There is no place on earth that breathes William as Chinon does. He is its air. To touch its stone is to touch his form. To look upon it is to see him in it. And time. And lives. And that he shares its space now, it becomes all the more apparent. Here, may he be simply who he is. Not Lord Fraser. Not Fitzroy. Here, he may be your Normandy. Your Plantagenet. Your d'Angevin...
     Hours have passed without much notice. Nothing upon the walls to mark their traveling. Only the candles around the room, the chamber's only source of light, give evidence of it. Wax which once was new is now half burned to the holders. That long, sir, have you been in the Duke's arms. Not on the bed, but on the pile of furs beside the now quiet hearth. The windows are opened upon their old hinges, and a soothing breeze moves in. And over you and he, where you lie.
     French, ancient. It moves against your skin, even as he, in these past moments of rest and soft conversation from the last episode of fire, rests half against, half upon you. Love is spoken there. Adoration. And a testament to your skill, lover -- finally, a comment on satiation. Take it for however long it lasts. William closes his eyes, a smile immortal upon his mouth... corners ever upturned it seems these days. Or a grin rests in his gaze, upon the verge. Opening his eyes again, he lifts his head from your neck and finds... aha... the bottle of pear wine. Remember it from Spain? It is made here as well. Pears and honey. For spring. Somewhere there's a glass...

     "You're moving," Ian murmurs, the upturned smile affixed to his face as well these nights. It is good to be home again. At this point, almost any part of Europe would have sufficed. Almost. He stirs a little with you, making sure you have the generous space to lean and pour...and keep him in contact with you simultaneously. He chuckles when you find the bottle and rolls upon his side to place arm beneath his head.
     French has come easily these nights. Languages poured in and out of, as easy as falsely breathing. All of them are yours, in a way, the old words still made by few. Communication happening between Spanish, dialects of French, with a mix of country and city. Gaelics and Italians that slur together so easily. An uber-language, after a fashion, a private world and private way of speaking that tells everything to those who would know. "Is that the pear drink?" Ian murmurs softly, your dialect pealed with his own. A curious wonder...he finds it delectable.

     A hybrid dialect that is at once utterly private, and intimate. Something that only you and he could fashion, or understand. Yes. And it sounds like music. Like souls speaking. Perhaps it is true, any corner of Europe would do, but nothing is to him or to you as Scotland and France. Both color the secret tongue you and he have created. Vowels and consonants claimed by them. Ahh... the trill of an R -- it seems permanent...
     "It is," he quietly confirms, and deep. And with a chuckle held in that throat and in his chest. Do you remember, love, when first we drank it? "I have become addicted," William murmurs, and there is a groan. For he does not wish to separate from you, and yet he must get his fingers on the bottle. A twist brings a heavy press of Norman against you. "And so, these are last year's pears and this year's honey..." A glass poured for you. And for him. And the room is filled for you with the sensations of flavors. Honey. Pear. Wine fermented of both. And your lover. The lingering taste of sweat upon the air. And is hair is still a little damp with it, at the nape of his neck. Indigo flickers, and warmth moves across his face and features in the smooth smile that captures him from eyes to mouth. The glass handed to you and then upon you, balancing and propped, he raises his own then touches it to your glass. "Ami... welcome home..." Friend-lover, lover-friend.

     "Well, thank you," Ian grins, leaving that in poor-man's English. He chuckles for the drop in speech, coming to rest on his side as hand holds glass along the curve of his waist and hip. A bend of his wrist allows glasses to touch. A quick taste -- and Ian beams radiantly. Memories held in a scent, a taste. "You know, I hate to admit it," not really, "...but I think I have spent more time in France than anywhere else other than Scotland," Ian calculates. It is, his other home. He should have admitted that to you so long ago. "Even more than London city itself, I believe." If you want to pick any place. "And," his grey eyes roll upwards to see you, "...the French of the Ille," Paris, "...of course, is my...second language?" Careful. "I think so...I did not learn English very well, until I returned from Paris and was stuck in London for many decades." The first time he was in London, he passed through, a veritable outsider in a village. "But I saw the first of You," Normans, "...there...and then I was in France not so long afterwards. For a while too, until I had to follow your..." he thinks, "...grandfather or...someone, back to the island." Ah, times before 1100. It's all a blur. He grins wickedly before taking a drink again, as if to say, what do you think?

     A chuckle. "I am shocked ...hmm... " That for the first taste of the wine. A look of reverence passes over him, and he takes another swallow. William settles beside you, upon his side and flush against you. "...that you did not find my grandfather Geoffrey... or Guillaume for that matter... to your liking." The smile twists, sensuality entwining with humor. "Or did you...?" And he cannot even think of this. Indigo eyes widen and he props up his head upon his palm, elbow to the softness of furs. "Nevermind...this I do not want to know..." Pear wine, golden and sweet, chimes against the glass as the motion of his hand causes it to swirl. Gesticulation becomes an art.
     "I have spent my time... thrice divided... between Our Island," England and Scotland, "...to France...to Italy. In neat thirds... Caesar would have appreciated the symmetry..." Colors, brilliant and interplaying. Violet and blue look to you. Quite near. But a kiss away. "You followed the invasion in? I suppose it made transport rather easy to come by. So many ships..." It is a part of history that is more fable to him than reality or history. For he did never see it. He only heard of it from mother's and father's bards. And priests. And who can take the word of a priest alone? William looks to you. A gaze that is a feast. Sight that is as much a taste.

     He shrugs, leaving you to sort out what brought him to and fro. Ian grins afterwards, tipping glass to his lips. He so enjoys you looking at him, and is happiest in showing you what all you command. "I did not follow the invasion so closely," Ian smirks, "...let's see...in that year ... 1066 ...I was in London. Well, the village on the Thames," he pokes at himself. "I heard of what was happening south, of who came, what happened with Harold. It was still a few weeks later before I saw the first...of your family. In truth," he laughs, "...it's a wonder they all made it. I did not think their horses, those cans of armor, and their egos could all fit on a vessel," Ian taunts, nudging your arm with his nose.
     "But, I guess they did. I went to France the first time a few years later. Not so long." He was already over a hundred then. "When I returned to England the first time, I found that my English...was lacking," he smirks, golden hair falling at his face when he takes another drink. "I think," he goes on after his swallow, "...Caesar would have liked you much, Will." Just as a thought.

     It is good the wine was swallowed before the comment heard, else you shall have bathed in pear. As it is, it is choked as it is finished, and William rolls to land, back to the furs. In laughter. How brilliant it makes him. Something of what would have become laugh lines had he a few more earthly years appear and indigo is full of wild light and fire. Only you could see so much in them. The interplay of colors. The explosions of stars that comprise them. Deep and soft, the sound comes from him. And joy is tangible. Known. Understood.
     William turns his head upon a pile of furs formed into something of a cushion. "Dieu... egos... this is the God's Truth," comes the rumble. And well he should know it. He suffers it as much, if not more, than they. "Colossal egos... well endowed...heavily armed. It is a greater miracle their own mounts could bear them up, let alone a boat..." A wink causes colors to flicker, indigo. "As for me... I had to learn English. It's important to know what your enemy is saying, yes? I never did get the knack of Scots Gaelic...but while I lived I never had cause to go so far north on the Island... my campaigning was all to the West..." Wales.
     A dark brow lifts and William lies spread upon the furs. He does enjoy, as much as you, showing you what you call Yours. "He is one man in history I would have liked to have met. Briefly... Ah, and St. Augustine..."

     "Augustine," Ian says, rising to a sit, propped on an arm. Glass and hand settle on his hip. "I should like to have met...Pompey," he considers, looking to the fire, "...perhaps," his voice lilts, holding the cliffhanger, "...Aquinas. Abelard." Just a hair before his arrival in France. He does have things he has missed. "Aristotle," he nods eagerly, taking up his drink in preparation. "Hmph," Ian smirks, "I have not thought of this much. I am so used..." he rolls against you in a push, "...to knowing someone others wished they had met," he grins.

     "And I do not think we should want to meet those of our kind who have had those pleasures," of meeting the ones you and he have talked on. A mull of humor, Knowing held within. William sets his glass aside, the full of his attention upon you after. Softened, the gaze. Humor at the edges, in lingering warmth, but there is something there altogether more fond. Is he not rather hideously in love, sir? And unrepentant.
     "It is strange," comes the languid baritone, taking its time upon each syllable spoken, "...to have known so many that others... could not have but dreamed to meet. It does not seem real, upon reflection..." A hand, unoccupied now by the absence of the glass, reaches out...fingers to capture the gold of your hair. Candle light plays upon you, turning you to gold. And your lover? To a more earthy bronze, the only gold on him that of the hair in flecks upon the otherwise smooth chest. Shadows play upon you, like hands. He is nearly envious of those shadows. Indigo wanders, and his hand moves to skim a touch upon your lips. I love you. The pulse of it rides in a charge against the Bond.
     And then eyes lift and shift about. His father's chamber. When his eyes return to you, William smiles. Slight though it is, the fullness of his mouth holds it firmly. Warmly. "Alexander," he murmurs. The Great, that is. Another one he would have liked to meet. He can almost imagine... you as he...could it have been?

     The gaze is well met and returned. Ian smiles for the shared indulgence of each other's form, and then agrees. "Alexander," he nods, "...and his love for a young man. Hmm. What was his name?" Now he can't recall. There comes a soft sigh, nothing so serious. "Or Hadrian..." and this one he remembers, "...Antinous," glass lifting, "...a youth so beautiful, that Hadrian had his face immortalized upon Egyptian coins and in the palaces along the Nile. So beautiful," Ian smirks, "...that perhaps Hadrian himself killed him on the shore that night."
     What could make a man do so? Ian grins at you, insinuating your own potential guilt. Or at least the thought of it. "He never got over it," he tells you, as if you didn't know, "...the death of his Antinous," sentence left to linger as he toys with the story and you.

     The story bears some resemblances, does it not. You immortalized your own Antinous, did you not Dunross? In your mind and heart, and then in blood. Finally. Upon the soil of the Middle East -- that realm of emperors and gods -- near the shore of a river. Strange. Perhaps your William was Hadrian... and You Antinous. And so, the story has come full circle. Would it not be poetic if it were true? That you gave him life, even as he had given death so many, many years before? A half-cocked smile pulls at William's mouth, and then... at yours...
     Sitting up, the Norman seeks your mouth. As if a kiss could confirm it. Better still, confirm Existence Itself. His mouth suckles upon your own, like a piece of fruit stolen from a lover's fingertips. But brief. And against your lips, "I love you" is murmured. William lies back, landing softly against the furs again. And staring up at you, sighs. He knows what could make a man do so.

     Such a kiss. Ian reeled faintly at it. Surprise. He joined in, only to already find you falling back towards the furs. Licking his lip, he laughs softly before soothing himself with cooling pear wine. Better. "Hmm. Perhaps I should take care one night in our lovemaking," Ian goes on, French mellifluous, "...for who knows what might transpire in the ache and blaze of passion?"

     "If you are to be wounded, it should only be by this..." A chuckle clings to his throat, as a glance tends downward for a moment. And the grin spreads wide. Mon Dieu... it is a wonder the tower does not collapse from the weight of that ego, non? William lifts a brow, a dark arch, a placid expression. Not quite innocence. "I have... more endurance and control than Hadrian..." comes the mull of that languid baritone. Dieu. Shall you even let him kiss you again? There is no way to know if one does not try. He lifts again. Mouth seeking again. To steal. Shall you prevent it now? Or shall you let him pluck the fruit of your mouth again?

     "Dieu, William Plantagenet," Ian rolls his eyes, still unbelieving after all of these centuries. And as you rise to seek him again, Ian's hand does come out, halting the approach. There. That is as far as you shall go, Norman. "If you have such control," Ian smiles, "...then what sort of Antinous am I to be unable to entice you to such heights?" Control you have...means he is resistible, yes? "Maybe," he looks down between you coyly, "...I should not strive so? Antinous...is such a great beauty..."

     A kiss placed upon your hand. Adored, no less than your mouth would be. Smoldering, indigo shines past your hand, fastening the whole of his attention upon you. "You so outshine Antinous as to make him...." A pause to find the right sort of analogy. "...John." William smiles, another kiss left and eyes half-close. Strong, he is. You... resistible? Never.
     "Claim me again, and show me...the knives are put away..." But the fangs are not. Distended, he drags them against your finger. "...we shall see... how strong I am, yes? Shall you put the Plantagenet metal to the test?"

Posted by rowan at April 17, 2000 01:37 PM