No light but the stars and the moon. No false illumination of man enlightens the way, but only the Grace of God in firmament above. From horizon to horizon -- lifting over every mountain cliff and dipping into every valley -- the milky way, our parent galaxy pours. Though Night is not made a Day with such light, for your eyes and for his, the world and his territory is alive with color. With splendor.
     Here, in the mid-evening, with the sky yet full of the sun's last indigo, can the three jewels of France be seen. From the cliff, around you and to the north and the east -- Touraine, the garden of France. To the north and to the west -- Anjou, land of his father's birth. Further to the south, Poitou. Lands that once were his mother's, his brother's. And now, his. He always did recite to his brothers that patience would win out in the end. And so it has. For him. He holds all three now. And far to the north, lands yet in Normandy, Bayeux and Rouen. But now, though History has moved by in her caravan of color, blood and Time, can images of Then be seen. The soul of the land, still thrives, and he in it.
     Here upon a high hill, this cliff outside of Chinon and its little village, sits William astride a white Andalusian, the last in a long line of personally trained mounts. Recall the foal that once wandered in and out of the house in Oregon? He stands tall and broad now -- the foal has become a stallion. Yet in training, but he is the image of his slain sire, Baruch the Blessed. His name? Curtmantle. The nickname given to William's own father. His neck is naturally bowed, his mane thick, his body both thick and light. Tall, he bears his large rider well and balanced. The tack upon the stallion is modest, the saddle European more than English, with its high back. Leather fastenings, like holsters hold a gun -- never without it when in the wilds, even in his own lands -- and held upright, balanced by both fastenings and his rider's hand, a spear. He yet tosses at the occasional moment, whenever he catches sight of it out of the corner of his eyes. The bridle is a snaffle bit, Spanish, and also for training purposes.
     And William? He is clothed in leather and boots. A light shirt of silk is covered over by a jacket, for the nights are yet cool in Touraine. His gloves are likewise leather. How like a lord he looks. No, how like a prince. Indigo eyes turn from the view and to you. And there upon indigo eyes, filled with light and fire as the indigo sky above is littered with stars, settle upon you. Smooth and slow pulling comes the smile. Sensuality and daring. Shall we race to Anjou, my love? There, across an invisible boundary, at the base of the hillside, is the sweeping valley leading into the arms of Anjou...

     "You seem happy," comes Ian in a drawling Old French, laced with the accent of Paris and points around the Ille. No, he definitely learned the French from court. Anything else has come from centuries of being around you. The Andalusian he sits upon blends well into the evening dim, making him almost unseen. And Dunross? He appears to fly upon the wings of invisible night, borne only by air and his own will. Dressed darkly, in black shirt and black leather, the only light thing upon him are the tops of his boots. Master of the Hunt. Where you are a Prince, he must appear your huntsman. That, is his nature. "Where are you to lead me?" he asks, amused at the turnaround. Near him is also a rifle, but infinitely most modern. "I don't think I've wandered this land...oh, Will," his eyes lift and close to think, "...since...the Revolution? No, before that, it must be."

     Look at it. We tore ourselves apart for it. We bled for it, and killed for it. Somehow, with this view, whatever turmoil there was seems justified. "I did not wander it...much until then," comes the Langue d'Oc, his mother's French, and his. How it moves beneath his voice and the ministrations of his mouth -- formed, it seems, specifically for speaking it. The tongue holds each vowel as the savoring of the region's wine. His wine, Your wine. "For hundreds of years..." William shakes his head and looks to you, a smile tracing over him again. Curving that mouth. "Until the nights when...heads rolled in Paris... and the land came to my fingertips once more. I shall never let it go, Ian...Never..."
     Ah, the Angevin Lust. Sex. Decadence. Land. He shows his nature and his birthright in it. And he grins at it, knowing it when he hears it, and the white stallion between his thighs moves forward at some slight grasp of his legs. Close enough, that with a lean, William might claim a kiss. "Never... part with you nor it. It is Our Jewel now. Ours..." he whispers. French thick, the kiss thicker, until it parts. Moreso by Curtmantle's will than his own. He does not mind the other stallion's company but not in such proximity. Straightening and leaning back, William quiets the horse with a slight tug on the reins -- snaffle pinching its command -- and he looks into the valley.
     "Anjou," he murmurs. "Let us go to Anjou. There are rooms at Fontevraud where we might wait out the night, if there is need." Soft, his voice falls in a languid hush, and around him the scents of leather, horse, brandy -- and cinnamon. The stars and the crescent moon cast light upon him, as if conjured by the white mount beneath him and drawn downward in a halo. Such catches the smile, and the wink cast to you. Come with me, lets run. And Curtmantle tosses both head and tail in the start of a descending gait. Behind you, the lights of Chinon can be seen among the stars. They shall burn through the night -- the beacon of Home.

     "We all did too much," Ian smirks, knowing the numbers of Ventrue who would disown him for saying such blasphemy. The kiss was enjoyed, smirk coming at the moving animals. Terrible, that they should force such a joining between you. Once parted, he laughs and nods, turning his own stallion towards the lights of Anjou. As you take off, Ian chuckles and sends Safir into a like gait, his loose hair fluttering at his shoulders.
     "We should have brought the dogs!" Ian calls ahead to you, still smiling. They would have enjoyed this, but despite their masters' indulgence, they cannot travel everywhere. Ian blinks and points towards an evening shooting star. "Gods, there's so many of them out here," he remarks, letting Safir bother with the keeping up as he looks across the hills and horizon.

     "Macsen has gotten spoiled, his feet too tender like a stay-at-home lord's hands lose their calluses," comes the bark that carries back with the turn of his head. The laughter that follows it. How like his father in that bark. That roar. Even his normally smooth and languid voice breaks for it. Black hair, the longer portions blowing wherever the wind wishes, half cover his eyes. "But...next time, amours, we shall bring them... we should do a proper tour... a... campaign in miniature!" Such a suggestion. The brows of the prince -- can you even see them? -- waggle at the Medieval suggestion. William turns about, leaning back to counterbalance as Curtmantle heads downward along the slope. More slowly than Safir, who after seven centuries knows this earth like the hair on his back, and with not a little ancient French encouragement.
     Touraine spills outward, in hills and valleys, in the rise and fall of sweet and fertile earth. Lights from villages dot the landscape like jewels. But the nearest large city is miles and miles away and cannot be seen, nestled in the grasp of the region as it is. There is only land and you and he and the mounts you ride...
     And with the slope of the hill easing beneath his hooves, the white stallion gains assurance and lunges forward at a nudge. An extended canter -- not full speed. He seems to float, does he not? And William moves with him as if he were born there. A leathered hand upon the spear, balancing it upright -- his other at the reins which give suggestions and encouragement. His leathered thighs giving all commands. Can you see him? Looking past a broad shoulder to see you? To find you in the darkness, clothed in it and riding Night as you do? Can you see the grin? You can feel it. Ah, perhaps you and he should have ridden one mount to exhaustion. There is a need to feel you with him. Ahead, the earth is as the waves of the sea, its swells frozen. Perfect for riding. And a grove of fruit trees, one of his orchards nearby. The scent of pear, of lemon, of plum...

     A campaign? Ian's eyes widen. Such a thought. Only you would have it. Images rifle through his mind before he comes to a more modern meaning. Oh. A 'campaign' of sorts. More like traveling with an animal entourage. Ah, the valleys would hate it, but it might be fun. "No cars," Ian grins, coming up beside you as the horses choose to canter following the descent, "...just us managing a small column," he chuckles. Smile grows as he feels your need to have him nearby. He shares it. Perhaps you should have ridden together, but would you have gotten so far?
     "We could," he suggests, grin forming dimples, "...do a little version now, hmm? See how far our memories take us?" Ian looks left and right, to see what he has and what you have. "What is the next town? River? Ah...the Marne? No, that's a little farther...mm....east, yes? We could take a few nights now and make our way around with the horses, finding shelter..." Ian smirks, "...on threat of our own existences?"

     Eyes find you and hold there, but for glimpses to the surroundings as Curtmantle finds his footing. The smile beautifies him, as if he required it, and lends warmth to his features. Living. Living features, magical. Otherworldly. But here, natural. Something of the land lives in him. He in it. Can you not feel Richard here? Henry? Eleanor? In truth, they are not far. For they rest in nearby Fontevraud, the abbey that still stands, though wars and kingdoms have come and gone. "Just us and our ... companions," mounts beneath you. "A tour of Our Lands... as princes returning from foreign ventures to ...take stock of what was left behind. Mon Dieu, amours, it has been years. Yes... we will do this..." Angevin resolve. Curtmantle slows, that William may come alongside you easily.
     "I have a gun, ammunition...should it be needed... nothing clothes-wise, but I know the cities all along the way. We can shop in Angers..." He chuckles, eyes widening with the proposition. A gloved hand reaches outward, an old signal from an older commander -- he cannot help the habit. And he stops his mount. "From here we should make a choice, yes?" The gloved hand, his right, motions to the land ahead. "Ahead would be Anjou...to the west. Behind us, Touraine. To the south, my Poitou..." His hands give the directions -- north, west, south and east in respective turns. "Shall we... begin our tour through memories..." William continues, voice quieting, thickening in accent as the ancient tongue leaves him. Hair before his eyes, black. Beautiful. Yours. "... at Fontevraud, amours. The keeper of memories and this land?" Shall we pay the folks a visit? Give honor to their graves and their memories and venture forth, like pilgrims...?

     Begin at Fontevraud? Ian blinks. "I do not think I have ever been there, laird," he slipping between tongues. "If," he dips his chin to look a bit somberly at you, "...if you wish, love. I know it will hold many old feelings." When was the last time you were there? Sometimes, absence does not fade ache. A small smile slants, knowing though that you are firm on this already. Though he only mentioned the idea of 'living off the land' for a few nights, you have already turned it into a shopping trip and old pilgrimage. Never do you do anything halfway. This is what he loves...and now understands. Careful of what you say...Plantagenet will do it.
     In the darkness beneath Ian, Safir stirs. Ian smirks and glances down, but soon his bright eyes pierce the dim light and find you once more. "I'm game," he smiles, just let you know, "...if you are." Whatever you like, William, whatever you like. He is now ready to follow. Once, he could not think suchly. "A pilgrimage," Ian grins, looking to the stars as color flushes at his skin, "I like it. I have not been....a pilgrim...." and he pauses, thinking a moment. "Not since...I was alive." That brings a bit of a wistful look down, as he thinks of the mortal he was.

     Your William is at-hand. Near him, the air is electric. Not only with his power, but his love for you. The energy across the Bond that comes in a surge. His excitement. His passion for you. For this land. All interwoven into one tight Plantagenet knot. But he grins, like the young man he is forever. "A pilgrimage," and he looks to you, the grin spreading. "Not since the Crusades, my love, have I ventured forth in the name of such seeking. Come, it must be done with the grace of God and this land. We should to the abbey. It is...just a few kilometers... we may move northwest to one of the villages and find our comforts and rest for the night. Tomorrow we will head toward Angers..."
     He seems to have it all worked out, does he not? That is the Crusader you love. "I wish, love," he murmurs, leaning in to capture your mouth. To steal from it a kiss. Steal? Shall you not give willingly. "I wish to take you where you have never been, miracle it is to find such a place. I wish to hold you in the dark corners of an old building and consecrate our journey in blood. And I wish to say hello to my family. There is no way I could pass through and not see them..." As if they were still living relatives who would not forgive him.
     William leans back, the grin now permanent. "We will have the blessings of the abbey and go with God all along our way." Sensual, the mouth claimed by that smile. And when it slants? Devastating. "Best to start with a clean slate, for the sins that shall no doubt follow." His voice clings to his throat, resonates in his chest, in that low way of his when speaking of intimacy. Such a lustful tongue. Such a lustful look. And then with a lifted call, he gives Curtmantle a lunging command, and sets off in a gallop toward Fontevraud.

     Wistfulness gives way to comfortable humor. You know when to make him smile. Ian nods in agreement to all things, kiss given. Alright. A chuckle and he speeds off after you with Safir, towards the vaults of your family.
     For his part, he is glad to be with you. The Bond shares that much. To be out, in full glory of the night that is yours and his. This is how he wanted to live with you, what he was so unable to explain. And now, here it is. Ian would burst with joy, love, excitement...comfort...if it were not for your suggestion of the sins to follow. Deep within, that brings a gleeful smirk. That is how life is for us now. I am glad. I am grateful. To Want...is nothing to hide, to keep secreted within. You've shown him so.

     It has taken centuries, but that it has been so long in coming it is all the more appreciated, tendered. No time with you taken for granted, though immortality make such a thing easy to do. No, for he has lost you twice, and never shall again. For in the losing, he discovered how to find you. And so the air between you is alive with energy, thick with power and fire. And though the dark of night is all around, it lights the way between you.
     Stars streak overhead in the swift passage beneath them. The dust and trails of the galaxy's dancing arms swirl overhead. As the grass does around you. And the trees along the road. You pass the road and keep to the glades and ways. The earth soft beneath Andalusian hooves. Mounting every hill with a charge, cantering down every slope, the stallions keep pace one to the other. And the knight beside you grasps the side of his beast with his legs, a turn to the north -- now you head due northwest. And the pace quickens. And above it something of a war yelp. How like Himself he is. Suddenly, as if Time was drawn back and away like a curtain. The coat could become a cloak. The silken shirt a tunic. Angelic, nearly. Cloth flows outward from him at this pace.
     The scents of Anjou catch you as you move past. Sweet earth and flowers, fruit trees and mud. And with the passing of time, you shall see it first. The gothic trace of a form ahead. A second darkness that stands out from the earth. Angled, immense. The abbey of Fontevraud. With the last living Angevin of his line beside you...

     Was this land always so lovely? No, Ian thinks, that is because Plantagenet makes it so. He looks at you as you ride, smiling and shaking his head at your verve and fire. This is your land...why not? He chuckles as you thrash onward, over hill and dale as more of the earth is revealed and the abbey itself appears blacker than night itself. Ian inhales deeply as you go, Taking in as much as he can. Has either of you felt so Alive? So in tune with each other and the world around that nothing else matters? So unfettered by vampiric life as to feel safe and secure? It must be the summit, Ian wonders. We struggled to conquer clan and other. To rule mortals, to secure ourselves and our seats. What does it mean when one has enough? Can a vampire know such?
     The ride makes such thoughts easy. Ian smiles as you pick up the pace, Safir following instinctively. Little the Huntmaster needs to do. Save hold on. He does, caught in the wake of You and the swirling breeze. Ian laughs a little, taking another deep breath. Fruit. Blood. Horse. And I have it all...and Him.
     A loud Scottish wail comes forth, spurring Safir even faster. Soon, the darker pair, horse and rider, are at your side, and Ian laughs as he looks upon you...before passing and streaking towards the abbey.

     To have all this once more. To feel it. To know what true peace is, and love. To have you. To understand you. To know you. But there is always more. Perhaps the more will simply be to...enjoy it. Savor it. To live free. To revel in the work of centuries. Has he felt this alive? Never. Not even when he was mortal did he feel so. Is that not strange? Since the magics you taught him restored him. Since returning to Scotland and to France. Humanity... his humanity seems to have returned... in this sheltered place, with you, where he might be... merely William. Simply Guillaume. The lover of Ian Dunross and the son of Henry. This is who he is. This is all he wants. It fills him and overfills him. Overwhelms and surges within him. That rise of Tangible Joy, which nearly trails in fire behind him like a comet in this gallop. Vampiric Life... it has afforded this ...luxury of peace. This joy. That only Time could truly give. No mortal may know it, but only see it in blinking glimpses...
     William looks to you through the run. There is no rise of wistfulness or sorrow as the outline of Fontevraud Abbey shows itself. The building his mother commissioned and his father paid for gladly. There is only the grin, the laughter, loud to carry to you, at your wail. Wide eyes at it and then it is answered, a chuckle following after. The galloping is slowed as the abbey begins to loom overhead -- a mountain of gothic spire and stone, and Curtmantle eases into an extended trot. Covering distance, seemingly floating. It does not even look as though he touches the earth. And William eases into it as smoothly. He and his horse form one beast, of them joined together. Indigo eyes look to you. Land, castles. Love, blood. You. I have it all.
     "I have only been here once since 1189... I journeyed with Henry here... on his last journey," comes the murmur, with the ever-present smile. "It was July then... hot... and afterwards... I joined Richard on Crusade...but... after... not at all until the Revolution. I had to restore the abbey and the tombs after vandals disturbed them. All of the stonework...the effigies... have my hand on them. But I have not been here since." William chuckles quietly. "It...just never occurred to me." He pauses for a moment or two, but yet still you feel no sorrow, no wistfulness. Just... joy.
     "The Abbey," he continues, looking to the building as you and he approach it quietly. It seems to exist by itself. As it has always. Just the church and rectory, the abbey itself. The nearest town is still a few kilometers to the northwest. "...is maintained by the Sisters of Aquitaine, which I fund. We can stay at the abbey tonight if you wish," William murmurs, his voice languid and soft as he turns to look to you. "Or continue toward the village...I shall leave that to you..." Whatever you wish, my love.

     Horse slows as smile never leaves Ian's face. "I would not want to desecrate the good order's work in the abbey," Ian chuckles, thinking of he and you spending a night here. "While I may be a damned creature, there is no need to spoil the abbey," the blonde teases. When he turns his head, blonde locks shimmer in the moonlight. "Look, deer," he motions a bit away, vampiric senses catching the fleeing beast. Oh well. He looks back to you and smiles, "But then again, I have always liked the peace and comfort of an abbey...they will not give us a single room, Will," he chuckles, dark shirt fluttering in the breeze. "But if you convince them, then we should stay, maybe? Drats," he comes in English, "...we brought no beverages..." euphemism, to be sure. "Shall we take some offertory wine?" Ah, your humor spreads. Ian comes closer, grinning as he leans to kiss and nibble at your ear, Safir once more agitated by the near distance.

     A sound most pleased. Something like a purr, but more surprised. The sound transforms to a soft laugh. "I can... sneak into your chamber," he murmurs, eyes closing for that touch. The next-to-quickest way to him is by the ears. A weak spot, and a ticklish one if the touch is placed just so. Inclining his head, William looks to you, even as Curtmantle tosses from the brush against Safir. Of the two, you are riding the dominant stallion. There is no doubt of it. He has centuries on the young Curtmantle -- but four years old to Safir's seven hundred. Wide the grin and smooth, and you can tell canines are extended. "How could we not, amours? It would be an insult to God... would it not?" A dark brow lifts in a slight arch and the placid face is full of noblesse oblige.
     William turns toward the deer you pointed out, but too late to see it. "You amaze me," he murmurs. "You truly do, Ian... do I say it enough, my love?" Indigo flickers, you may see the colors of it. Delighting in you. "If not, forgive me. I will kneel and beg such when we get to church." Striking, the grin that claims him thereafter, and he leans in toward you as he slows his mount again. "I do not think they shall mind two...men in the same room, my love. Hmm? For, truly, what could happen? Between two traveling companions?" Brows lift and lower, and he chuckles, turning back to look to the looming gothic abbey. God... is it not beautiful. Enormous. Grand. Ah, his family lies forever in glory. As they should.
     Ahead, there is an oaken door. This leads into a foyer... a passage by which one may access rectory, cathedral and finally the Angevin Hall...

     He looks skeptical, blonde hair in his face as his chin dips. Ian's look causes slight folds at his jaw and throat. "If you can convince them that there is nothing between us and we are but traveling companions," Ian snorts, glancing at you and then himself, yeah right, "...then I will be impressed. And yes, you may beg and kneel once we are inside. In fact, I'll insist upon it."
     He laughs and swings himself from Safir, walking around to hold his reins. "And don't forget to ask for the wine," he smirks, leaving your comment about being impressed somewhere in the ether. He'd rather take it out of context. "Or wait," Ian blinks, looking up to the sky and touching his chin, "...should I kneel too, and we beg together? That might be the best way to handle it all..."

     "Prepare yourself, Dunross, for amazement," comes the quip -- this in the Langue d'oeil, the north French of Normandy that became the Modern tongue. It is punctuated by the thud of him to the earth. Did you miss the vaulting? The reins now lay wrapped about the pommel and gathered at the saddle, and the stallion follows, unled, at his master's left shoulder. So shall you find Safir wishing to do. Trained habits of a war-horse...
     Indigo is full of fire as William glances to you. Oh, you knew that look was coming, and the smile with it. "Kneel and beg I shall... if you be the altar, lord," comes the whisper. Sacrilege. But what else from an Angevin mouth at the very entrance to a house of God? Violet and blue, the brilliant color shifts with a wink and William continues to the door. A soft word of Provencal, his native tongue, comes from him. Soft and his stallion obeys, standing in place with nose to the ground. So they shall both remain. Pity the one who tries to steal them, yes? William turns to you, and though space exists between you... it is closed, crossed and dispelled by the Bond. By the fire riding upon it. By the look that fastens onto you. My love, I have always wanted to bring you here. Strange it is, to wish to share a crypt. But no doubt you understand. It is as close to introducing you as his lover to his family that he can manage. It brings a smile. I love you.
     Horse left behind, and upon Curtmantle likewise weaponry, William crosses to the door and opens it. Heavy and oaken. The house of God is never closed. Only interior chambers, as you well know. The entranceway opens out into a broad foyer of Loire stone, very like Chinon in its construction, renovated through the years. William stops not far into the doorway, eyes lifting, an indigo sweep that takes it in. Upon your entrance, a bell is rung. One of the sisters will be on her way...

     He knows. Ian smiles as you look at him, emotion conveyed. He's proud that you should wish to bring him here, to meet those that rest here. A hand brushes his hair back and he leaves Safir to his own devices. Grey eyes look to his shirt and pants, making sure that most of him is in order. There. Ian's expression softens as the knock taps at the door, and he stands behind you, at your shoulder, to follow your lead.

     This is a particularly...quiet part of France. In no small part to the influence you and he have in your World. But too... beyond the cities of Angers, Poitiers and Tours, the surroundings are rural. Certainly late night visitors in this area, for the abbey, are not all that common. And so there is reason for the surprised but pleasant look upon the woman's face as she arrives. An older woman, in her sixties. This a place where honored sisters who have earned status come to finish out their sacred careers -- and work for the continued improvement and maintenance to this structure. "Sirs," comes her French, soft, Anjou dialect -- and surprised. "Welcome... how is it the abbey may be of service to you?" She is earnest, and curious.
     William half-bows his head, and there is a smile. Polite, of respect and greeting. "Sister ... we do not wish to impose..." comes the French in a baritone ease, modern. How easily he moves between the Times. "The hour is late, we realize... and yet," he continues. "...we would appreciate an opportunity to... pay our respects." To those who lie here. And you can feel upon the air, the flowing of his presence. A thud upon the air that you can feel.

     Behind you, Ian wears his pious face. Young man innocence, not so far from the horses. Certainly, you are the Lord in this. He bobs his head at the sister. A trait that only mortals truly have -- kindness. It dies in Death. Despite his own nature, he has never understood why some are so bent upon seeing mortals ill-used. Grey eyes are soft as he listens to you and the woman, doing his best to look much unlike he truly is. Undead.

     There is much effort, indeed, in Living. In seeming living. In being what he is not. Alive. His own piety and lordliness. His beauty, in part, and his easy smile. In shadows, it seems as any high-born man of this area, out on a ride, late. The sister glances to the other and then to William, hands folding easily. There is no reason to fear, nor to read anything other than what he sees. This too is the beauty of dealing with mortals. Face value. "Certainly," she continues, "...the abbey is open to all who may wish to visit. It is late. We have rooms, should you desire lodging. Although our Order is small," a smile for that, "... we are always prepared for what the Lord brings to our doorstep..."

     Even vampires. William nearly grins at that, but he maintains the lordly composure. One who could easily command this entire Order to do what he wills. Here, he is not merely a Ventrue, he is an Angevin. This is his space, as much as God's. "Sister... thank you, we shall show our appreciation ... in our blessings to your Order... A room... but a single space, we do not wish to impose upon your courtesy more than this..."

     Such pious men! So gentlemanly for so young! The sister of the Order smiles again and steps to the side, opening his arms and gesturing. "There are rooms along the eastern wall. These are for our visitors. Continue to the west and then to the north for the chapel," a small term for so large a space, "... and the tombs of the Angevins..."

     He hates such deception. Something about the lack of guile in mortals can make him feel guilty. Professionals are one thing. Those who have chosen to put their lots in with supernaturals are another. But something like this? Already he sighs a bit. "Thank you, Sister," Ian murmurs reverently, "...is there some place I might put the horses for the night? A bit of water, perhaps?" in his best French. "I will see that they are no trouble..." he says, motioning behind him.

     Horses? The eyes of the sister go wide again and he seems genuinely intrigued. "Ah... of course... there are stables... rarely used now...ah..." She pauses, thinking on instructions. "If you go out the way you came and follow to the right, you will come upon the back of the abbey. There is a courtyard and there is an enclosure there... again, it is not used these days, but should afford pleasant environs for the night..."
     That gets a look from William. Maybe we should sleep there.
     Turning toward William, the sister lifts both eyebrows, "Shall I show you the location of the rooms... have you ridden far, do either of you require food? There is wine... of course..." Of course...
     William half-bows his head toward the priest again, "We need for nothing more, sister, and thank you for the trouble..."
     "I shall show you the room, then..." The nun looks to you, a smile given. No bother. And even if it were it would be unchristian to mention it. Thereafter she turns toward William, and proceeds to lead him down the eastern corridor.

     "I'll see about these," Ian murmurs, nodding at you. Maybe we should take the stables. He smiles though, and makes a small noise to the horses. He's certain they will follow him. After a bob to the priest and a soft 'Thank you,' Ian turns about to seek the stables and make sure they are adequate for the night.

     Likely it shall be so. He does not want to impose, your husband. Nor does he want a workman or sister wandering in. Naturally, he can see to it that they do not. A private order, they likely should leave you to whatever ...journey you are on. But courtesy, rather than curiosity, might lead them to check during daylight hours...This will have to be dealt with.

     The horses do indeed follow you. Without more than you walking. You did not even need to make a sound. You move, they follow you. Safir at your shoulder, Curtmantle behind Safir. Your William and his trained horses. A knight to the bloody end. But you shall find the rest of the abbey sleeping. Quiet. At peace. The stables are more or less abandoned but clean. There is straw, there are a few buckets. But by and large there seem to be little else.

     By the time you tend to them and return to the abbey, you shall find the sister gone. Retired for the night. All that stirs now is William. And in the hush, there is reverence. There is piety. Though he has killed and slain in the name of sustenance and survival, it does not change his faith. He has faith. It was restored by you. His last mortal days... found him in an argument with the Almighty, you recall. But that argument has long since quieted, the wounds long since healed...

     Walking about, Ian's steps are quiet. A young man in the still halls of an abbey. As a youth, he had been fascinated by the solitary lives of those in the monasteries and abbeys, but his call was different. He seeks you out now, curious as to the evening's plans and what has transpired since he saw to the horses. Upon finding you, his mood lifts some, and Ian smiles. "There you are," his voice soft, "...I was wondering if I should venture into the Order's confines to seek you."

     He stands in the low, low light of a antechamber, but you can see him quite clearly. In fascination, staring. As you come to him, he turns his head, his arm reaching out for you. A need to touch. Not out of sorrow, but to share this...amazement. "Ah, non... there are cloistered chambers... far from where the sisters stay. Security for them as well as us..." A pause and he turns more toward you.
     "How were the stables...?" A hand goes to the small of your back. Fingers skimming. "I would be fine to sleep in the hay with you... if it has enough cover from the day..." Slowly do his steps lead him inward. Toward a high opening. Beyond that, one might expect the architecture to open outward, expanding into something ...glorious... There is that anticipation hanging on the air...

     He nods as you explain what you've found out. "The stables are passable, nothing a few nights of work would not correct," Ian smiles. But that is not his job this time. "Well, if we stay a few nights, I could organize it...as our pay to them." Certainly, they would not take money. He cuddles close, walking with you as his shoulder presses into your own. Arm slithers around your waist. "But, maybe we should take rear rooms for now, if that is alright." He grins and squeezes, only now looking to what's ahead. Expression is a little surprised, and Ian's eyes dart left and right, now curious as to what the abbey holds.

     Ah, this he has desired. To feel you in his hold. To feel the strength and the power that hums against your skin, and when he holds you, against his own. William looks from you to the surroundings. Curiosity and wonder apparent against his expression. Placid beauty, awed. Showing his era in that. He is literally in the house of God. "Rear rooms...tonight, yes. They will not disturb..." He is confident of this. As the two of you pass through the opening, the walls do open outward. And upward. Vaulting highly, like a sudden, sweet crescendo of song. Perfect song. William takes a breath. A soft gasp. My lord...

     And in this ...cathedral space... gathered in groups... are the tombs of his family. Eleanor beside Henry. Richard. John's wife Isabella of Angouleme (but not John himself). Henry the Young King. Geoffrey and Constance. Matilda. Joanna. Eleanor. It is so beautiful here. So quiet. And candles turn the honeyed stone to gold. Slowly, smoothly, the smile pulls. Warmly. And then do indigo eyes find you and fix on you.

     How so like the warring holders of most of Western France. Delusions of grandeur, made manifest. And if such can be made real, does that not mean that their imaginings are confirmed? Ian smiles, knowing how much they mean to you, even in their blasted dysfunction. Soon enough, Ian feels your gaze upon him.
     Grey eyes peer into your own and his smile broadens. "Should I say something?" he wonders, making sure some humor resides in the moment. The dead are present and long-gone. Do not forget. He chuckles and nudges you, turning to face the room at large. "Hello," Ian says softly, "I'm...Ian." He'd curtsey, but he'll forgo the formalities. Shrugging in a blush, his grey eyes look to you again, glinting with a smile.

     He lifts his hand, fingers raised and nearly lighting on your lips. "Shhh...listen..." William whispers and then is silent for a moment. "I think you can actually hear Henry turning in the tomb..." And then he chuckles. Did you catch the wink? William bends, mouth capturing yours, pulling and suckling on the lower lip for a moment. The sweetest fruit.
     William turns about then, heading toward Henry and Eleanor first. "Papa... mama..." he murmurs, a hand touching each effigy face. Repaired by his hand two-hundred years ago now. William turns to you then, arms around you. "And good evening my brothers... and sisters..." he nearly calls out. A hoarse and carrying whisper. None here to hear but you. And he cares not. "I should be serious a moment...and say good greetings to them...but in a moment. First... this..." This. Your mouth again. He is incorrigible and irreverent. Angevin, through and through.

     He laughs in the kiss, arms pulling you to him. Breathing is shallow, but then deepens upon parting. Not being Christian, Ian does not quite get this need to be somber around the dead, considering...they're not there. But you are, and he simply smiles as he lets you speak to your relatives. "You know," he murmurs quickly, "...if anything weird happens, I'm leaving, Will." A chuckle and he bites his bottom lip, promising himself that he'll shut up now.

     "And that pressure on your back will be my clinging to you in terror," words are chuckled out and as he holds onto you, his gaze lifts, sweeping upward along the architecture. Beautiful. Early Gothic. "We are going to tour our lands," he says, loud enough a whisper that it echoes slightly. "Wish you all could be along for the ride, but then... it's just as well... we'd not finish for the fighting," comes the quip. Ending at your mouth.
     "It is funny. I do not feel them here at all. To me," he murmurs seriously, "...Joanna and father will always be in Chinon, Richard in Mirabeau, mother and Matilda in Poitiers..." William chuckles, "This... is more the... resting place of Angevin vanity..." And then the smile slants. Well he knows it.

     Ah, honest words spoken. Ian grins in quiet agreement, not so insensitive as to vocalize it. Fingers skim at your back -- he is soon ready for bed. Arms tighten and he leans his head at your shoulder. "You still miss them," he offers, not understanding that either.

     "Only as I never missed them when I was living," comes the languid words, mulling with humor. "It is not as it was, non. When I should think of them and be....transported...as if the twelfth century were all that blessedly wonderful..." Open and honest come the words. Open and honest the looks. William turns at the skimming touch upon his back, smiling. Such warmth and fire in the gaze -- it covers him. "I merely... remember them. I remember, not miss..." And he does not feel them here. "Let's to bed... I miss you..." In that kind, and in every way.

     "Alright," Ian murmurs, glad of your words. He has not much feel for the dead himself. Present company excluded. He looks back down the corridor where you came and pivots you both that direction. "Did you manage to get a bit of wine from the sisters?" Ian wonders. "It is not necessary, just curious."

     A look incredulous as he moves along with you. "Guillaume d'Angevin... does he ever fail at procuring wine? Never..." A serious... well, half serious... look to you. "Certainly, amours. It is in the room. The room may be locked, and shall be. I have already said that we have ... ridden far... and will not rise for dawn service." Or the noon, for that matter.
     As he walks beside you, heading toward the passage and the rooms to the far end beyond it, William bends, mouth to your ear. "I adore you... you know this...yes? Thank you for coming here. See... we have said hello, we may continue with their blessing to Angers... "

     Ian grins, holding you close. It is amazing that you might walk together without tangling feet. That will surely come later. "You have thought of everything," Ian teases, grinning at your shoulder. His lips pull there, followed by a peck. A sigh and he says softly, "Thank you for taking me. I am glad none of them rose up to drag me into the Depths," he teases, fingers tickling your sides.

     The laughter comes full and rich. Not caring if he should cause any to stir. He cannot help it. "As well I... though were his bones solid enough to lift the lid, I am certain Geoffrey would have given it the old Plantagenet try...yes?" Laughing again, but more quietly, William walks as much against you as alongside you. Such proximity is widened, suddenly, at the tickling. So smooth, Normandy. It is as if you planned to jump to the side like that and nearly smack the wall. What grace. William clears his throat and moves down a hallway. Not well-lit, but you and he may see well enough. At the far end is a door, and reaching it, William pauses to remove the key that was given to him.
     "We have wine and two apples from the orchards," he murmurs, as the latch is tripped and the door opened. "The bed is not large... but... " Dark hair drapes forward and half conceals his gaze. The slant of a smile, that sensuous mouth curves with it. "...I am certain... we will... make do... yes?"

     "As we always do," Ian grins, letting you loose to go within, "....as we always do. An apple sounds nice. I might have a bite." That is perhaps all he can withstand before his system realizes it is not liquid. "I am...almost a bit tired," Ian blinks, a little surprised. "Maybe it is the calm of the abbey."

     The door is opened wide to reveal a very modest but clean chamber. A full size bed, but for the height of your lover... it will be a close fit. But you are used to this yes? There is a small table, upon which rests the wine, two cups and two apples. "I have something," comes the languid baritone, mulling in sound -- held deep in his throat and chest. "... that you might find more to your liking than the apple..." Lord, William. And in an abbey. He shall enter behind you, close and lock the door. What shall follow will be to the other side of holy. Sacred sensuality. And a communion - of his blood and yours... and bodies joined.

Posted by rowan at April 30, 2000 03:37 PM