Soft the breeze that moves across the open area of Aonach Fair. Soft -- a bit unusual for late autumn in Rosshire -- but the weather has been especially mild. The old witches of Ross are predicting a particularly cold winter. But then, they do that every year. It is a clear night. A good night for flying, and out in the Yard your Young Tavish is standing. Red hair bright against the otherwise dark. Ah, so much do you see and hear! His heartbeat. Strong, healthy. A light sweat -- for even though it's a cool, autumn night, he is wearing the gear of his office and actively so...
     A whistle rises, low and steady. And up above, a hawk takes his hunting cue. Heavy gloves of leather, with the fetters and fittings and bells, are worn by the castle's falconer. He is one of a rare breed, is he not. Ah, but you know this. You know so much about him. How his blood sings. How he moves when guided. How quick a study he is. Tavish raises his right hand, and calls with short, shrill whistles. Thrice. Only you can hear the beat of wings. The slice of air through your hawk's feathers. And you can see the grey bird begin his diving descent.

     He will not tell Tavish his duties. However, he is here to make suggestions. "Soon, you will not need to call at all," Ian says evenly, watching both falconer and bird. He stands some five feet away, enough for the bird to make a distinction. Not me. Him. Dressed warmly, Ian's in brown wool slacks and a deep russet shirt. Over it all, a cloak of black-brown with fur lined lapels and hood. The hood rests back, a mantle upon his shoulders. Hands are gently encased in two sets of gloves, one that sticks to his skin, the other, larger and heavier.
     The bird will come. Of that, Ian is sure. Eyes remain on the young man, however, and thoughts rifle through his mind. It has been that way of late. Not so much anything about Tavish himself, but in fact, his eyes have been drawn to any man who passes before them. Distractions, all. A deep sigh, and Ian returns to the here and now, watching the creature's descent with narrowing eyes. A lift of his chin to the direction. "He'll perhaps need be hooded if you plan to take him on your evening hunt schedule," said matter-of-factly. "Hood off once you begin, of course. Trust him in the woods yet?" Ah. Conversation continues on, genially of course.

     But though Tavish is a young man -- and you have seen that need in him to prove his worth, though... albeit... in very different environs than the Yard -- he is an avid learner, to his credit. And is eager when you speak. He turns his head. The smile you see. The slight blush he thinks is hidden? This you feel, see, smell and hear -- in the lifting of blood and pulse. "Evening, sir," he murmurs. Tavish is dressed in sturdy wool and a sweater, not unlike the one you saw William in but yesternight -- with the suede patch at elbows and shoulders. But he... doesn't fill out the sweater as William does. It yet drapes on him, this young man. Your age in all appearance. Quick, Tavish turns back to the bird -- mortal eyes struggle in the darkness far more than yours. But he sees the grey there, lifting. The first swoop to a landing on the arm.
     He stiffens... some of it with pride, some of it with something more of reflex...and as his right arm lifts -- you and the hawk can hear the training bells -- Tavish looks over his shoulder to you again. Beaming in that green-eyed way of his. "Oh, not yet, sir. He is a bit strong-willed, this one. Likes to go his own way, when he likes to go it. Doesn't much mix with Lord Fraser's way of hunting. Early this week I spent half the hunt looking for him..." Sounds a bit like Your Fraser, yes? The young man grins, arm giving just slightly as the hawk makes his landing on it. "But he is coming along..." Pride there. "Beautiful..." And young.
     As the grey hawk spreads its wings, beak open and eyes alert and brilliant, Tavish looks to you. "Would you like to fly him, sir? Or I can bring out another for you... " Eager to please.

     A Lord's wave comes from beneath the cloak. A single pass of an open hand. "I shall watch you and your new associate," Ian replies, Gaelic mellifluous. "So, you think it is not for Lord Fraser's hunts? What are his hunts like?" Ian prods, smiling at the smile. Can you read my thoughts, Tavish? You do not wish such, if you knew. Something polite washes across Ian's face, and grey eyes lift to look at the dark sky. Millions of stars. The fur at his edges flutters oppoositely, revealing a grey underside.

     For a job well-done, the hawk is granted a bit of meat. But no rest for him. For as soon as the treat is gone, Tavish's hand goes up and another cue given. It'd be nice to get a hare while the Master is watching would it not, boy? The gloved hand is lowered, right more thickly so than his left, and Tavish smiles. That smile. You've seen it before. Can you read his thoughts? Perhaps not in the mind, but his body... it can hide little from you. The way he stands. The way he is. Mannerisms. Glances that return to you, halved in attention now from the hawk above. The hawk heads for the hare-rich open moors. The young man turns to you. "I have yet to be on a hunt with Lord Fraser, sir, that was suited to a bird. He prefers the deep woods... boar... stag..." Eyes leave you, even as blood lifts to his skin again. Tavish lifts his head, tipping it back ... green-eyes scanning for the hawk. "They are fast and furious, sir..." he whispers. Even as William himself is rather fast and furious. "I should like to work the birds more into it.. but... try as Orion might," that'd be the name of the grey hawk, "... boar hunting is just not for him." There is a pause. "Since he found the old stone circle though, we haven't really gone out much. Smaller, shorter forays into the birchwood." Beaming, Tavish twists, looking to you. "The old red falcon caught a hare yesternight. I take her out about twice a week now..." She's aging fast. Every winter seems to be her last, and yet she hangs on.

     "Ah," Ian smiles, glad to hear such a tale. "Good for her then," Ian agrees, eyes looking up to see Orion's departure. "And yes, you are right, if you are doing boar hunts, then..." he shrugs sympathetically. He can understand. No need for a bird or falconer then. Ah well. "Maybe he will do a longer hunt that will require your services later in the year," Ian suggests, eyes on the sky, but occasionally glancing your direction. "Are you enjoying the hunts though, however small? What think you..." eyes still lifted, hands folding under the cloak, "...of Lord Fraser?"

     "Maybe in the spring," comes the young man's hope. "The winter is a bit bitter for it. But... we'll need the hares for Dionnach's pies." Rabbit pies with vegetables, the dough hand made and worked. It fills the keep with its warm scents every winter. "By then, Orion should be ready for Dunsinane." And I to follow Lord Fraser.
     Eyes sweep over the moors and sky, and he sees the grey hawk dipping into the start of a dive. Oh, does he have something? You hear him breath. And then Tavish turns, red eyesbrows lifted, expression open. "Oh, very much, sir. I love the excursions. Gives me a chance to improve my riding..." And then he goes a bit red. Ah, the delicious implications of that phrase in connection with you and the other Lord. "I've... ah... never been much of a horseman..." He looks to you... and he remembers. Of being beneath and around and atop you. Of being crushed by Fraser on more than one occasion that evening. Green eyes flicker from you to the sky again. Salt licks against the air. His body is a bit stiff. "What think I of Lord Fraser?" he repeats, voice half a whisper, half a croak. "Ah... well... he's a good leader, sir. Like he's done it all his life. And he rides very well..." God, Tavish! You hear the blood course at that. That's not what I meant! "He is pleasant, sir. Intense...but pleasant..." Intense. That is a word for William. You can see the young man tremble a bit. Is it from nervousness, at speaking so much so freely? To you? Or is it your proximity? Your power? Your beauty? Tavish looks to you again. He cannot look from you for long.
     Can you read his thoughts? Of what he wants? The human's heart is beating strong and quick. Remembering. His breathing... though quiet... is slightly quickening. Salt and moisture begin to prick his skin and the air around him. How has so cool a night gotten so warm?

     There comes a bit of bemused laughter from Ian. Nothing so indulgent and harsh, simply sympathetic. "I get you, Tavish," Ian says suddenly, to let him off the hook. "Lord William..." he exhales, looking up as well, "...is all of those things...and more. But it is good you have the chance to get out with the others," he notes, arms tightening again around himself, "...it is nice to see the keep so alive and busy these days. And the pies," Ian inhales as if he could smell them now. "They are wonderful." A reassuring smile comes, the scent of warming blood wafting. Licking his bottom lip, Ian looks at you and cocks his head. "You said something about Orion finding something when you were out. What was this?"

     A held breath is released and there is a visible relaxation in the limbs. So much do you see and hear and know. "He seems a good man." A Scot's way of saying that, for a foreigner, he's not bad. For a Frenchman, he's damned amazingly likeable. Clearing his throat, Tavish turns back to look at you again. Perplexed for a moment, then he smiles warmly again. "Oh... what Lord Fraser found... yes, sir. Last week thereabouts... our first hunt as a group... we lost the boar but he happened upon some old stonework. He's been going out every night since..." except one, and he blushes at that. "... well... nearly every night," he whispers. "I haven't been back out to see it myself. Sounds from what Michael," one of the kennel lads, "... said last night... it's some old stone circle and structure. Like original to the Keep. But it's deep in the wood..." As if to say, probably not much of anything. "Lord Fraser and his horse nearly collided with it chasing that boar..." And if in sympathetic understanding, Tavish sighs. "I could do with one of the pies tonight, myself..."
     And he grins. Turning, as he hears the hawk's cry and rise again. "Ah... no target yet for Orion... I'll give him another pass at it..."

     Stonework. Ian's brow furrows visibly. But he looks back to the bird's flight, dissolving in it a few moments. "Well, too bad on the boar though, I hear he's causing trouble a ways northward." A cough, and Ian glances at his watch. Time. He draws and exhales a deep breath, arms enfolding himself more. "At least you all are getting a real workout these days," he goes on, "...it will be a good winter, methinks." You should enjoy it, Tavish, very much.

     He does not pick up on the furrowing brow. His senses are not as sharp as your own. And to the words of a workout, there comes a soft chuckle. Brief, in case it's not polite and dutiful. "Oh aye, sir. The way it is going... and it's a good thing. I enjoy it. I hope to accompany you out as well some night, sir. We would love it." Himself. Lundy. Oh, and the others. But he and Lundy in particular...
     His hand was about to raise, to give a call. And if Orion did not answer, to whistle yet again. But it is another sound that stills him.

     You... you heard it before him. Hooves upon the soft earth of the moors, near the woods. Your love is a beacon in the darkness. His dappled grey Andalusian -- a younger horse yet in training -- brilliant against the growing darkness. Moon above, and Rigel here below. Coming toward the Yard from the moors now. A canter in the open plain. Not a gallop, but something more of a floating dance. You hear the stallion grunt to some command. You feel the fire and approach of your spouse against the air. The insinuation of his own presence upon the night. When the wind blows by, you smell horse, leather, and cinnamon...

     Tavish looks to you, an easy smile still in place. He raises his hand to the grey hawk above. Come. "Here comes the Lord now..."

     From another one of those... evening rides of his. This time... he did wait for you to rise. It was an hour or so after that he spoke of a clear night and a good night for a ride... and that... he would be back in an hour's time. And so... he is true to his word...

     And so he does. As Tavish finishes speaking on accompanying, Ian was already turning. The approach of Lord William. "I think we are done with hawking for tonight, Tavish," he says easily. If there is to be anything else, maybe the approaching Lord would chime in on such. The cloak falls open faintly as Ian's arms lower, and he reaches to pat the young man on the shoulder, as if to say 'a good job.' But William comes, and always Ian's focus will turn there.
     "How now," Ian calls to the stallion and his horse, "...good eve t' you, Lord William." A chuckle, and Ian begins to remove the gloves from his hands.

     Oh and well he knows it. He remembers, you see. And who could blame you in truth? Or him. Two very lucky men in Tavish's opinion. There is a smile and a nod for you. "Even, sir..." he murmurs and looks back skyward. To the hawk making his descent once again. But... if you notice... when you turn toward William -- and with William's approach -- green eyes follow you...

     The sound of horse and rider are more audible now. The grunting of the horse -- not out of any undue exertion or upset, but rather in some conversation with his rider. Or the night air. You know the hot-blooded beasts, do you not -- in a way? Funny, in truth... you've heard that sort of sound before, only flecked with Occitan. William's laughter eases from him and he calls out to you, even as he comes in normal speaking range, the stallion's canter slowed to a walk now. "Lord Dunross," comes the Norman gruff, "...bonsoir, sir..." The stallion and his horse, indeed. The grin is broad and his hair, left loose tonight, is toyed with by the breeze. "Care to mount up? I could use a nice brisk run..." Oh, could he not ever.
     God, how you look. A lord of a keep indeed. The gloves. The cloak. You see the dark eyes drink this in even as he halts his horse before you. He is clothed in a dark wine sweater -- much like the one last night, it has patches of sueded at either elbow, upon each shoulder. He trousers are as sturdy as denim but are not denim. Dark, they fit him like a type of riding pants. His skin is flushed with the chill of the air -- he's been out in it for a while. His eyes are electric. The air about him feels it, hums with it. Beautiful. Blatant virility. The Andalusian bows his neck, his natural arch even more prevalent and muscular, and he blows air toward you. A greeting. "Out hawking?" William murmurs in Gaelic, eyes following Tavish a moment. "Ah, another hare. I can smell Dionnach's pies already..."

     "A waft of the future," Ian teases, smile slanted in wry taste, "...you are a man of great ability. And yes..." facing you, the expression is yours alone, "...a ride sounds quite refreshing." Shall Tavish be included? Ian glances at his watch, then half-turns to Tavish, "I think Tavish's latest will be a fine hawker, Will," Ian shares, giving the young man some credit. Feet then guide him towards the stallion, hand coming to rest on the Andalusian's hind.

     "Hmmm... " A sound held in the throat, deep in the chest. A sound of pleasure anticipated. From the energy outpouring you know it has... nothing to do with Dionnach's pies -- though they are good, oui? -- but you. It is upon you his gaze is fastened. The horse shifts just slightly to your touch, eyes drifting back for a moment and then forward again. Just listening to you...
     Your dark lord. How he looks when mounted. The knight seen so clearly in the man. The man in the immortal. Shall Tavish be included? If you wish it. There is nothing he denies you. Indigo eyes flicker, settling on Tavish a moment as Ian brings him into the conversation. The hawk is hooded now and resting, its bells ringing with every turn of his head. And a goodly sized hare is held by Tavish's other. "The grey... that is Orion, yes?" The languid baritone mulls, loud enough only to carry between the two of you. Accented in parts French, in parts Gaelic. The smile is warm and smoothens across his mouth. Easy sensuality. Casual fire. Confident. It shall be one of those nights, shall it.

     Tavish blinks and nods, smiling a little. "Aye, Lord Fraser... it is..." He looks to Ian, blushing just slightly. "Thank you, Lord Dunross..." that murmured.

     William glances from you to Tavish, and then somewhere in between you both. "I have no doubt of it. We seem to have another talented falconer in our midst..." Apart from you, that is. William looks to you, voice softening. "Let me get the old boy in the stables..." Did he not mention riding? Well.. perhaps it will be upon ... a different steed. He glances from you to Tavish. If you want him, love...

     A good idea. Ian nods and twists from the mount, walking back towards Tavish, "After you see to settling Orion for the night," cloak falling behind like a dark wake, "...why don't you join myself and Lord William in the house for a drink," hand already settled upon Tavish's shoulder. A lovingly placed suggestion, reinforced by a swirl of magical energy. You feel it, but for Tavish, it is but a polite offer. One he cannot turn down. A pat, and Ian pushes gloves into his belt, leaving the dressier pair upon his hands. "I think that is a fine idea, Tavish," he says before mounting the horse, "....good call...a drink in the house." And all his idea. Grey eyes look at you and smile. How is that?

     There is no chuckle to break the spell or your concentration. Or Tavish's. There is... lust, in short. To watch you place your hand on him. The suggestion. He feels it... the energy. William inclines his head and half-closes his eyes. Only after you are mounted behind him, William smiles broadly. "Oui... something warm to knock of the chill. Tavish, smart lad... see you in the sitting room..." A grin erupts upon that mouth, his own swirl of energy moves against the air. He hands the reins to you. You feel his right thigh tighten against the stallion's side, and the Andalusian begins a turn toward the stables. Long mane and tail waving slightly with the light wind.

     Tavish smiles, and does not even seem bemused or confused. He's been wanting to do this for the last week. Since last he shared your space. Nodding, he moves with the hawk and the hare. "I'll just drop this off to Dionnach... " See you then! And his stride is long and sure toward the bailey. From there, the aviary and a short stop at the kitchens... and then... a quick dash up the stairway...

     "You are... amazing," comes the Provencal. Soft, for your ears alone. Trailed by soft, coiling laughter. "Hmm... what a night this shall be. A ride, warm drinks..." And you can feel the air tighten around him. Turning his head, William looks back to you. Black hair draping against his face, veiling his eyes. I love you, says the look. I want you, says the curve of his smile.

     "Amazing?" comes the false timber, "Me? How so?" Ian grins with your look, adorable in his own wicked way. "I think of it this way," he murmurs, gloved hands sliding between your thighs, "...I will be amazed if Tavish is conscious in the morning for his early calls. He will have us alone..." breath rising and falling as your horse goes, "...and between us," something says literally, "...I think he shall have more than his fill tonight." Ian breaks into a smile, then blinks, "Well, considering that...maybe it should only be an hour." Poor dear boy.

     "He will never learn if we do not challenge him," comes the quiet, deep voice. Such a tone. He is the mirror of your own...wickedness. What you find there is an open look of dark sensuality. Hunger. Immortal. Blue-violet, his dark eyes hold a fire as your hands move along his thighs, and then between them. You feel the muscles beneath the trousers, working the horse. And now your hands. A thousand cues. Including one for you. Upstairs. Now.
     The stables are reached and the stallion is anxious to be within. He is not the only one. "I'll let the lads tend to him," William murmurs, grinning in a slant. And as the doors are reached, William leans in, knocking. A signal. Afterwards, another squeeze of his thighs against the sides of his horse -- and your hands feel the shifting -- a steady pressure makes the stallion back away. Even as the doors begin to open. William looks over his shoulder to you, indigo gleaming between dark hair, inky black. After you.

     A graceful bow of his head moves into a quick lowering as Ian tosses himself from the horse and onto the ground. Cloak ruffles around him, as he pulls the gloves from his waist and puts them on the Andalusian's rump. Someone will see to those.

     A call of acknowledgement to the tackroom, and soon enough Ian is off to the house, striding like the very Lord he is. A quick push of the kitchen doors, and he disappears into the keep, voices rising at his arrival inside.

     The sitting room is but one part of the great, open footprint of the keep. Sitting toward the interior from the turret, it offers a warm intimacy. Here, one is more in a 'home' than in a 'keep'. Tapestries hang flush against the rock, particularly on more exterior walls, to keep back any draft of invading wind. With them, a painting that seems both old and new hangs above the fireplace, its colors brilliant with every passing illumination. Rugs rest upon the floor to cushion and warm the feet that pass here. Comfortable chairs of wood, with velvet and damask cushions are gathered within, and beside the modest hearth upon the interior wall, are three such oaken chairs, with a sprawl of furs and rugs and cushions between them. Iron sconces and sconces formed of the stone walls themselves offer a soft, suffuse lighting.
     There are two other entrances that lead off of this antechamber. One, a large oaken door -- unmarked and non-descript. It is the double doorway that draws the eye, with its Gothic Leaves adorned in gold and goldleaf.

     The lords have both arrived before Tavish. A quick glance of indigo -- the color of his eyes catches the light. How beautiful he is with a little illumination, your dark knight. William's weight lands against the door, and slowly spreading his smile broadens. He nearly incandescent with the warmth it casts. Arms folding across him, he pulls off the sweater. Beneath it, is an undershirt. Dark thermal. It fits against the contours of his form. Musculature only accented by it, not truly concealed. Dark brows lift and he tosses the sweater somewhere...out of sight. "Something... to pass the time," comes the mull of his voice, dark and soft, "... until Tavish arrives...?"

     Indifference. Ian sighs and looks over his shoulder at you, as if to say Another night's work done. But then he laughs and tosses his leather gloves aside. "Think it's a good idea?" Ian amuses himself with the logic. "I mean...well...what if he becomes attached to us?" Now see, something bad can come from all this depravity! Fingers work the clasp of his cloak, and soon it is at his feet.

     "I am sure... there is a way to avoid that..." To convince him he is not. Even as we have persuaded him to join. We can... dissuade. William seems... unconcerned. Unbothered. Gloves were left behind in the stables. His stride is one of ...possession. Of the space. Of himself. His power. And the smile speaks to that. "Do not worry..." he whispers. You feel his hand at the small of your back. He leans in, bending. His mouth finding your own. Tugging, savoring. Then parting, with the curve of a smile. "I think I hear him... shall we start with brandy?" His favorite. And perfect for the season.
     William parts from you, just slightly. Enough to get the bottle. Enough to be illuminated by the fire. To go dark bronze with it. Everything is a feast. Touch. Sight. Smell. Sound. Taste. The five senses are fed by every motion. And intensity grips the surrounding air. He feeds from you. From looking at you. From just being in your space. William turns his head, indigo eyes lifting from the pouring of three brandies. And he smiles. It will be a very long, very warm night...

     The door opens slowly and quietly, to reveal Tavish. Green eyes bright and seeking you. Both. His red hair has been combed, his working gloves off. He is dressed yet in the dark clothes, in the deep green and brown patched sweater. My, how the colors look on him... with his own eyes, with his hair and the fair color of his skin. He closes the door and smiles. "Hello..." No 'sirs' or 'lords' here.

     A brandy. As he's kissed, Ian's eyes close and his head falls instinctively to your shoulder. But it remains not long. A drink is in order. As the door opens, Ian twists to see, smiling at the arrival. "Good evening," he motions, "...Lord William," he stepping away from your arms now, "...was just to pour us a warming drink. Do come in," he motions, hand out and to the nearby sofa. "A seat then." Ah, he has never been good at these sorts of things. Grey eyes flicker to you, as if to ask what to do next.

     Dark liquid pools into three crystalline bowls. Black-violet. Plums. Ah, William is sharing the gem of Chinon with the young man. He is usually quite greedy with it. Eyes flecked with a similar violet lift upward and the warm smile spreads. "Have a seat, Tavish," William murmurs, chiming in with you. A half moment after your offer. Yes, and do close the door. Those dark, rich eyes meet you. A look shared. And then the slight slant of a smile. I want to see you... hunt him. Take him. Let him drink... speak to him gently... and then... we shall make him sigh...

     His hand reaches back, closing the door softly but solidly, and Tavish moves in. Eyes flicker between you then to the dark liquid. He seems ... a bit more sure of himself. But within, and in the light, you can see the rise of his complexion. The stiffness of his form. He wants what you both shall offer him. It has filled not a few ...thoughts since then. "Evening... thank you for... this... " The company. The drink. The... opportunity. Settling upon the sofa, Tavish looks to both of you. How relaxed can I be? "Ah, I meant to tell you before..." he starts to say 'sir' but holds, "...that I think we'll have a few new recruits by the summer..." He is talking hawks again. A few more brandies, and all discussions will come in grunts.

     William crosses over to the sofa, his languid stride creating a kind of dark meander. A glass is held out to Tavish, and with that smile. Lastly, does he cross to you. The glass... handed to you with a look. I cannot wait... to see you ... move for him. Look how he wants...

     "Ah, that is lovely to know," Ian chimes in, accepting the glass with gracious hand. "Thank you," he says softly, lifting the glass generally. "A toast...to another winter in the warmest place upon the earth." He chuckles and the glass tips to his lips, a taste enjoyed. A glance to William, and Ian puts a hand behind his back, a stately act. Hunt? This is not hunting. There is an unease suddenly as Ian tries to find a segue into...whatever. Here, each knows what is wanted to transpire. Should transpire. Perhaps it should come out as: Will you please undress now Tavish and go lie in the bed? No, you can see his brow flicker through some permuations of thought, that is not it. Seduction? Why? The suggestion was made and followed through. Grey eyes look to you, then to the young man. "Do you...go to Beauly much, Tavish?"

     "I try to go once a week," Tavish murmurs after the first swallow of brandy. It was a healthy swallow and you see the fire of it hit him. He doesn't quite cough, but he does grin and blush at it. "I thought it was wine," he whispers after, then chuckles at himself. But then he takes another drink. For courage. Tavish scoots over on the sofa. There is room now... on either side of him. "Is it plum? I taste a little ...cherry?.. in it..." He wonders and takes the last sip, eyes lifting to you.

     That causes a dark brow to life. He has a talent for taste, a gift of the tongue. Well, William noted that the last evening he spent with the young man. But this is brandy -- serious stuff. "Actually, there is a little cherry in it... the stream that feeds the orchard where these plums are grown is flanked by old cherry trees...it is a local legend that the water is flavored with it. It even colors the red wines..." William lifts his glass to both of you and takes the first sip and swallow of the brandy as he moves toward the sofa.

     You can see the color rise again in the young man's face. Green eyes lift to you. Is that Come for me or Save me?

     "That is good," Ian agrees, looking at you to join in the nodding of the heads. "You should get out...and meet people." Men. Others. "I know, with your duties," ah, we are in motion, Ian thinks, looking at your moving feet, "...it can be difficult sometimes to meet others. Someone." For yourself. "Maybe over this holiday season, you all can go to Edinburgh and spend some time. I am sure there are plenty of gifts you might wish to get this year." Now that is not a bad idea. Tickets and places to stay for everyone in Edinburgh.

     A stop. He is at the sofa. Ian turns and settles next to Tavish, eyes at his glass. "There is a bit of cherry in it," he observes, not having noticed it before. "But no," he grins at the young man, his hand rising to push at a bit of hair near Tavish's ear, "...no it is definitely not wine." No need to blush. Fingers touch Tavish's cheek, as if to capture the color at his skin.

     He was about to comment on Edinburgh. What a holiday -- and no, he doesn't get out much. The sum total of his ...experience has been a couple of the lads, Lundy, William and you. And then you touch him. That is all he needs. All it takes. Do you understand the power of your touch? What it does to mortals -- and immortals? Tavish turns to the touch. Young men... need so little inspiration. And in truth... he has been... on this edge for some time. Eyes ask for... permission?... as he leans in toward you. To the touch of your fingers.

     My. That did not take long. Amusement flickers in dark eyes and the sofa sounds with the added weight of the Norman. Brandy is finished in a swallow. His glass is set aside. And then, deft as a thief, he takes Tavish's, setting it aside as well. Settling back in the embrace of the sofa, William watches for a moment. Just now... you are the entire universe to Tavish... even as you are to him. That is the power of it. And you shall have them both.

     "You are staring..." Ian murmurs, whispering the words above Tavish's head. A kiss is placed there, just as another is set upon the young man's cheek. Yet Ian's eyes are upon you. He figures the youth will ignore the commentary. As he waits, another lands at Tavish's lips. A grin. Ian's hand soon moves around Tavish's shoulder, inviting him closer. "Is it not impolite to stare?" Ian teases you, brow arched.

     The truth? The youth is beyond hearing the commentary. There is no reason for him to ignore it. It passes over him as inconsequential as the weather outside. As his cheek is kissed, his eyes half closed. But not fully. He wants to ... see what is happening to him. He cannot yet close his eyes. Though, there may yet come a time when he cannot but close them. If memory serves. There is a smile, however, for the grin. For the kiss, and he .. is not so shy now. Tavish readily moves, accepting your invitation by the press of his young form to your own Immortally his peer. He will be but seventeen and eighteen for a year -- you shall be it for all time. He tastes of plum, of brandy. His mouth becomes the fruit and the stealer of fruit as your own mouth is covered. And you hear-feel-taste his sigh. No... something more of a gasp...

     His sweater is lifted by splaying hands, revealing fair complexion... ruddied. "I am not staring," comes the Provencal, murmured against the young man's skin. The smile of your husband trails along the boy's spine. This, to cause an arch of the young man into you. "Lift a little," William whispers in Tavish's ear. The sweater will soon be gone. Eyes darken with the pull of energy, of blood, of magic. Of lust. "I am studying," comes the languid baritone, Provence heavy upon his tongue.

     And as Tavish lifts, breaking the kiss so his sweater can be lifted, you feel William and Tavish's joined weight as William leans in. A second taste of brandy is placed to your mouth. His own.

     He will not ask what you are studying. A kiss from you interrupts that thought. Ian chuckles with the delight, a soft, pleased noise of contentment. "At least you are a good student," he whispers at your lips before returning to Tavish. His lips are momentarily explored again and quickly released for more immediate pleasures. Soon Ian's face disappears between blended colors, fallen hair at Tavish's throat. Arm remains around Tavish, even as Ian's fingers begin to seek the fastenings of his pants. Those can go the way of the shirt.

     Skin. Spine. The singing of blood beneath the skin. The sigh it makes against you, against the sofa. Call it... a study of the male form, and your artist husband is... nothing if not ...studious. Throaty, his laughter eases across Tavish's shoulder and then downward again. Tavish won't recall the curve of teeth marking his skin, but he will recall the soothing curl of Lord William's tongue. Out of the corner of your eye, you might catch another piece of fabric discarded. The thermal shirt. The thud of shoes follows.

     You feel Tavish tremble with the laughter at his shoulder. William... behind him. Or is it your mouth at his neck? Your hands at the fastening of his pants. Unbuttoning. His skin is taut and warm. His breaths are short and quick. He is already to an edge. It is as if the next touch shall send him plummeting. Reeling. As his trousers loosen about his hips, Tavish presses to your touch. Anxious young man. His age... even as you are for eternity... to be so ...surging that every touch is like a completion. The falconer moves against you, pressing against you as your arm goes around him.

     From behind, the loosened trousers are aided in their departure. To be undressed by you in front and William behind? The poor young boy's head must be spinning.

     From where you sit, you can hear murmured words meant for the young man. "Tavish..." a name called, and then broken syllables of Gaelic. A directive to go to the bed. The pants are indeed discarded, and Ian's arm lifts from behind Tavish to land upon his own lap. Glass is still held in the other, somehow, and now Ian decides to turn the drink up at his lips and empty the crystal. Eyes look wistful at Tavish, a gaze twined with humorous admiration. Was he ever so courageous? So young and anxious? Ian leans back on the sofa, looking to you now as he sends the young man forth to the bed. No doubt you and he shall follow.

     Fingers move to unbutton his shirt. Ian lets his head rest on the back of the sofa, lolled easily to the side to watch you for a long moment, as if in thought.

     A last kiss, your last word of soft directive is tasted as much as heard. A soft sound ... not protest, but intense pleasure as he works to untangle himself from both of you. As he rises, his hands touch what they may. A touch landing upon William's shoulder as Tavish works to get...and then maintain ... his balance. Legs are trembling, every muscle on edge. And trousers drop to the floor. Leaving the well-formed body... bare to the gaze. Outdoor work... will fill him out quite well one day. When he stops gaining in height. He moves to the other door... the large but single door... and steps within the bedroom. Green eyes glance back.

     Smooth, the grin that moves across his features. Not claiming merely his mouth, but adding fire to the gaze, warming his countenance. William rests a moment against the sofa, his eyes... fastened upon the unbuttoning of your shirt. All that remains on him are the trousers. Not leathers. His fingers move to the fastenings. All it takes is a simple...unhooking. I love you thuds against the blood and the air around you. Indigo lifts to your eyes. The smile remains. You can see that great Norman form begin to move. Muscles tense and give away their action. He leans in again, but halts just before a kiss.

     Grey eyes linger on Tavish as he goes. He enjoys looking at him, Ian cannot lie. It is written upon his face. But then he looks at you again, and smiles. I love you, too. Silent sharing of the feeling. It is broken only with a question of "What?" as if there is more. He chuckles, waiting for you to craft a remark that should make him blush. "You think I am too forward, hmm?"

     William only grins, and after a moment murmurs, "Non... non... making him strip at gunpoint would be too forward. You... were... smooth as ever." Do you remember when guns first came into fashion in Europe... those fancy pistols? Do you recall one particular night...when you...pointed the pistol at him... and told him to undress. And slowly, lest your finger not jump upon the trigger. Ah, when silken ruffles were all the fashion. A memory... lost for a time... an image... given back to you across the Bond that joins you. Warm, glancing. His mouth brushes lightly against your own, then William stands. Likewise do his trousers drop to the floor. And his hand is held upward...fingers slightly curled. An gallant offering to...help you rise.

     Oh...that. Ian's eyes roll faintly, mostly in the swoon of the memory. From deep within, the 'ah' of delectable satisfaction rises. "Ahhhh....that was...." he smiles broadly at you, "....a most gloriously delicious night. My God, Will..." Ian looks away, eyes filled with the memory, "...I had not..." his voice comes slow, "...thought of that night in...so long." Nor felt it still, etched in his loins. It sears there, threatening to return. Those feelings. "Hmph," Ian says, clearing the image so he can enjoy this night. Hand does finally take yours, and he rises quickly to his feet. Shirt is left behind on the sofa's cushions. "Thank you for reminding me," he whispers, needing that memory for some reason. Grey eyes slip to look at the lower half of you, then himself. A sigh. Fingers then decide to make short work of his own slacks, they falling easily to the growing pool on the floor. "Any preference?" Ian chuckles, stepping out of the pile and passing you to head to the bedroom. Shall you take feet side or head side? As a starter, of course. Running his hand through his hair, Ian feels a man hungry for something living. No rush, certainly, but a need to be lost in a heartbeat may be understandable.

     Such a fashionable Age it was. The Age of Silken Dalliance. Even the pistols were decadent. Wood and metal and etchings. He had come in from a duel... or hunting... or both... to meet you after some event, was it? And you were there, with the pistol leveled to his chest. You grinned, you gestured with it, you hand him unpacked and never more pleased to be at your mercy. No more of this passes upon the blood to stir the memories held within it. There is just the slow pull of his smile, the electric color of his eyes. Laughter lifts in deep, soft sounds -- held resonant in the chest, low and deep... that sound you know so well. "Too many to list," comes the whisper of Provencal behind you. He follows you. There is no touch by that of his eyes and palpable lust.

     Within the spacious... no, vast... bedchamber, a young man, tall and becoming broad is bare of all upon the bed. He has pulled back the drapes, and as the door opens he sits up... upon his knees, legs wide in the kneel. A young man at his limit. No, past it. His eyes are not opium-glazed, but you, sir, are a drug of a different, and greater, kind. He is well-formed indeed and not... over-blessed as your William... still... more than sufficient. His complexion is high where blood is lifted, coursing. Mouth parted to speak but he holds. It only comes in a sigh. Need. Want. And it is all on and for you.
     You may notice that his attention is... fixed on you. There was but a glance for the one behind you -- who, though his beauty and energy is great as you know, is not really lingered on. There is... more fear than want where William is concerned. You can see him... flinch a little. Muscles tightening that move through him in a ripple. Of course, you know how well William likes his victims... rather, partners... to flinch a little. But then again Tavish stares at you. Open lust.

     The flinch is met with a twinge of sympathy. Despite his own tastes, he should never wish to find himself in such a situation. Truly. Ian's hand falls from the door he holds half-open, a smile that was for you dipping faintly. Alexandra told him once that he was unable to feel. No, he explained, it was not a lack of feeling. He is but sensitive to the needs and wants of others. Like now. Instead, it was that he chose which feelings to act upon -- or not. This time, Ian thinks, I shall act.
     Only mortals can look that way. So transparent they are, vulnerable, needing. Not like the undead, to be sure. Need there is more emotional than physical, save for hunger. But what rests upon Tavish's face, what sears through his body and speaks to Ian...that cannot be mimicked by a vampire. Even if his mind chose not to Want...the rest of the mortal would still respond. Such is intimacy required. Physical as much as emotional. Ian pauses, blocking the doorway, halting your own pace behind him. Too empathetic is he, in truth, and the waves from the beauty upon the bed seize Ian, clutching at his still heart. The mortal beating would start his own, if it could.
     Is that what it looks like? Is that how he wants? Is that how...I look at William? William. You are here. He should not stare so. Ian's grey eyes drop a little, glancing quickly at his shoulder. Did you see his own want for Tavish manifest? Perhaps not. But maybe you felt it. Ah, there is the betrayal of self. Ian grins faintly, looking down. You must have caught him. Confession. Grey eyes lift to meet yours, and Ian moves aside finally, letting you further within.

     The Gypsy of Navarre was ... is... wrong about many things. Even as she was wrong about you, she was wrong about the man you love. That in all that time, his eyes were open but he saw nothing. Willingly blind and willingly led. Oh, it is far to the contrary, and evidenced now. For at your confession, there is one there for you. I know. And if he but suspected it were the case, the halting in the doorway would have confirmed it. But if you are looking for ...disapproval or hurt. It is not there. As you open the way for William to enter, he does so. With languid intensity and power. You can see his blood beginning to move in response to the stimuli -- but it is... not Tavish he is looking at.
     William turns to you, as much beside you. And there is a knowing in his eyes. Of what you are feeling -- he can feel it -- of his own hunger, his own need... which you no doubt have felt since he rode up to you...but also of his place in your universe. You feel the skim of his hand to your back and he interrupts the interplay of lustful gazes with... a simple and brief kiss. Pulling, savoring -- your mouth the fruit he prefers to dine upon. And as much said, as much felt, and as much confirmed in that one, brief embrace. Soft Provencal reaches you -- to the young man it must just be a swirl of heat -- and dark eyes are fastened to your grey. "I know... a little something... about mercy," William murmurs -- yes, he saw the flinch, and felt the sympathy too. That mouth, that need no more than slightly curve to steal breath and souls alike, cocks with a slight, slant-wise smile. "Leave the drapes open," his mouth pulls upon yours again. "I do not... want the sound muffled..." And then... the kiss, the touch, the fastened gaze recedes. William turns not toward the bed but toward the sitting area -- the ultimate destination being, it would seem, the bath.

     Green eyes have been fixed on you. Lowering only briefly as the larger, darker lord obscured the sight of you and gained the better part of your attention. But Tavish watched the kiss, and wanted. I want it to be me. And as William, surprisingly, turns and moves away from you, the young man's lust nearly leaps out of his body. It is a kind of possession, and it moves through him. Flushing his fair complexion. Hardening him. He does not flinch now... it is, instead, a tremble of Need.

     "Mercy and understanding," Ian whispers furtively, as if words recalled from some ancient religious text. A way of uttering thanks, without sullying the gesture. The kiss was returned, and as his love's lips slanted, so did his own. Knowing. Grey eyes fell to the floor, realization of the knowledge shared between them. Want...cannot be hidden. By anyone. And while it may be the prince in his heart, something else is kindled and sparks between the younger two. Maybe it is himself that he sees in the young man. Maybe he should not think on it so much. Ian lingers as long as you remain nearby, but once your hand and feet move away, his silvering gaze resumes for the one on the bed.
     His own feet feel steeped in mud. Drawn by the leap that landed in his own soul, Ian picks up left foot, then right, padding the first steps. Then walking. Once the side of the bed is reached, his arms are already out in greeting, a hand extending as if to bring the whole of the universe to him. Fingers slip around the nape of Tavish's neck, knee already upon the bed. Passed drapes flutter with the commotion, Ian's other hand wrapping around the young man's waist to lie him back upon the bedding.

     William will not disrupt you -- how could he? Even if he wanted to, he is as unseen as if he were not here at all. Rather than upset him, that thought and knowledge engenders a slowly curving smile. For he knows... he will have you in the end. He can, unlike Tavish, afford to be patient. And then... as he is not thought or looked upon he becomes as the air around him. One with the room. All places and nowhere to be seen. He will not stand... or seem to stand... at your shoulder. No, indeed... if you thought to reach your energy back to find him, it would not pulse a reply ...
     And then there is the sound of the iron gate being opened. And after. Only a moment after. The sound of water running...

     Tavish did not see the darker lord dissolve. Nor does he hear the iron gate sound, nor the water run. There is only the sound of his heart thudding in his chest and ears. Deaf to all but you. The smile is lost as you step upon the bed... only because his mouth falls slack. Red hair is burnished bronze at your fingertips, at the nape of his neck, between his thighs. As you lie him back, there is already the first groan. And your name. And his fingers grasping. Needing. You feel an ache. Lust up to its bursting point. He has wanted you for a week. He has wanted you all night. And now... he'll get to have you to himself a while. What shall he ever say to the other one? Thank you? Tavish's eyes are brilliant green -- somewhere midway between emerald and forest. And they go smoky in tone as you lay him back. The bed creaks with the double weight and the shifting positions.

     He did feel for his love, but the sound of the gate told him what he needed to know. Freedom comes in so many forms, in such small gestures. Ian smiles to think of it, then smiles even broader to the young man beneath him. "You are...very beautiful," Ian whispers softly, chuckling to himself. No matter how silent, he shall hear it all. "Adorable," Ian mouths silently, letting the humor spill certainly as he shall later. There is joy in seeing such Desire unabashed, held openly in one's own arms and gaze. It is not false, this you show. A marvelous thing, and Ian does not hesitate to let the feeling glimmer in his own smile, arched brows, touched noses, and a deep inhale. Filling himself with living energy.
     Glancing over his own shoulder, Ian sees the hands grasping at him as he settles his weight upon the youth. You have me...we have time. And as soon as the thought comes, the correction follows, and Ian's brows dim a little. No, you don't, do you? And your beauty is even more appreciated. Flowers, William called them once, beautiful flowers that are transient. They bloom and in their fullness, there is nothing so ravishing, so delicate, so desired to hold. But it is fleeting, that. Ian's hand leaves your nape to touch your cheek. A long gaze he's given you, and suddenly now, there appears to be a hint of sadness in what you see. A wistful smile pulls at the blonde's lips, and instead of lingering too long in melancholy, he bends to kiss you sweetly instead. Deservedly. Ian's mouth parts, and the hand beneath you curls to bring you ever so closer.

     There is much to feel for, for need will stoke and sit -- and now shall it simmer in heated water -- and be driven by what he feels of this or hears of this or thinks of this. But there is a patience that can only come with knowledge and understanding. And it is in that quiet of patience that freedom can be understood. He knows at the end of it, you will come with Tavish on your blood and you will see to him or join him. Or if you cannot and you remain with Tavish until your eyes and form are heavy with approaching dawn, he will wake you with his own desire, his own lust, his own hunger and you will suffer him as Tavish cannot. It is as much cannot as will not. Some can suffer your William. Some cannot. He knows the difference. As water fills the raised tub -- as much heated pool as anything -- and steam lingers and heats the air, the trousers are tossed upon the mosaic floor. Smile through the haze constant upon his mouth. No longer dissolved from the senses but... vibrantly holding dominion over a space. A large hand skims across falling water. Every sense heightened, stretching. To hear you in the other room, and in his own lust... now... finding respite in the hundred things around him.

     "You are," comes the Gaelic counters -- you are beautiful, handsome... the most handsome person he has ever seen. Soft, his voice is a tenor. There is no nervousness now. Nor hesitation. Tavish tips his head to your kiss, his own mouth exploring -- this time in sobriety what opium transformed before. It is even sweeter now. The kiss is slow and savoring, but still there is that young man's need. In the pressing of his mouth and tongue to yours. The Now colors everything he does. Everything he is. His arms go around you. Fingers discovering you against your skin, your spine, your hips. He trembles, he shifts beneath you. You feel the grind of his length against your skin. The pulse of his true heart there, no magic. None but God's. "I didn't want it to end... before..." That Night. Whenever it was. "...with you," Tavish says, and the rest of his words are lost against your mouth. Fingers curl and grasp, and on either side of you thighs lay wide and splayed.
     No, he does not have Time. But he is young, so young... he hasn't even realized it yet. To him, he has eternity. To him, he is immortal. And you can feel that singing in the blood. In the surge of lust and life and heart. He does not know that life comes and goes...

     Really? Ian blinks at that, mouth lifting to pause for the words. "You...didn't?" he murmurs, wondering how much of it Tavish has seared upon his own blood and body. "And thank you," he whispers as an afterthought for the compliment. A smile to share comes long as he waits to hear the rest. But to hear the rest does not mean stillness. Ian's hand wanders down your side, fingers rising and falling along rippled flank. "What..." Ian looks down the supple body beneath him, "...did you think of that night?" Shall we have more of them? Or more nights of you and me? Hand finally reaches splayed thigh, falling into the crests and dips. Ian enjoys thinking of what shall happen there in a short time, but eyes return to green ones, interested in the young man's thoughts as much as his form.

     Flesh responds to your touch. Blood answers your fingertips. Flooding against his skin. He goes as flush as you do beneath William's touch. His lust for you... it not so different in kind than yours for William. Younger, newer. Vibrant like a new shoot of grass versus new leaves on an ancient oak tree. Tavish laughs, a throaty sound -- and his eyes go wide. "I... " his words are broken by the quickening of breath, deepening. Sharply at first, when your hand first touched splayed thigh. "... don't remember some of it... I just remember... wanting ... more of you...it was... crowded." That's a word for it. The grin spreads upon his mouth, even as he spreads beneath you. But even though he speaks, he is not still. His hands are in constant motion. Trailing, pressing, curling against you. Learning you. Your shape, your musculature. The feel of your skin. "So smooth..." And you are. It is one thing that William adores as well. He'll second that. Lifting up slightly, Tavish seeks your mouth again. "I.. like it better... not so... crowded..."

     Water chimes and displaced laps against the side of the bath. Easing against skin like a thousand mouths. Condensation already upon his shoulders, where steam lies like a cloak against him. Deep and red, liquid pools into a wide-bodied glass. Wine. Something to... distract him. Something to busy his mouth. Something to keep him occupied. Indigo eyes close and he rests against the side of the pool, taking up the better part of a side of it. William exhales, and at the end of it a smooth smile. There are no lights within... save what little light is pouring through the gate...

     Nodding in agreement, Ian bends to taste more of the flower in his grasp. Ah, William, your metaphor is so apropos. Later, he shall have his fill of mortal nectar. Not so much plucking as a deep sniff. His knees widen enough so that Ian might relieve you of some of himself. Both hands slide at your sides, freed from their holding, but he leans in so that the kiss might remain. Shoulders bear most of the work, letting him match the twists and turns joined lips bring. Yet beneath, hands mirror each other, gliding down once more to massage within the tenderest of places, the inner thigh. The motions of his hands mimic something forceful; a test perhaps. Sultry suggestion more likely. Ian withdraws from the kiss, letting you look at the color that flushes at his mouth, blooming at his face. You make me feel this way...
     Fingers knead strongly at muscles below. High and inside. Daring to touch red-bronze, but deftly avoiding the same. A kiss is placed at your stomach instead, Ian's cheek brushing there as he nuzzles the skin before rising to hover over you upon his knees. He keeps your thighs over his own, and with surprising strength, Ian's hands pull at your own to bring you to his lap, his knees sunk anchored into the bed.
     You will hear that, my love. Do you interpret each string? Sounds played upon the soft instrument. A tap of the headboard tells you what? The sound of a pulling groan? The pained creak of a spring. It is music, interpreted by the listener.

     He listens to it... as if behind the curtain. No... better this. He has crept in without a ticket, stands still in some shadow. He closes his eyes as the symphony begins. Even breaths are stilled. Coming, but softly and shallowly. As if to breathe more naturally shall reveal where he stands and the music be lost to him. The wine is sipped, the glass going misty with the steam. The water chimes with some settling back. Dark hair, now inky black with moisture, plays against the smooth surface of the mouth of the bath as William turns his head toward the sound. Eyes closed. It is like music. Full and sensuous, his lips give away a slight smile. And from past that gate... perhaps you feel that glimmer of Want elsewhere. Trying hard to be quiet and remain unseen. To Want... and yet to want not to disturb. Both are in concert there...

     Tavish's young form... gaining its experience at your hands. You are teaching the flower how to bloom. Your fingers upon his skin, like the parting of petals. The meadow... quite nearly unspoiled. There has been one storm... maybe a few tussles of wind before that... but the meadow of his form and existence are beautifully unspoiled. He is the metaphor's embodiment, though he knows nothing of it. Where you touch, his skin and body responds. His blood is thudding against every nerve, and every nerve is touched with fire. Sparks that you light with every motion. He murmurs in Gaelic... pleasure... in the parting of the kiss. There is lust in all. And there is adoration there. How you make him ache -- he tells you, whispers it. Groans it. The best he has ever known. His body is stiff, every muscle taut to something like warm and living stone. The definition of an outdoorsman, but still burgeoning.
     Tavish reaches for you. Want to touch your face, your chest, your arms -- any part of you. As your hands massage his inner thigh, his hips can't help but move and the length of him lurches with it. His fingertips are greedy. They seek. They want. They grasp to take. Avarice. Lust. He burns with it. His mouth parts with it. His voice sounds your name with it. Not Lord Dunross. But Ian. And God. And yes. And More. More. You feel that twice. Once from a mortal heart...
     And once from something far older...

     Aithlen...
     That is what makes Ian shudder. The doubly felt emotions that rifle through him and a name brought forth from memory. Where he brings you up to him, upon his lap, Ian stiffens and stops.
     "I love you," comes the man's voice, golden light flickering in the small room. It is not much, with hardened dirt for floors and mud stone and thatch for walls and roof. "I do," the older voice reiterates, laughter following from two. One older, one younger.
     "No," the Gaelic thick and old, but familiar to you at least, "...you only say that because you lie with me," the younger voice teases, intimately close to the other. There is silence, but not quiet. Voices still, but skin slips together like rustling leaves, a sound is caught in a throat, the distinctive pull of joined lips. A chuckle follows again, rising from the silence and then lowering upon a 'shhh.'
     "What do you have to do tomorrow, Aithlen? Are you going to Donnefors to trade the birds?"
     "I think so," comes the younger reply, "...I do not think they will work well here, but maybe for them both, I can get a yearling of some worth that has been worked already."
     "Aye," the older man replies, "...I think it a good idea...what did Banner say?"
     "He said it's fine...as long as I make a good trade. He says he thinks I can." A pause. "Do you think I will?" as if seeking approval. More rustling follows, this heavy and rolling.
     "Aye, Aithlen, I think you can do whatever you set your mind to..."

     The silence comes again, with the telling quiet.
     Tick. Tock. Your lover has stilled in the moment, with you upon his lap. Ian's arms are wrapped tightly, seeming to get tighter with each passing second...

     Something stirs at the name. Instinctual. Indigo flickers as eyes open, dark colors blending, brilliant. Seeks to see past the gate -- little can be seen from this vantage. In this sanctuary the setting down of the glass caused a chime against the stone, and swirling wine, rubbing against the crystal, catches what light there is an gleams with it. Too light and airy to ever be mistaken for blood. Water trickles, moving against his skin as he moves through the bath to the other side, leaning against it. Craning his neck. Trying to see past the iron gate. But even here, little can be seen. Ian...Are you alright, love... is something the matter. And suddenly that pulse of want.. far older... dissipates a moment. Dissolving into the water that holds him. William begins to slowly, soundlessly pull himself from the tub...Muscles coil, knotting in the start of motion...

     A sparkle of green. Slowly, Tavish opens his eyes. He smiles to you as you hold. His heart aches as much as his body. He could get used to this. Infatuation sparks were lust and desire comingle. You hold him so tightly. Thighs over your thighs shift slightly, as if the next moment shall find them squeezing around you. The falconer groans your name, soft and throaty. Surely... the other lord can hear it. "Ian..." He could easily love you...

     Iain...I love you. Grey eyes shut from this world no less tightly than arms around you. He desires you still, Ian does, but something else pushes in his mind. Iain whispered softly by a young man's voice.
     No, oh, no do not do this...I am not ready...
     Infatuation blends with love, melds with recollection, spurred on by desire. Ian inhales sharply, grey eyes opening silver. Ian...is my name. He manages a weak smile, slowly placing kisses at your nose. The last kiss keeps him there, where he whispers softly, "Sleep," his body already bending forward to lay Tavish upon the bed once more.
     From the other room, the sound of water. Chiming like glass breaking, falling from his skin to the stone surrounding the bath, to its mosaic edge. The floor. Steps. Breathing, something immortal. Your childe and spouse. Water, heat and steam -- the whispered groan of the iron gate. Dark eyes narrowed, wondering, William steps out of the bath -- a large dark blue towel, more cloak-like than towel-like, drawn around him. His hair wet. He didn't bother to dry.
     He remains in the threshold between bath and chamber. Indigo settling immediately on the bed. In time to feel love. In time to see you lower the young boy to the bed. In time to hear you whisper, Sleep. An eyebrow lifts. You did not answer me. You did not say not to come or to come. Ian... is something the matter?

     Tavish's eyes soften as you whisper. You kiss his nose, he tries to kiss your mouth. Insistent young man, flush with desire and flush against you. His skin is so alive. Sweat just beads at the surface of his brow and arms. His hold around you lightens. Eyes soften again. And then they close.

     The mind can only do so many things at one time. Ian rises as you come through the gate, the expression on his face telling all. He appears ready to break into tears. Untangling from Tavish, Ian rolls upon his back next to the young man, crossing arms over his eyes. Arms give way nervously to hands, then arms cross once more. Get up. Don't cry, get up!
     Suddenly, Ian sits up, hands wiping at his face. He twists to see you, hand extending your direction. Yes, he needs you. Get up, stay, run, where? Sit...calm....

     There are no more questions -- in looks, from his mouth, against his blood. There is only motion. The beautiful countenance holds the semblance of a placid expression. Quiet strength. Knowing. Understanding. In his eyes, open attentiveness. Your Gibralter has returned and he returns to the bed... you may anchor to me. Spreading wide, the dark blue cloth is removed from him, fabric swirls until it falls heavily upon the floor. The bed sounds with his weight, a groan. Your outstretched hand is met with solid Plantagenet.
     A glance to the young man, lying now...sleeping now... and then indigo fastens upon you. Love and caring there. His hand curls around your own as he sits beside you. Skin sparkles where beaded water remains. His hand tightens and William bends, his mouth finding your fingers. Brushing soft warmth there. Dark hair only partially draping forward -- wet, it clings to him more than anything. Lie back... calm...I am here... Blue-violet eyes lift up and look to your eyes, your face once more, through a semi-curtain of wet hair. No, he didn't take time to dry off that well.

     Hand is eagerly taken, as well as the rest of you. The only anchor in a millenia of controlled insanity. "He said he loved me," Ian whispers, voice breaking. He takes more than your hand upon lying, insisting upon holding you as he sinks back into the bed. There's a gasp of a stifled cry, arms seeking you. You can make things better, just you... Tightening, Ian moves to bury his face at your shoulder, letting droplets fall from the dark onto his own cheek. And whomever 'he' is...it is not the young man who sleeps peacefully nearby. Someone else did, from an emotion much older.

     When the falconer made love to the falconer, something was awakened, yes? He touched a young man, about his age Then, and part of him recognized Himself. Dark eyes soften and as you lie back, pulling upon him as well, William readjusts. The bed groans again as he settles the whole of his weight on it. His chest and shoulders offered to you, his arms seeking to hold you as you bury yourself against him. His skin is warm and smells of clean water. And something of wine is about him. The arms of the knight and prince enfold you, hold you to his chest, and he rests his chin against your head. A hand lifts, fingers gently curl and uncurl there as well a moment, before returning to your back. "There is much to love," William whispers. "Did you ... remember something... when you were holding the boy...?" Tavish. "There is... nothing to fear in a memory, amours..."
     Take this from me. The faster you run, the more you will recall and more sharply than ever it was in life.
     There is a smile -- though it is slight upon his mouth it surges against shared blood and bond. I love you... His answer to all comments on making things better. Lifting his head, William tips it back slightly to look at you. To try to meet your gaze. "You want to talk about it... I am here to listen," he murmurs, languid baritone easing over his Gaelic, Provence-laden. But I will not force you.

     The squeeze at the question must be an affirmative. But at the idea of talking about it, there is silence. Not yet. Ian simply holds you, filling himself with thoughts of a knight and prince, the anchor to the present and future. With scenes of Provence and countrysides, of dogs, and breeches and waistcoats with carved pistols and smiles. Ian's lips twist as he buries himself deeper into indigo and damp remnants of horses and cinnamon, the scents and sounds flushing out whatever else might be hidden and wishing to make itself known.

Posted by rowan at May 25, 2000 01:33 PM