The firmament -- the overarching canopy of stars -- is somewhat fainter this night, with the lights of Tours in the distance. The hum of life. The constant white-noise of humanity. Perhaps you, Ian, can pick up on this. Your childe, your lover, your spouse -- he can see the lights, he intrinsically knows that to the east is Tours. But he hears less, feels less, sees less than you. But what is most apparent are the hills of the Loire Valley and the beauty of Touraine all around you. The smell of honeysuckle ... intoxicating...
     Heading east and north from Fontevraud, the tomb of Plantagenets, you and your lover have passed through several small villages along the Loire River. Villages with their cobbled streets and their sensations of baking bread and voices. Villages that unknowingly exist within his domain. Where Life is lived not unlike it has been for centuries, in truth. In the smaller villages can the soul of France be found...
     A trail from vineyards and meadows becomes a cobbled street as the earth slopes downward, and before you now is another such village. This one is quite nearly a city -- just upon that edge of village and township, of hamlet and suburb. As mid-evening nears the late, there are only a few lights in the rows of buildings. Most shops have closed for the night. All but for the local taberna and the cafe. There follows the sound of laughter. The rise and fall of mortal heartbeats. The sound of cars, more distantly. The village of St. Terese -- one of the suburb villages near the City of Tours itself. Some twenty miles out of town, by best guess.
     Civilization. The thought sparks in his eyes. And a thud of vampiric glee hits the air. Hunger. The immortal need for mortal company. We are yet social creatures -- we yet have such a need to be near the embracing, near the laughing, warm creatures. William pulls up his stallion, and the dressage gait transforms to an easy walk. Half-turning to look to you, his black hair is tossled forward by the wind. Smoothly, his lips begin their upturn and his eyes are filled with color and fire. To you, brilliant. "Care to stop here for the night, or shall we to Tours?"

     "What do you think?" Ian asks, still in black. It is all he has, what is upon him, plus a couple of extras from the sisters at the Abbey: a bit of apple, the remnants of a bottle. Packed in the pouch near his rifle. In exchange, Ian managed to clean the stables a little in a rush, making sure that a few stalls were usable and no broken slats were left dangerous. He slows, blonde hair touseled, hunt boots a bit more scuffed than when you started. "I am flexible," he offers, grinning and letting that one go, "...perhaps the horses could use a water though?" Well, one of them. He cannot help but think of the steeds.
     He looks up to the sky, smiling gently. A look of comfort and gratitude. "It is a nice night though," Ian observes, eyes in reflective twinkle, "...and I am not so famished," he chuckles. "Maybe not so in a mood for the taverna either," he motions ahead. The sounds reach him and he stills to fashion discretion. With a shake left and right of his head, he evaluates something and then grins at you, "Someone is sick. They're wretching near the edge, further up," he smirks. "But just as well, I should rather avoid more urban spots, hmm? Maybe a village ahead?"

     "That'll be the cheap house wine, I imagine..." comes the mull of his voice. Amused. Soft, his voice tugs upon the langue d'oc he speaks, trailed by the equally slow smile. The picture of languor, your lover. "We should give the lads a rest... I need to stretch my legs," The Crusader is not used to riding such long distances, and he gives you a grimace as he makes a small adjustment, so you can share in the humor of his agony. "Let's go to the ...west... out of the way of Tours...fighting traffic would be a nightmare...there is... I believe... a little hamlet there." A look to you. There's bound to be. "We will water at the Loire..."
     There was only the slightest turn of his wrist -- more was the command given by his right thigh -- and Curtmantle swings about. A jossle of a move, graceful yet stubborn. This trip is the longest of his life, and some of the Spanish fire is showing, no? It makes William chuckle. He does like a good fight. "There are villages all along the river... we can find an inn somewhere... or if not, dig a hole..." Laughter flows warmly, and the grin is broad -- but you could see it. And the wink that followed it.
     Back to the west somewhat, he turns. His posture that of a man seemingly at one with the beast beneath him. Straight and perfect -- it is natural to him. A way of being. And only half-watching the road ahead, William glances up, taking note of the stars. And the things they tell him. The month... the year... the season... the direction. So much. "I cannot believe it has taken us this long to do this..." William murmurs. Reflective. Thoughful. Soft. "Between the wars of man and Ours," meaning Kindred, "... there never seemed to be the time..." And he is as thankful as you. As grateful. Fortunate, beyond measure.

     His look is amused skepticism. A dipped chin, a slanted smile, a soft disbelieving shake of his head. Ian chuckles as Safir follows you. "So true," Ian murmurs, coming to your side. It is a long moment before he speaks again, smile never leaving him. It simple broadens as needed. "We should have brought a shovel," he teases, "...but if we go by the Arhonne, I can perhaps find a few pieces for a makeshift bow...we might find rabbit or something, you think?" Not that you need to eat, but it makes for interesting work, bowing and fletching. "Who knows...we might pick up companions as we go." Ferals. Nice. "Oh, maybe a swim down from where the horses water," he beams, "...now that would be nice..."

     "I am becoming transparent in my old age," each syllable is tugged by a chuckle, elongated as it leaves him. Swimming. Yes, it was in his thoughts and on the agenda, to be sure. "The waters of the Loire are warm this time of year..." And he would know, having 'seduced' many a maid along its banks in his days. Silk whispers against leather, leather creaks rhythmic, his breathing, the pulse of his 'heart' -- all is in rhythm to the sound of the horse beneath him. They make a song together, he and Curtmantle. As you mention the shovel, William looks to you and his laughter loudens, "Aye... we should have... for a few reasons...and we will go by Arhonne... we need to resupply and give the lads a chance to get a good day's eating in, oui?" That said to the stallion beneath him.

     Ahead, the land swells and then falls. You can hear the sound of water, flowing. Liquid over stones. The smell of it. Fresh. Cyrstalline. William's thighs press in against his horse and the slow gait becomes a slow canter. Arms upraise, and fold behind him. Stretching, while riding. His body is what balances him, there is no need for hands to hold on. "Next time, dogs and more supplies..." he calls out, and then there is a Norman roar. Just for the fun of it. Ahead and below, the Loire winds, widely, cutting through the rolling landscape. ..

     "Just a few supplies," Ian smirks, "...have we gotten so lazy in our old age?" he teases. Picking up Safir's gait, he moves a little ahead of you, mostly to change the scenery. "How much further to the village?" he wonders, "And then to Arhonne and the Loire? Is that the right order?" he calls over the sounds of hooves and noctural animals making themselves known. Something rides across the landscape, sounding through the night.

     The Loire is right ahead of you, winding westward to the Atlantic. Its banks are lined with grass and trees, sloping downward into the water itself. The riverbed is a mixture of rounded limestone and soft earth. Sounds of hooves against the earth. Wind through the elm, cedar. The rise of sensations -- the smell of horse, of cinnamon, of leather, of water. Do you ever feel overwhelmed by all you hear, Dunross? From here, one may see lights in the distance -- not too far away -- of the nearest village. A couple of kilometers and situated on a rise of hills to the northeast. Otherwise, it is peaceful here. From far away you might pick up the sound of a car or two. Briefly and then the sound fades, scattered by the wind.

     "Looks like... " and he is measuring with his eyes, and estimating, "...three or so kilometers...not so far..." William says. The white stallion is a beacon under starlight, and against the backdrop of the much darker night. How brilliant he is astride him. Not so far from how he appeared that night -- any night the last year of his life. It is hard to believe that eight centuries have separated that vision from this one. "We should water them here... give them a moment to rest... then we can head up and in and secure a room somewhere. We have more than a few hours left. It is not even eleven..." By his best estimation. It helps to have a watch. A thud follows and you will see him on his feet, heading toward the riverbank with Curtmantle behind him...

     Oh. So it is. Distinguishing sounds does not mean you can identify all of them. Ian nods at your words, slowing Safir down and swinging himself off. His thud follows your own, and after securing the reins, he simply allows Safir to follow. Glancing at you a little, Ian peers around Safir's snout, as if stealing. "You are still the handsomest man I have known," Ian says softly, eyes downcast as his boots tread upon the earth. "Too bad we cannot spend the night on the banks," he adds softly, keeping conversation. If not, he should spin into admiring silence of you, this place, and what he feels for you. Is there a need for talk at all? Grey eyes look to the horses, wondering whether they are finding snack for now.
     The water is too inviting though. Ian's gaze returns to it, fingers at his shirt already.

     Yes, would it not be grand? To swim a while and sleep upon the banks of the Loire... and wake with the sun. And not be burned by it. A wish that is held in the edge of the smile perched upon his lips. Constant in this travel and in your company. And though the wish may be as outlandish as a young boy wishing he would sprout wings and fly, it is still wished as he moves silently upon the earth, with the horse at his shoulder. The compliment. You know the peacock in him loves to hear it. In the incline of his head, just before he looks to you, you can feel the thrill of it against the Bond between you. Past Safir's head, he looks to you, the smile transforming to a slant of a grin. "Merci..." he murmurs. And in that moment, he allows a full look at you. You with a horse, dressed as you are. His huntsman. And the look has fire behind it. "You... the most beautiful..." And indeed you are. In his eyes, far more than he. "I should wish we could... spend the whole of the night on the banks and in the water, without the fear of day. The... things I would do..." Dark the chuckle that pulls from his throat, clinging lowly there, and resounding in his chest.
     The laughter is soon drowned out by the better part of the river's voice. It is as if only you and he in all the world were here.... does it not? William murmurs something to Curtmantle, and his hands come over the stallion's muzzle and nose. The horse moves forward toward the rushing water, unfazed by the sound and the motion. "We should invest in ... tents... the kind of material that would keep out the better part of sunlight. We could have the best of both worlds..."

     "We have them," Ian reminds, eyes lifting from the ground where your compliment sent their focus. He still blushes faintly, enjoying being as close to Himself as he perhaps knows. Fingers resume his unfolding, and soon his shoulders are bare and his chest. Black cedes to paler skin, made rich by the silver moonlight. "Next time," he smiles, pulling hem from his pants. Shirt free, he tosses it towards Safir harmlessly, to keep from getting damp.
     A sigh and he wonders aloud, "Do you think the Order suspected anything? I hope they found the stables a bit better," he remarks. He so hates to be an insensitive guest. "They should use their stables more, but it is work to keep animals. Yet, it could provide good food for them at little cost." The young man with the head for numbers. Instead of them working for him, he allows his talents now to work for others. "I should send someone to help with their stables," he resolves, arriving at the water. Ian laughs softly, "You lie about this water. It is cold," he grins, reaching out for you with a hand.

     The look says it all: Lie, me? But the grin confirms it. "It is warmer than the Pacific...oui? Get in, she will not bite..." The river that is. He makes no such promises regarding himself. William tugs off his boots and tosses them to the side. The shirt will come next. The leathers will take a moment or so more, no? Inclining his head, he studies you as you unclothe and prepare for the water. As you speak of the fathers. "They should. They deal more in sheep, I think... it is the grazing time, they are all out in the field. But you should do this..." he murmurs. "You should take on Fontevraud Abbey. I wholeheartedly support it...and as for the Order?" A chuckle and William tosses the silk of his shirt to the side. "We were quiet, non?" A pause as he looks to his leathers and the ties there. "Well... more than usual," comes the languid mull of his voice. "I left a sizable offering, just in case..." Indigo flickers darkly with a wink.
     He is not so striking beneath the stars as you, you so fair of skin and hair. He is darker, damn near swarthy. A hand rests upon Curtmantle's mane, balancing as he removes socks and tosses them likewise aside. Near bare he is. And close enough. His hand leaves the horse's bowed neck -- Curtmantle's nose is against the earth and already he is taking the tender grass of the riverbank -- and clasps yours. A tug of you toward him.

     "Will!" Ian calls in surprise, half-bending to pull at his own boots. He stumbles into your arms, laughing brightly. "Let me finish, hmm?" But it is too late. His tumble into your arms allows for an easy kiss that quickly swells into drawing you closer, arm slipping over your shoulder with hands into your hair. "I love you," he murmurs, already warm, rejoining the kiss immediately. Below, he sways and twists, trying to remove his boots with his feet. The leather is soft enough, it might just work....
     The words spoken are in his tongue, echoed in yours... and winding around yours in the rejoining of the kiss. I love you. Warm and wide, and his arms around you, tightening strength to keep your swaying against him. There is little that captures him as immediate as your hands in his hair. A weakness of his. When you do such, you hold him in the very palm of your hand. Oh, if the world only knew it were so easy a thing to do, yes? "Et vous," he whispers, mouth against your mouth. Syllables as much forming a kiss as forming a word. His hold slackens slightly, and then his arms leave you altogether... to push the leathers down and away. Bending and leaning in, his mouth captures yours again. For whatever chill the water might bring, for whatever coolness the breeze might offer, the kiss and the fire behind it will warm...
     Equine heads lift from the grass and ears perk forward at the various sounds of night. They are alert, the two Spanish guards, are they not? Like two great watchdogs...

     He squirms to help free himself of the leather. He should do the same for you, but Ian's hands tug and pull at your hair, as if he should draw you within him. Closer, if closer is possible. The noises of the Loire certainly muffle anything the two of you could create, but oh, how it sounds in the space between you. Strong, passionate, grasping, desirous. A sudden need to twine and to love here, by the river that fed you, nourished you, saw your life. Even as he did. "Come on," Ian manages to pant, tearing from the kiss. If you do not go now, you may never make it to the water's edge. Hands push and pull at your shoulders, the smile growing at Ian's lips. He glances to his leathers, struggling with them and boots at his ankles, but instead pulls at your own trousers, helping you to finish undressing as well.

     Another tug and pull at his hair and the capture of your mouth becomes a siege. A tangle that begins in the joining of mouths and ends in the tangle of hands grasping to free you and him even as he moves forward, slowly, pressing you toward the river's edge.
     Swollen from spring rains, the Loire's voice is constant, loud. It muffles the moan that erupts from his throat and lingers.

Posted by rowan at May 02, 2000 04:33 PM