Still soft, firelight lays a suffuse touch upon the large chamber. There are moments of golden warmth, and there is yet the shade of sanctuary. It is soothing, somehow gentle. Like the touch of his large hands. Calluses softened by centuries of immortality and other pursuits. Strength refined for something other than war. But they are always reminders of who he was when you found him. Always, a Crusader's touch. And they come against your own. Softly, strongly. And Henry's cross gleams in the sudden illumination as he leans into the firelight. Rubies and gold gleaming.
     William bends his head, and dry now his black hair drapes forward as a partial veil. You feel his mouth upon your hands, hands held together by his own, between his own. He is bathed in partial illumination, partial shadows -- where light splashes against him, and where it curves against his large form and falls into darkness. He sits upon the edge of one of the chairs, reaching forward, closing the distance between you. Two lords' chairs face one another near the softly glowing fire. And so, too, the two lords.
     "I have wiped this part of the night from him," comes the soft Gaelic, edged and lilting with his foreign Provencal. His mouth moves against your hand. "And I have reordered it. I have also rearranged some of the events of last week, for both Tavish and Lundy." It is taken care of, love. William closes his eyes. Does he not look like some angel in ministration? Especially clothed in the white cotton as he is. Rather, mostly clothed -- the shirt lies open. "I... think it for the best," William says again, indigo lifting to your face, a finger lifting and curling a touch against your hand. "... that Tavish... be sent to study, perhaps in Inverness, or Edinburgh. I will speak with Eammon tomorrow..." You can feel what has been stirred. Worry, for the first time, that he might lose you to another. The energy was so strong. I want Tavish gone. For a while. "But... do not worry," William continues, his languid baritone lifting and softening, a hush to soothe you. "I have taken care of it. It is all done..." It will all be well, my love.

     He nods for that, eyes gazing at the joined hands. He can tell that you were worried, for many reasons. But for himself, all he feels is tired. Ian exhales deeply, emptying his lungs as well as his mind in the breath. What shall he say? He really has nothing to impart. It is there, it is evident. "I am not worried," Ian murmurs. You did the right thing. "I...just am..." he explaining his silence and mental absence. Fingers draw like molasses around yours, a miming of his own feelings. Empty absence. He should perhaps lie in bed and count sheep -- it would achieve the result he wants faster, certainly. Ian's head tilts, golden hair slipping aside. Pursing his lips, he exhales again, content to sit, say, and do nothing.

     The greater part of his worry is still in front of him. You. And how you are. And what you felt. Tavish... was a minor concern, but that the minor concern could have, joined with old memories, become something large, something entangled -- to that, the commander put up his hand immediately. And efficiently... removed the concern. "I suppose... we could let him stay, memories not being what they once were. But... for your sake, Ian... I think it best..." It is all for you, do you feel that? Him stepping in? As you once did for him a thousand times over. It is reciprocated. That is how love works. For a time, William falls quiet. He bends his head again. The warmth of his mouth glances, brushes against your skin. I am here. And you even feel the cold-warm touch of Henry's cross in the lowering. There is a grasp of knightly hands about your own. For a time, there is no more than this.
     What shall I tell you of it, Ian? Aithlen. Should I speak of what I found in the heart of the woods, and if so... what shall it mean to you? What shall it do to you. There is hesitation -- there is feeling. A desire to speak something. A not knowing what to say. A need to give. A need to reassure. But who will hear me? The aching young man within, or the aching vampire, or both -- as I love them both. Perhaps... I have pushed too much, too far for things to have been other than they have been... or seemed. Have I forced this, and in forcing it...worsened it...? There is a thud of uncertainty -- brief. Like a thud of sunlight upon rippling water of a stream. The next moment finds it carried away. Gone. No... another night. It is not time.
     William exhales and finally straightens. His eyes, dark and brilliant both, settle on your features, your eyes. Tell me, love... what I can do. "A drink," he suggests, and he stands. His hands yet to your own, as he rises there is a slight gesture. For you to rise and follow. "And bed. I have a need to be horizontal..." It is not due to weariness. You feel a stir of energy around him. Though it is tempered by his concern for you and all the thinking -- and you know how taxing that can be for an Angevin -- it swirls around him, and echoes upon every motion. The white cotton moves against his skin as he lifts. His form more revealed than concealed by it. "We will talk more there...it will be easier," he murmurs.

     "Talk?" Ian grins and shakes his head, seeming to come out of his quiet cell. He laughs a little, surprised with this reversal of fortune. "You wish to talk?" Ian teases, rising with you. "Now that is strange," he quips, nudging you a little. Already, his mood is improving. Let it go. It is how he has worked many things in his existence. "A drink does sound good though," he confesses, keeping one of your hands in his. Still cool from the kiss and the touch of the cross, Ian's fingers wriggle and tighteng around yours. Thank you, Henry. For giving me your Best.
     "I could almost use a couple of holes," Ian notes, quirking his head at the thought. A calming series of greens. Lost in the though of manicured lies and rolls to the pin. "Maybe later," he chuckles, guessing that you perhaps do not quite share his affinity with the game. Moving around towards the bed, it sounds as his knee presses into the mattress. "Are you alright?" he ventures to ask, feeling questions or some concern settled in your hear. You can tell me.

     Talk. He is capable of it, you know. Even without sweat and grunting. But you caught him in that, and indigo leaves you for the first time in many, many moments. Let it go. And so... the blush is brief. "Ah, oui... hmm... a compromise," William murmurs, inclining his head. That look, as if he is about to lay down an edict. But it is there with a smile, slight, but showing itself for the first time... in an hour or more. "A drink and a few holes... " He takes a look at himself, eyes traveling the length of his form. "I'll need to change..." A short pause. "I'll hold the pins. I'm good at that..." He makes a hell of a caddy, it is true. He has a measuring eye, an artist's grasp of geometry and flow. He just has not learned the physical light touch that golf demands, yes? Though, he can drive a ball hundreds of yards without thinking much on it.
     Soft illumination plays golden against the harder musculature. Light and shadows war against the knight's form. Indigo fastens to you. Dark, but full of color and fire. There is yet that tempered look. Yet that... is it introspection?...hovering about him. "Nothing a little outside time and a few drinks won't ease, amours... I'm fine," he finishes upon a breath, and the white shirt is lain upon the bed. William crosses to his own bureau, taking out another sweater. This one a deep wine color, with brown sueded elbows and shoulders. He must have been given a whole series of those things. "We still have a while..." he mentions, looking at the time as he places the watch you gave him upon his left wrist. Lovely thing, really. Masculine and yet refined.
     Sweater in his hands, his hands rolling up the soft knit in preparation for pulling it on, William turns to you. The slight smile remaining on his mouth, lingering there. "I love you," he whispers. In Gaelic. "Let's... walk outside and hit a few things..." For men such as you, this is always the way. And in many ways, the best way. Yes?

     His brows lift. "I love you too. Outside," Ian grins, but it coming as reassurance to all you say. Nothing a time and a few drinks might make alright. "I thought," Ian pushes up from the bed, moving to find something to wear as well, "...maybe a bit of driving practice instead of greens." Too delicate. "Though you do make a fine caddy," he smirks, crossing to a casual closet. A black sweater is retrieved in relative quiet, dark leather patches at the elbows. Disappearing inside, he comes back a moment later, pulling sweater at his waist. "Scotch," Ian nods, "...Stephen should pour himself." And have him standing nearby. Ian does not feel like doing much himself.

     Driving. You can feel that set in at him and find a place against his blood. That... appeals to him. He has some energy to work out. Ah, but so have times changed that it is not as blatant as it once was. He... far more in control of his own power. His own feelings. That he need not wear it so heavily that others may feel the need to help him bear it. His shoulders are broad and he is strong -- he can carry it himself.
     The smiles come easily, lighting first and foremost in his gaze -- living there in warmth. Echoing in the slightly broadening smile. "We will drive then..." he agrees softly, looking from you to himself as the burgundy sweater settles on him. Ah, how he looks in tones of red. His complexion, his hair, his form -- it is so well shown in the color. And ever has been. The white trousers are untied and fall to the floor with a sigh of fabric. For a moment, the sweater is all he wears. It was likely meant to be roomy, but it is fitted to his form, loosening a bit where waist tapers and there it ends. Turning this way, turning that way, he seeks out the trousers he was wearing earlier. Where did I drop those...?
     William surrenders the thought after a moment, and takes a pair of deep brown trousers are removed from the bureau. He will look like a Fraser for certes, no? Looking the part. Seeming the part. Eventually becoming the part. "Shall we go to the flats then?" The plain of the moors. "Or shoot from Aonach Fair and see how far into the moors we can drive?" Pants are pulled on. They fit him neither loose nor tight. Somewhere in between, where features are accented, but nothing blatantly revealed.
     The bed creaks with his sudden dropping weight. Sitting upon the edge of it, William bends, hands seeking the hiking boots under the bed. With the rest of his shoes. Once a barbarian, always a barbarian.

     He had the same idea. Ian comes back once more, pair of shoes in his hand. "I thought from the Fair to the moors," he agreeing. Several hundred yards. Striding quickly, confidence restored, Ian plops next to you, causing the bed to sink more. Black socks in hand, he bends to see to his feet. "We can have someone retrieve the balls in the morning." Search by the light of day. It sounds good. Ian sighs, wiggling his socked feet, then bends again to pull at his shoes. "You do not think, then," Ian goes on, "...that we should spend Yule in Florence?" the conversation suddenly shifted from another direction. Might as well get that over with too.

     "Do you want to go? If so... I see no reason why it cannot be so..." Socks are pulled on and William leans back. No...lies back, a leg lifted at a time. Flexible man, as you well know, even for his size. His shoes tugged on, one by one. He'll tie them in a moment. Lying back, his hands rest upon the wine wool of his sweater and his head turns against the bedding toward you. "I think Florence during Yule will be... very colorful," he adds softly. That almost sounded ... politically diplomatic. "It depends on how you feel, amours, about spending time with Girault and surrounded by Italian men. And if I know Girault as I fancy that I do, it will only partly be for entertainment's sake." Something about Girault -- one has a hard time taking him at face value. He earned the nickname Cat of Florence for a reason or two. "But..." William counters, "... if you wish to go... I would, I am certain, enjoy it. I haven't been to Florence in a few years now..." But he will leave it up to you. If you want to go, he will go with you.
     Sitting up with a grunt, William laces the boots, more docs than hiking boots in truth -- more sturdy. And he turns his head, indigo eyes seeking you past the sheen of black hair. The smile pulls in a slant. "Aonach Fair it is then. Better for Stephen. I'll have him bring out a cart. I'm more in a brandy mood. Scotch makes me ..." He gesticulates, "... emotional and prone to sing old ballads. Best avoided, oui?" And with that, he stands. His hand meets upon your shoulder. A pat there, and then a squeeze. "I am sure the Palazzo would be a lovely place to be come Christmas time..."

     He's quiet as he puts on his shoes. Left, then a twist to stretch right. "I have no great desire to spend Yule away from here yet," Ian confesses, more stiff as he braces himself. Overexposure of the soul. He shall not risk anything by going to Florence. No losses. But at the same time, there is no chance to gain anything as well. He knows that. I'd rather not take the risk. A deep sigh, and Ian pushes up, suitable for an afternoon at Dornoch. "When we go to Florence," he says, walking towards one of the mirrors, "...we go on our terms, to do as we like." Not under the auspices of someone else's invitation. "Let's go," he smiles, having run his hand through his hair and now facing you. A wink and Ian moves towards the bedroom door, fingers adjusting the hem of his own sweater.

     You speak my heart. You know my mind. And with it comes the spread of a smile, smooth. Languid as his stride, as his voice. Sensual, naturally. Because he is so. William rises after you, and a hand moves against the sweater and his chest, settling it. Now, the cross of Henry is hidden. "I will give Girault our ... polite regrets. He will understand, of course." Sometimes, it is better not to tempt fate. And... you can feel a surge of relief in him. He was not going to stop you, if you wished it, but he is thankful you do not.
     You feel him behind you. The door taken. The energy at your back. Your Norman shadow. His stride, a bit longer than your own, held in check. He comes slowly, but he comes. "I do like your style, Dunross," he whispers, a chuckle held at the edges of it.
     Out in the stairwell, the chuckle turns to a roar. "Stephen! Brandy and scotch!" Oh certainly, summoning would be easier, but then you would not get to hear the Plantagenet roar fill the stone corridors and pour downward. That Norman cadence of command. How it comes from his chest. He is the best of Henry, and Henry himself would agree. You feel the crackle of energy. The summoning comes at last...

     A slow, creeping smile forms upon Ian's lips as he walks towards departure. "And I like when you like what you see," Ian purrs, his walk sure to turn heads if he was at Dornoch. Trippling down the steps, Ian seems to surge with each bounce. Doors open and he moves through the living area and out towards the courtyards. "Ah," he calls, waving a hand, "...don't forget to tell them to bring my main set," of clubs, that is. Forget the practice bag.

     What is this transformation? Or has the spell ended? With Tavish to be... taken care of, is relief all that was needed? Or is this purely willful. And if so... what matter it? Questions yet he has, though unvoiced. Living purely in the aether of his brain, not coined upon the blood and exchanged with you. As you move ahead, he has to smile. How could he do else? To hear you speak so. To see you move so. To see strength and confidence renewed. Would that he could rebound so fast. William yet has need to hit a few balls, himself. Why can I not be as he? "I'll see to all..." comes the roar of the last lion again. Down after you as you surge outward. He'll remain behind for a few...to tend to getting the bags and drinks and boys in motion...
     It took about ten minutes, in all, before you saw Stephen and one of the valets coming out into the Aonach Fair Yard from the south courtyard. Stephen rolls out a cart upon the grass, two bottles of scotch and two of brandy -- he always thinks ahead this one -- and the valet, a few years older than Stephen, is carrying your main set of clubs, as well as another set. One is rolled, one is carried in a traditional, leather bag. They begin to set up, both glancing above to check on the status of the Scottish weather. Another miraculously clear night. Well, mostly clear...
     Silver clouds roll by upon a strong upper wind, but it is a gentle enough breeze moving through the valley and moors. Stars can be seen, so many. The sky is pocked full with them. And the moon is high, in midnight station. Yes, hours yet until the dawn. Hard to believe all of the events of this night have been but a few hours...
     William is seen after, coming with hands in his pockets and a greyhound by his side. Macsen, of course. Who else? There is an easy regality about him, and something of Scotland seems to be easing beneath his skin, against and within his blood, seaping into the soul held within. He is seeming less French by the day -- though his accent yet betrays him. "A beautiful night," he calls out across the yard, even as he strides. Tugging golfing leathers into place upon his hands. "Perfect for splicing shots into Dunsinane..." A tease to his own game.

     "Even I do not think I can drive that far," Ian chuckles, his mood certainly lifted. And beneath it on blood, a gentle worry lingers, but nothing so out of the ordinary. Something has happened, to be sure, but he is not lingering with it. "What a glorious night," Ian smiles, eyes turning upwards, no less silver than the moon above. He closes them and inhales deeply. It smells like home. At the sound of the two youths approaching, Ian looks to them, giving them a smile. "Good on ye, lads," he comments, moving over to take his bag from the valet. "Let Lioslaith know that someone will need to fetch balls in the morning, please," he informs them, moving around to decide upon a good spot to begin.

     It is a gentle concern that is shared, certainly. But the air no longer throbs with it, and for the most part it is simply set aside. By you both. He doesn't want to think about how you looked to Tavish... feelings of love that stirred against the bond between you that he was unable to translate. Was it for me? Was it for him? Was it for someone else long gone? What was stirred and old and what was current. This and its accompanying mild jealousy was then coupled with how you were when he burst in. That has colored the last several hours. But like all things do in the end, it seems to be receding with him. Naturally, knocking the cover off a golf ball will go a long way to quicken such a process, yes?

     "Aye, Lord Dunross," Thomas, one of your valets, replies, bob of his head. He will see to that. "D'ye want me to stay, sir?" Clarifying as Stephen sets to pouring the drinks. You can smell water on them both. A recent bathing for the two of them, though you would assume correctly that it was done separately. Soap lingers, tangled with something more Them. And then scotch. And then brandy -- this of Normandy, from the apple orchards outside Old Rouen, where William yet owns a bit of land. There is also Macsen -- the sights and sounds of his approaching trot upon the green. And William. Smelling still of the recent though shortened bath. Honey from that room.

     The air is alive as William comes by you. A soft laugh, deeply held in the chest, in answer to your own. Your mood is contagious. As he bends his head, attention given to his hound for a moment, the wind plays with the longer portions of his hair. He looks so... civilized. How did you manage that? A gloved hand gives the greyhound's ears a rub and then gestures out to the moors. "Go out and wait for them..." Golfballs he means. With a hound's grin, Macsen looks to you and then trots past you. Feel free to get in a pat, Other Master.

     "Actually, yes," Ian notes, glancing at you. "If that is alright with you, Lord William?" He smirks, reaching for the white golf gloves attached to his bag. Slipping a hand in, Ian bends to pat Macsen on the back with a double set of fingers. "There you go," Ian offers, a politeness granted by the hound. "Thank you for letting me," he chuckles, finishing his tugging. To Thomas, he speaks again, "The three wood," he notes, walking over to where he'll take up position. Angling himself, Ian looks out towards the moors while pulling on second glove. "I doubt I can make it, but...there will be amusement in the trying." Poor Macsen. Ian chuckles, saying, "And where will he pile the balls he finds?"

     The clubs he was given use of for the night -- for well you know he doesn't own a set himself -- is more for practice shots than anything. Not the quality titanium, but it will serve well enough. One is selected from the cart beside Thomas, even as Thomas twists, settling the bag, and moves to hand you the three wood you requested. Indigo is out upon the moors, watching the greyhound -- a rare silver he is -- bound over the moors. It always brings a smile. A white ball rolls across the grass, tossed from William's hand, a lie such as Fate shall have it. And then he is on the move toward it, a driver in hand. He's just here to pound it, not to aim. "I do not mind, non," he murmurs, absently, matter-of-factly. "Stephen will be busy pouring glasses of brandy," intimating he shall have his fill. A wink given to you as he begins to take a stance a comfortable distance from you. It's for your protection, you know. As he measures a shot, "He'll probably bury them, amours... but at least we will know where they are..." Laughter edges his words, hanging upon every syllable. Lilting across an agile tongue, the Gaelic spills from him. Quite fluent as time has gone on. Every once in a while... he misses a word, but it is not often.

     Thomas hands you your three wood and steps back. Stephen looks to you, primarily, as Lord William is already preparing to shoot. "Let me know, sir, when you want your first drink..." he says quietly. Always to the ready, that young man.

     "Now is good, thank you, Stephen," Ian murmurs, nodding also at Thomas' handing of the three-wood. Leaving his decided spot, he takes the glass from Stephen, lifting the double old-fashioned in a salute, then taking a long taste. A low suck of his bottom lip and Ian nods in consideration. That goes a long way to improving his state. Handing it back, he moves back to his spot, deciding to do a left handed swing so that he might face you. "I've arranged," Ian brings up, fishing a ball from his pocket and dropping it to the ground, "...for a fund set for Phillip. He has decided," Ian murmurs, "...to go...back to school," brows arch is simultanous amusement and pride. "Hotel and restaurant management, he tells me." Ian looks out where Macsen runs whilep pressing the wood into the ground, making things more flat. Afterwards, the ball is rolled carefully into the appointed spot. He does have a golfing stance, your Ian, white gloves and all. "I have told him we will see to whatever arrangements he wants. But aside from that...the fund will be...a trust fund more than anything else." Acknowledgemnet of the fact that the two of you may never set food in America again in Phillip's lifetime.

     A breath, taken and held. Darkness, strength in motion. Knights play golf peculiarly, perhaps. The body instinctually knows what to do with a long implement. A slice of air. Sharp. Solid. Contact made like a tiny explosion. And like a comet, the ball makes a high arch off Aonach Fair and onto the moors. It catches a high wind and travels far. Were this a par-4 hole, he will have had an excellent lie.
     As Macsen chases after it, William smiles and looks to you, brows lifting. "Has he? Good on him, I'm proud of him..." Soft that. He has a warm spot for Phillip in general. He has since that dark time of your Long Sleep. William half-turns, gaze upon Stephen. Stephen immediately hands him his brandy. Liquid chimes against the glass, and William tastes of it. Closing his eyes. Feeling the fire of it, savoring it. But he does not close his eyes for long. He likes to study your stance. And you feel his attention, as surely as you would feel the touch of his hand. "He will do well in that. I must remember to write him," comes the languid murmur, the warm hush of his baritone voice. "And to wish him good fortune and see how he is doing." And he will do as much for Tavish. Though he sends the boy away, it shall not be in anger or spite or reproach. There is none of that. It is... simply... for the good of all that he goes somewhere else to study, to gain skills. It is for the good of all.
     William wakens from his reverie and finishes the brandy in a swallow. Holding up his right hand, he motions Thomas to toss him another ball. He catches it and then drops it. Hands grip the driver. His body begins to settle. Indigo eyes lift to you, even as he prepares to knock the cover off of another. "You should be proud," he murmurs in Provencal, "... that those you have touched so have been gloriously restored..." Phillip. William. Stephen. Look at what you quietly bring to the world, love. These young men taken from situations dark, unstable and in some cases wretched... and look where they are now. And look at me...

     Grey eyes glance up as Ian bends for his stance. "I am like others, hmm?" he wonders softly, conversation meant for you. "I want...those..." around me, my family -- what are they really, "...that are in our lives so closely to do well." Formal stance taken. But you know him better. Sometimes he cannot say what he should. Ian sniffs, parting his feet and curling hands around the 3-wood. "He is a good young man and since he has given several of his best years to us..." it is the least we can do for him. He tries to not think of the others or you at the moment, so unable to think of himself as having restored anyone. Quiet follows, and Ian twists himself around an invisible line in his body, unwravelling it to maximum potential.
     The ball is struck, certainly, sailing away at a rapid pace. That would have gone long past any par-course. It was simply sent away into the night.

     Laughter. "Jesus, Dunross..." And then the laughter picks up in volume at a sudden thought -- and as he sees Macsen make an initial leap to chase and then surrender it immediately as it sails far past him. "Trying to knock someone's window out from a distance?" Maybe I shouldn't have said it. But it rolled off his tongue anyway. Not a bad idea actually. William sets to do likewise, but as he gets into position, he nods. "Aye... this is true," he murmurs. "It is... like family." You can feel the coil of blood. You can feel the surge against the air. There is a great deal going into this shot. Emotional, mental, physical. The world holds its breath, even as William takes one. Holds it. The exhale follows the sharp release. The slice of air. The contact, solid. Following it, a bellow from William. Just an Angevin shout to the night. Take that, you son of a bitch. And he exhales again, something lifted from him. The club is lifted to his shoulders and strong arms drape over it casually. Even as he loses sight of the ball. He closes his eyes. Release, Plantagenet. In that sailing comet of a shot, goes all the worry of this night. It is tangible, the lifting of the weight from him.
     Twisting toward you, your husband smiles. Easily. Warmly. Sometimes neither of us can say what we mean. Sometimes, words just fail, don't they. There is no thought on Tavish or words on him and his upcoming... adventures in education wherever he would most like to go. The way will be made and generously. "I do need to go to London yet. I have to shop for the holidays... I forgot... how quickly time can pass..."

     Both Stephen and Thomas lifted brows to the shots. Damn. But they continued about their tasks. Stephen pours two more glasses of liquor. One scotch. One brandy. Prepared to hand them to you both.

     Now that was nice. Ian watches the ball sail until his own vision can pick it up no more. He nods at you, grinning at your stance as much as the power behind the swing. "What did you think I meant by driving?" Ian purrs, fishing another ball from his pocket and letting it fall into the lie he's made. "Shopping is not a bad idea...it is getting late in the year." Little preparation follows. Feet are parted, Ian quiets, and grips the club. A half-second later, he is wound again, bringing the club impossibly far behind him and above his head, the potential energy palpable at the height of the club. Then, he unwinds, a top giving forth it's power until something is struck. Manifest. Full kinetic. The ball explodes off the club, shooting like a streaking rocket out into the night.
     Following through, Ian grunts, the sound falling low into his chest. Breath expels as his head lifts from the swing and up along the ball's trajectory. Club lifts once more above his head in the full finish, and lingers a moment above before he lets the silver drop full vertical, the wood suddenly in his fingers and grip at the ground. With the release comes a very loud sigh.

     Stephen and Thomas share a look. Maybe it's best not to inquire, really. And out there in the moors, a greyhound has decided to jolly well give up, lads. I might be a great hunter, you know. But I am old. He lies down and rolls on the heath...

     "Ah now, have some pride," William rolls out to Macsen. The dog can likely not hear him from here, it was more mulled than shouted. His humor, his voice falls to a hush, however. As you strike, and as you sigh. He'd cross over and swallow you up in that bear-like hug of his, were the other lads not about. There is a distance for decorum's sake... and in part due to... just this night as it has been. William outstretches his hand, and accepts the second bandy. He studies the swirl of liquid in the bowl of the glass. He remembers his earlier hunger. But there is nothing conveyed of it, or said or felt. It is just known for what it is and set aside. The brandy is taken instead. A healthy swallow and then it is handed back to Stephen to look after. A raise of his hand and another ball is tossed to him by Thomas. A catch, a drop. And then his body coils, twisting. Breath taken, held in the upswing. Released at the loud contact. Another comet. How the villagers down the way must think themselves in a meteor shower, non? You and he must be sending sheep scattering somewhere. Jaw was clenched and upon the release, there was a grunt of his own. The air is alive with electricity, with power, and with expulsion.
     "Tell me when, and we shall go, love..." William whispers. His eyes scan the moors and he sighs. Hand comes out for brandy again. It is becoming... machine-like in accuracy. Drink. Catch. Drop. Drive. Drink. With precision and artistry both.

     Dropping another ball to the ground, Ian can move on this way in silence for a long while. He has forgone a drink in the last shot, pressing club into designated spot a few times before coaxing the ball over into a decent lie. He turns to face the ball, feet spreading again. This could go on all night. "A couple of weeks," Ian half-asks, seeing if that time frame is acceptable. He wends and pulls the top in tautly before unwinding and shooting the ball like a cannon. Another explusion of breath comes forth as the club drops for him to watch it leave. "London, hmm? Maybe a couple of nights?"

     A nod, and in his bending dark hair -- like fingers of Night Itself -- veil his eyes. "Two should do it, aye. We should pop in to see Robert..." Legrasse. "...while we are there. He would not forgive us, otherwise." And there is no one else in London I want to see right now. There is a feeling of...wanting to stay home more than anything. "I will see Davydd and Edward another time..." But they will know he is there. The club is placed back in the bag. For now, he is done with it. His restlessness will find distraction in brandy, for in truth his mouth must be occupied as often as his hands. As you know. William holds the glass cupped in a hand, and he looks to the station of the moon. The stars. A thud of his presence uncoils, unraveling from the tight knot that has held him for a while. Did you notice it. He will watch the stars and he will watch you. His heart will ease on its own. "I haven't seen Robert in years... we should have a drink with him, some quiet conversation..."
     Indigo settles upon you again, and your prince enters a quiet reverie. Of study. Desire previously abated, swallowed by other matters, begins to make itself known again. Passion. Need. Hunger. He looks away, over the moors. Tonight is not the night, Plantagenet. Leave it be. He whistles loud and shrill, calling his hound to him. No need to chase balls if a car would be better suited to the task...

     "Maybe we will have time for a drink with Robert...I will call him when we land," Ian says softly, peering down at a pile of balls near the soft flat he's pressed out. Club taps at one, and then Ian looks to the two young men for his scotch. Hand out, he continues, "Maybe we are just not as social as we used to be," Ian smirks, smiling at Thomas as drink is set into his white glove. A taste is taken, grey eyes watching you over it, then it is handed back to the young man. Tapping a ball from the pile, Ian encourages it over to himself, lips savoring the scotch still. A heady breath is sighed, and he half-angles to the Fair in preparation for his next shot.
     Eyes lift to you while he organizes himself, his soul, for the winding. You are moving, he can feel it. "You want to go inside," Ian murmurs, glancing through low-drawn lashes, then smiling as eyes drop to the ground. "I don't mind," he whispers, "...just let me take...a couple of shots more."

     Brandy in the glass, finished. Hunger staved for a moment more. And a gloved hand lifts. "No..no.. play on," he murmurs, half-turning back to you. "I just... when I am holding such a thing, instinct tells me I should be bludgeoning something with it." And then he grins. That grin. Damnable. Devastating. It promises Death to all save you. "I will watch..." It has not completely eased him, as it seems to have with you. But he is not as good at switching gears as you. As putting things aside for another day. Or altogether. Gloves are removed as he moves to the cart, to the bottle of brandy. He forgoes the glass, letting Stephen put it away. A pat is left behind on Stephen's arm -- I will tend to myself. This as Stephen is handing your scotch to you and Thomas is resettling the bag at his side. And tossing a few more balls Ian's way. "I used to be...quite the butterfly," mulls the baritone voice of your lover. "But playboys age, mais oui..." And to that, he chuckles, giving the lads a slant of a grin and a wink. Indigo settles upon you again as he lifts the bottle of brandy for a drink.
     Your eyes lift to him, he meets your gaze. You know so much, even in the slightest glimpse. The poise, the stance. Quiet strength. The bearing of a prince and duke. The composure of a general. But though for the most part he seems untroubled, his mind seems crammed with thoughts. You cannot yet read them -- perhaps Girault shall teach you. He seems...more than willing to spend time with you. Ah... a little jealousy perhaps?

     "Alright, if you wish," Ian concedes, nodding as words are breathy. Already wending, the club swings backwards, quite high, and then another forward surge cracks the ball, sending it sailing rapidly out into the night. The club is held up and out in Ian's left hand, remaining there as if encouraging the ball to its furthest distance. Another inhale and loud sigh, and Ian seems content for another go. "Playboys age, hmm?" Ian grins, winking at the two young men nearby. As if. He bends to tap another ball over towards himself, the wood club showing some strain. "I was under the impression that they only get better with age," he offers politely, grey peering through blonde lashes. Mm. Lips curl and Ian parts his feet again, fingers curling around the club, dancing to find the right fit.

     Six eyebrows lift -- two brown, two black, two blonde -- to that shot. The crack of contact made each one of them turn to you. And in vain, six eyes try to follow the trajectory. William cannot be around you thus and not smile. Not to see you grin. Not to be around you when you are full of yourself. He chuckles to the comment on aging, and one raven eyebrow remains lifted a moment. The expression, beautiful humor. A wash of warmth across his features. Lifting the bottle for another swallow of the liquid fire, indigo flickers to each of the others -- yourself lastly, and there that gaze remains. Black hair drapes back as he inclines his head and his lips show the tilt of a grin. "Is that so? Tell me, amours," comes that languid baritone as he moves from the cart and near you -- but out of swing range and reach. "... if they are then like the finest of French wine. Holding their body better with the passing of time. Or is there a point at which it all turns to vinegar..." He chuckles and winks to that. That persistent knot. Held deep within. You can feel it loosen a bit. You have a way of getting to him. Your hands are not small, but they are deft as a thief's. William takes a deep breath and then exhales.
     The swirl of energy. The young men feel it. Are affected by it. Thomas shifts. Stephen fusses with his tray, looks elsewhere. It is evident in that look. Most evident. This energy, this need reawakened once your spirits lifted. Every time it surfaces, William takes a swallow of brandy. Not tonight. Not tonight.

     His feet pad in their positions, left and right heels lifting and falling to comfortable spots. Grip found, Ian looks up at you, enjoying himself now. "Yes, some do become vinegar," he murmurs, "...meant for nothing more than pouring upon the ground. But there are those...ah..." he grins sweetly, meaning it for you, "...there are those whose fruit only bloom as time clings on, finding structure firm but with a delicate fill to the senses, a body that is tempered with ease, and a finish of sweet, delightful joy." Looking down, he goes on, "Those kinds of wines...those that age beautiful...only come with sufficient tannin in youth," and here his gaze returns to you thoughtfully, "...a tart, harsh feeling, that often obscures what will happen with Time. But if you are good..." Ian grins, "...I think of myself as reasonable...even in its most juvenile, you can tell a wine that shall merit and..." hands break the grip, Ian rising in his liturgy, "...shine as Time passes. It grows, it flourishes, and unlike others, Time is its Friend." As you are. He chuckles, your Ian does, notcing his grip has fallen off. "There is no vinegar in that. It is the best of France, the best of Bordeaux only...that has such..." and his eyes fix to yours, voice becoming heartfelt, "...that has such sweet elegance," said softly, "...and tender grace."

     Alright. It has taken some time -- and how much time even he is not aware, so much has passed -- that you have made him speechless. There is no quip, no smirk. But then, after the shock of such a compliment falls away, and it is truly held upon the tongue and swallowed into the soul, William does show a grin. He would tackle you or at least grab at you, were it not for the one lad -- Stephen would not be shocked. God knows, he's walked in on more. And as with you earlier, there is finally some feeling of... restoration. Place confirmed. All in the universe is well.
     Merci. So says the look, fastened to you. Some several degrees softer than the smile. Ease comes upon him again, and without restraint, unraveled from the knot that has bound him for hours, that electricity, that kinetic intensity known as William unfolds. "Tender grace," he murmurs last, and glances to the other boys. As if to say: Who is he talking about? But there is that cocked grin again. Slight, but threatening to erupt fully. Wickedly. William returns the bottle to the tray and takes the driver in hand again. With the deftness of one used to polo, he guides one of the balls from the pile to a spot near you, but out of your way -- and you in a safe distance. Feet part, settle. His hands grip -- without his gloves. And his head turns moor-ward. Body coils and winds, and like a mechanism made for this purpose, releases. The air hisses. The contact is solid, sharp. And the ball disappears. Gone, like the rest of them. William chuckles, looking back to you. Enjoying himself, truly, at last. What can I say to that? Such love, such expression. His only reply: release of all that troubled him. All worry. All concern. It will be as it will be. And we will yet be here. Plantagenet bows finally. "Shall we shoot balls into the sun?" he murmurs, Provencal again.

     His own grin is hidden. He knew his words. Ian's own blush is directed down to the ball at his feet, club tapping at it until you send one screaming into the night. He glances out, then smiles at you. That's what I like to see. "We could," Ian says half-heartedly, "...but I was thinking...maybe we should head inside and...see if we'd like to open a bottle of something hidden in your cellar?" Take that any way you like, sweet Bordeaux.

     Smooth, the smile winds. Spreading warmth across his features. Like dawn. "I would like that," William murmurs. Half-turning, he looks to Thomas. "That's enough for me, lad... thank you," in half-Gaelic, half-French laced English. Colored by the land of his birth and by that of his residence. Straightening, William offers the driver back to the caddy-valet. The smile lingering. But always, as they must, his eyes return to you. "Care to send one last lightning bolt out into the night, Young Zeus? Give us one for France," he quips.

     Thomas looks to you as he puts away the other lord's driver. Prepared to clean up and stow it all away or prepared to watch you knock another one into next week. "You've a masterful swing, Lord Dunross," he says. Stephen says nothing but only smiles. He remembers having to go pick them up in the far reaches of the fifty acres of Rancho del Cielo...

     "Ah, thank you, Thomas..." Ian smiles at the young man before turning his gaze downward. "Aye, one for France, hmm?" Steadying himself again, Ian goes quiet as he reforms his grip around the club. Fingers flicker and with a quick wend of his body, the club swings high above his head. In his face, the tension shows, and in an instant, it unravels into a pummeling force that sends a screeching crack through the air. Ian's forward push is off-kilter...above his head the club rises, his gaze forward.

     Ahead is a silver flash, wood spinning under a moonlit sky and a ball sent ferociously into the night. Held high in his fingers, Ian holds a broken club.

     "Holy shite!" comes the laughing bellow, and applause follows another Norman shout. Two fingers of his right hand lift to his mouth and a whistle follows. "Mon Dieu... all that for France...We are... flattered." And he means to use the Royal connotation. Smooth and languid baritone, coiling in humor, converts to a chuckle again. "On second thought, I'm not sure whether France should be flattered or afraid..." Indigo flickers in a wink. You alone can see the sparkle of violet and blue. Another, softer whistle follows. "Hard to snap titanium...I'm impressed..." And he is. There is nothing that gets to him so much, so fast, so deeply as a show of your obvious strength and power. You can feel the burn of Hunger and Desire licking against the air.

     The other two young men gasped appreciably. "Lord in heaven," mutters Thomas. "I'm glad I'm not French..." Well... that can be said at about any time for any reason by the Scottish. And such a thing. It makes William's mouth twist, smirking.

     He is quiet, Ian is, letting the energy float completely from him and forward behind the ball. He shall compel it further, if he has to. Several moments pass before he sighs and looks to the three of you there, giving a weak smile of surprise even at himself. "These weren't titanium," Ian chuckles, offering you a look at the splintered bit he holds. Wait. It is splintered. He turns it edge-on for himself, blinking at it. "Spring steel," he notes for the record. Let it be known that Ian Dunross did not break a titanium club. "And all for France," he chimes fast upon the alloy description, coming out of his reverie. Hmph. The club is offered to Thomas, his comment registering and gaining a smile. Taking his scotch back, Ian decides to take it with him. "Let's go, Frenchy," Ian says to you, wiggling his brows. A laugh and he passes the cart, "Good night, you two."

     Finally now his reach lands, his arms moving to surround you. To draw you in, to swallow you in a hold. And baritone voice is lifted, warmly, sensually. In something of a song. The national anthem of France, to be precise. Sung amid laughter, more romping than was originally intended no doubt. You wear him as a second coat, that press of warm stone known as William of Normandy. His mouth brushes against your ear, and the rest of the song is whispered. All for France, indeed. And Macsen trots after. He'll follow you to the sitting room, no doubt, where he and old Ciardan will rest by the fire...

     "Aye, sirs... good evening to you," Thomase says. "I shall be up momentarily?" Stephen calls out after, and without missing a beat, Stephen settles the cart again, stops the two bottles and turns the cart about. Thomas gathers balls and tends to the cart and bag.

     There's a nod for Stephen, acknowledging that he was heard. So nothing shall get too out of hand before he arrives. Ian chuckles, stumbling along with you to the keep, joining in with Le Marsellaise, oddly enough, knowing every note...

Posted by rowan at May 26, 2000 03:07 PM