrow, tsking low as he gathers it with the others. Someone will fix it. He turns, the very vision of a guide, and confirms direction and a plan of action. "Let me know when you're ready," he murmurs, setting bows to 'safe' as his feet crunch the ground around where the scene is set.

     This, or any night. But he does not say it. He does not need to. It resides in the pull of his grin, and in the gaze. "Ah..." and that beginning phrase is followed by a grunt. "..he did not seem half so fat when he was running..." After a moment or two, front legs are grasped at the ankle by his left hand, rear legs grasped at the shins by his right. William holds the stag firm. Taking a moment to readjust it on his shoulders. "..they'll not complain once they have the first pie of it... Dionnach will see to that..." Can you tell it by his voice -- he's getting attached to the staff already. Speaking of Dionnach like she's his own nurse or cook. And is she not now? In her way...
     "I think I'm as ready as I'll be love," William murmurs. His voice comes out in a grunt as he makes a final adjustment and waits for you to pick a path and move forward. "If you see any of the trees moving on their own, you'll be sure to tell me...aye?" A chuckle is held deep in the chest. Those low syllables he speaks.

     He laughs softly, hands making quick work of securing your bow to his back. Latches are flipped, and the makeshift bandolero will allow him to move quickly, if need be. In his hands...his own bow, still for use. Just in case. With everything checked, he twists to take a last scan. "I think that's it," he mumbles seriously, then looks towards the southwest. "At pace," he lets you know, a soldierly march to happen. Something faster than a stroll, but not a gallop.

     Indigo eyes lift as the first rain is felt. And he in mud and leather and wool and stag comes behind you. Meeting your pace, a few strides behind you. He is carrying added weight, non? Now the hunt is done, you can hear him whistling -- between the odd grunt of something Norman when he has to readjust the heavy deer. Heavier by the moment, truth be told. But he shall not complain of the view. The forest. The brooks and the stone paths. And you...

     This path is not the one you came down. But who in the heck knows what path that really was? Where he chooses seems to be fresh underbrush, definitely unbroken by foot or hoof. A blazed trail towards the castle. It is a good walk, his pace, and in it, he notices not the eyes upon him. His attention is to the wood and making sure that neither of you are suddenly blindsided. Certainly, you're in no position to be first defense. That's left to him.
     "You're right, really," he says, looking left and right as he walks, hand reaching to wipe at his dampening brow, "...once pies and bangers are made," he shrugs, "...they will forget they had to clean for several nights. It's a big buck, Will," he grins, turning to glance at you, "...it's a good catch, love."

     A chuckle at that. "Oui... it is..." The laughter is as much a groan. It's heavy, but he can more than handle it. But it is exertion, this. Several hundred pounds carried on broad shoulders. Usually a horse would do this work, but a Norman will serve, wot? In this, as in a few other things often chuckled about. "It was well done, love... Nice clean shot to the shoulder," praise for you. It is yours too -- he shall not let you forget it, and so the Bond shimmers with that thought. "Merci," though he quips for the praise to him. Never one to not give thanks for a compliment. The peacock in him shows at the grin -- bright it is, off-set by all the mud.
     It is good you watch the path, for he can not turn to look at it all. His trust is fully in you. In this, as in all things. His gaze locks upon you -- can you feel it? Finding not only pleasure in watching you move, but in having a focus and a mark in the darkness to follow. Indigo sparkles as he narrows his eyes. No free hand to wipe his brow -- but William smiles at the sting of sweat. His.

     "Hmm," comes Ian's voice as his steps slow. Straightening his shoulders some, he looks left and right as you venture into the forest once more. Not that you are returning the way you came, God knows that would be impossible. He looks to the untouched brush at your feet, then lifts eyes ahead once more. Moonlight is checked with a glance to the trees, and a nod. "Aye...umm...this way," he motions with his bow, taking quicker steps again. "Oh," he calls, "...do you want me to carry the stag a while?"

     "Non, I'm fine..." Quiet words. His eyes are on you and traveling in glimpses to the surroundings. It has been so long since he has been this way. Or into the depth of the woods at all, for quite some time. "It's more cumbersome than anything..." There's a wink for that. Again, indigo eyes lift to the surroundings. He knows the general, cardinal directions -- if only the forest weren't as thick and the sky weren't as crowded with clouds. William's stride quickens in time to yours -- he is at your heels now. Does the energy prick at your skin? Or is that the rain? "Do you know how handsome you are when you're armed...?" Good lord, his timing. Well, he did just run down and kill something. You know what it does to him. The air is alive with the pull of his smile -- lingering in his gaze, fiery. Soft and deep, a chuckle rises from his chest. He is already seeing the look you should give him.

     Suddenly, Ian stops, allowing you to thud into him. Stag and all. Bow in hand, he turns around, the ranger-guide, and looks at you with streaks of muddy dark on his skin. Disbelieving. And not. He chuckles and shakes his head, picking up his steps again. "You are...a Norman," he laments, saying the phrase with much less venom than many of his young friends when he was alive. The irony of it isn't missing, and Ian chuckles as he stomps on, bow and arrow leading the way, pointed vigilantly at prepared angle.

     Rain has worked its way past the grasp of tall oak and birch. The trees can only hold so much, yes? And so now all around you comes the thudding of rain meeting the already wet soil. He is gifted with a small shower of rain, originating from a wide oakleaf acting as a spout. This comes in time to your sudden halt. And the laughter that began even after his comment now rises. Rich and warm. William grins, wide and wicked, at the look of disbelief. And at the collision. It shall only encourage him. "Shhh... not so loud," he mutters, in his best brogue. It comes a little easier after three months. He not only knows the irony, he chuckles at it. The whistles begin again, and some old song remembered. His deep voice eases out soon after. In Medieval French. Some old hunting song.

     Ahead the forest is thinning. Still dark it is, but there is something ahead. Sky...

     And that was what Ian was looking for. Not so much the castle, but an ordinal spot. To tackle the larger quest, seek something smaller. The right direction to sky and a new place to judge. He stomps and smiles, trying to clear a path of branches for you to pass. "Lookie," he grins, motioning to above. He's where he wants to be. "We should come up on the southeast corner of the garden in a few minutes, lad, don't you worry," he smiles, continuing on.

     As you pause to stomp and turn to him, your lover takes a moment to readjust the stag lain across his shoulders. A grunt for that and something in Norman for the stag's benefit -- not that the beast much cares at this point in time -- Come along, you fat bastard. Dark eyes -- for only you could see the violet dancing in them and the blue that rivals twilight -- lift to the sky. Smooth and slow comes the smile. Whether it is to see sky -- and to know Dunsinane has been conquered yet again -- or because you called him lad and told him not to worry ... this is harder to know. "You know this wood like you know your own hands," comes the languid baritone, quiet and warm praise from a lover's mouth. William gives a nod for the directive and begins to move again. Covered in rain and blood and mud. He smells of sweat and deer and leather. Ah, just like old times...

     Even his cheer is returned and melancholy dispelled. Ian walks along, the sky becoming more prevalent. As he does, bow droops lower and he takes up a spot beside you, instead of ahead. "Didya enjoy th' night?" he wonders idly, making chat to the Lord...for the Lord's benefit. Always a good gameskeeper, he is. "I think everyone's gonna have much t' say on the beast on your shoulders, that's for sure." Somewhere ahead, plain can be spied between fronds and branches.

     He had noticed the quiet -- but had he truly seen the melancholy? He feels it receding. When did it descend? But it is gone now. The smile dispels it for you, and for him. The smile is quick. Upon you, upon the sky he sees. Layers of grey upon a darker matte. "I did," he says quietly, the Gaelic coming easily now. His gaze is constant upon you. Even when it takes glimpses of the surroundings, it always returns to you. You, his source of all things. "Beautiful hunt... well led, Ian... " Again, praise to you. You pointed and he ran. His own skill, well, he'll not speak of it. It was well-done by all. William turns his head, looking at the head of the stag he bested. "I think they'll have a lot to say for the mud I'm going to track in as well... " A wink to you and his eyes scan the darkness ahead. Making out trees. The outline of architecture...

     "Aye," he smiles proudly, "...they will." Ian nodded only at the compliment to him. But he spies the architecture coming into faint view, and inhaling deeply, he puts fingers to his lips for a short sequence of whistles: high, low, low, and then a fluttering trill. That'll get their attention...and some one to come out and help. A grin to you and he measures how you are handling things. "I think a bath'd be good too, don't you think?"

     He's a mess. A beautiful mess, but a mess. Mud splattered from the run, the chase -- and even some placed deliberately. Rain and sweat have made the mud upon his face streak. And the blood of the deer covers his gloves. And now his right shoulder, where the cut to free the heart has only slowly leaked. Once the heart was gone, there was nothing to pump it -- he is not awash in it. But neither would Dionnach let him into your manor house, be he king of all England. To your whistling, to the view of the gardens now approaching, William grins. His stride picking up. He's handling the stag well enough. Who wants to handle getting him cleaned up? "Oh aye..." warm words upon the exhale, "... I could use it. Does the wind not say as much?" Norman laughter at that.

     "I'd tried not t'notice, laddie," Ian confesses, reaching to pat the small of your back as he walks across clearing plain towards garden's corner. And indeed, a small door opens in the face of the wall, light streaming from it. "But, nay, just a jest, hmm? It..." he smiles at you, "...was a wonderful time, Will," grey eyes sparkling. "Right now...I just wanna bath, hmm? Mebbe something to drink...aye, that sounds right..."

     You're too kind. The look is as much a confession as your words that preceded it. He has a nose. He knows what the wind carries. His own nose wrinkles at it. Oh, if only you had a camera to capture that look for all time. He goes from looking four-and-twenty and being nearly halfway to 900, to looking strangely eighteen. It passes, that boyish look. In the very next moment. The placid and confident expression of the lover with a stag across his shoulders. From boy to knight to king in seconds, as only as he can. "It was a splendid night, Ian... merci," he murmurs. "And a bath and drink sound good. You will with me, aye?" A pause. "Well... after the first layer of muck is off and I can enjoy it..."

     Light splashes upon the garden, golden. Green life in spring's blossoming is revealed. Your gardens are a wonder in spring. And surely you can hear the voices of the staff. "We should get a stout lad to take this from me... get to work on it..." His stride picks up the pace, his carriage one of strength. Potent grace. He covers the space.

     He nods at you, looking up and ahead as he begins to descend into the corner of the garden. A crossing as it were. "Fergus," he calls, expecting to see the game staff and other outside-hangers on come scurrying. One of the men makes himself known, waving and bringing the others on in a gallop. "C'mon," he calls, now rain-soaked. To you, Ian nods, "I bet Dionnach already has some on th' bath," he nods, knowing that undressing might have to take place in the central bailey or in the tackroom.

     It is one of the spring showers. The water is yet cool, and a fog hugs the bodies of trees. In the garden, where ancient oak do not stand, the shower may be felt. The rain is light. Something more than a mist, something less than a storm. It rearranges the mud and blood more than it washes it away. A smile lingers on William's mouth, upturning the corners and holding firm there. "Good woman..." comes the grunt. "Like the mother I never had." And that is the truth. William chuckles at it, shooting a knowing look to you. Eyes close -- a reverent moment. Images run between you. Feelings. Indications. Thoughts of cleanliness and you.

     Fergus and the lads do come up and eyes go a bit wide at the sight. Well, a spring buck. Now that'll be a treat. William grins, glad to pass it off. "I want the hide salvaged, bit of damage, nothing too bad," he clips in warmed Gaelic.

     No disagreement there, to choruses in Gaelic of 'aye, m'lord' and 'yes, of course, Lord Fraser.' Ian only smiles, turning to speak to a younger man of the group as he hands off the bows and quivers for cleaning and replacement. "Make sure you check the fastenings on Lord William's...they might need treatment from the wet." A young keeper in the making, no doubt, who listens to Ian and nods gingerly. "And don't forget the fletching," he reminds gently, unstrapping himself and twisting as he speaks. "Did someone tell th' house that we were comin'?" Ian wonders.

     In the light, the grin is bloodied. Not all of the heart's blood was taken in the kiss between you. Easier to see now as the warmth and light begins to spill on you both. Stag taken, William gives his shoulders a roll. The weight suddenly lifted, there is a sigh for that. Several hundred pounds -- he's a strong man, your lord Fraser -- but he's glad to be relieved of the pleasure. Hands tug off the gloves as he starts for the garden's keep entrance. The stride is more its familiar languor now, and his gaze is all for you again. Warm. The air sings with it between you. Who could look at you and your lord and not see what is so evident? Feel what is stirring? Adoration.

     Cheers go up and bright talking. It'll be along night in the lofts and the underground chambers. The young man nods at Ian's words, turning off to catch up with the crowd as they lead the parade back towards the grounds. Ian looks at you and smiles, deciding to remove his own gloves as well. "Forget th' pies, they're happy already," he smirks, picking up his pace to get inside, "...we can rinse downstairs, and then head to the bath, hmm?" And the gardens are crossed in quick fashion, doors passed to lead into the south courtyard.

     Exhilaration. The fire that comes with a hunt well-done. It lives in his gaze. It singes the air around him. It warms his expression. Bloody, muddy, sweaty and beautiful. With Life and Death held in his hands, cupped as surely as rain. Exhilarating, and the staff feed from it even as you and he have. Arms go to grab at you as the stride becomes a jog. "Aye...rinse would be good. I've got the seven layers of Troy on me, hmm?" Shall the hunt become a tussle. Shall the tussle become a war. Shall a war become a ...different sort of battle altogether? The Bond carries it. At the landing of his touch, there is electricity. He is Norman... you said it yourself. And you married him, Scot...

Posted by rowan at March 05, 2000 01:03 AM