For several nights it has snowed, not thickly but steadily, and the smoke of castle chimneys joined the freezing fog over the moors. But this night is milder. Mild as Scottish December may be. No fresh snow, and though there is wind -- never a day without it -- it comes only now and again. Bundled, one might escape the worst of it. And so, the outdoors areas and stables are warm and filled with activity. Lord Fraser has been down with the horses already and the tack room shows of recent motion. Still now though it seems to be. There is still some ...hum of all that on the air. The dogs have been given a run and likewise the hawks.
     Hawks that missed the falconer's presence. Tavish Stewart, the falconer of Strathfayr -- and it is true one of the few of his occupation left in this country -- is a man of young years, pushing twenty. Recently returned from his first quarter of studies at Edinburgh, home for the holidays. And he throws himself into his former job with all the love for it he bore... and bears. Half sitting, half leaning against a vacant saddle stand, he cleans a leather hood and fettering with the finest of leather soap.
     He's a handsome young man. Tall as he shall ever be, and beginning to broaden out as those of this country do. His hair is copper red, his eyes are light green. They glance up now and again, hearing sounds from the stables. Dressed in a thick, dark green sweater -- beneath which is another shirt or two -- and black courderoy trousers -- under which thermals surely must rest -- he is the picture of Scottish winter. Minus the colors of his clan.

     Where Lord Fraser goes, Lord Dunross follows. Well, or so they say. There has been plenty of pots and pans on in the kitchens, and murmuring is that He is on the bottom floors of the keep.
It is a busy evening in the old castle.

     Never far when there's bustling happening, Lioslaith MacKenzie finds himself in the stables, too. In charge of security and the grounds, he busies himself with the rest of the men here. Checking on the horses, he calls out, "Ach, lads, when were these saddle blankets las' aired out? Replace them wi' fresh ones... The poor horses that woul' hav'ta deal wi' tha' smell woul' throw a man fer it!" His voice is not angry or harsh...he speaks with a familiarity with the group working with him. Looking over, he spies the falconer and calls out, "Tavish! Laddie! Yer back!"

     Above, wood creaks. Rhythmic. Steps?
     And somewhere there is a Frenchman who smells of horse, leather, snow and sweat...
     Green eyes lift and hands still upon the fetterings. The smile is broad and naturally warm. "Aye, till Candlemas. Then it's back to Edinburgh... but it's good to be home, aye. To Dionnach and her shepherd's pies..." He shows it. He breathes it. He lives it. Tavish grins, looking back to the fetterings. One last rubbing, and they're done. "You looked over the team lists yet?" Tavish nods to the wall near the door. Tacked there, two sheets of paper, one bearing the heading of "The Strathfayr Griffins" and one showing "The Leigemen". Under the Griffins, there are lads from the kitchens and stables and house. Under Leigemen, grounds crews, hunting/gaming and some of the lads from security. "I like this idea of the lords'. It's a way to pass the winter..." He laughs, "....though I may pass it with a broken leg or bloodied nose..."
     Ah yes, the Strathfayr Griffins and the Leigemen. This was Lord Fraser's idea. Divide the house into two rugby teams and have games in the moist weather. Being part of the gaming staff as falconer, and known to be one of Lord Fraser's hunting companions, he's listed under the Leigemen list.

     Did someone mention blankets? Already, from one of the large cedar closets, comes a series of fresh blankets. One of the younger staff passes by with a pile across his arms, heading down the corridor.
     Chuckling heartily, Lioslaith nods and says, "Aye...I looked ov'r th' list an' like it also. 'Twill keep us all from goin' stir-crazy!" Looking up at the corridor, he says, "Ah, there are those blankets! Much better lads!"
     "The weather's cleared up... I was givin the birds a bit of air. It's a good night for a hunt. Anything planned?" Ever hopeful, Tavish sets his work aside and stands. A hand rakes short red hair away from his eyes. It's grown longer over the winter. Kind of disheveled, but in a good way. "Lord Fraser didn't stay long... didn't go far. Just worked the dapple a bit. But I was hopin..." A smile smoothens across his face, "...that it was a hint...aye?"

     It's familiar to everyone around the keep, when the lords pass. Almost as if the world shifts faintly.
     The shudder is momentary, vanishing slightly when the younger of the two arrives in the shadow of the tack room door. He's dressed casually, as he often is here, in wool pants, some turtleneck, and a heavy grey sweater. But this evening, he comes with a heavy cloak tossed over his shoulders and gloves in his hands.
     Grey eyes look upward, to the creaking floors and smirk. But no call is made to the Other who is also wandering. Instead, Ian's gaze looks left and right, seeing quickly who is in the stable. They widen suddenly and a smile grows. Prey found.
     "Tavish..." Ian chimes, walking in, bustling in furs, "...ah...Laith..." the smile warms. Two for the price of one. "Not so far from whom I was looking for," the young lord chimes.

     There's a shrug in the large blonde man's broad shoulders. Perhaps he would speak, but then he hears one of the Lords' voices, and looks over in his direction. Bowing and smiling, he says, "Lord Dunroth....good to see you, sir..."

     The world does shift. In such subtle ways, it passes beneath conscious realization. Even as it is first felt, Tavish is half turning. Motion ending in the opening of the door. Tavish bows his head, a smile appearing. But... it comes in a shy way. Eager to show himself good before the lord who is so well providing for him -- home and education and all. "Evenin', sir..." then copper brows lift. "Is there something I can do for you, sir?"
     That smile. He doesn't remember why it makes him happy to see it. Maybe it's just like it is for everyone here. When the lords smile, Scotland herself smiles. His expression is open. The lord has but to ask...

     Pulling at his gloves, the smile remains upon Ian's face as well. In fact...that's all he shows these days -- cheer for being here with those who know him best. "Actually," a leathered finger comes up, "...yes." He walks over to join you both, "Interested in taking a ride with me?" grey eyes shifting between you both. Of course you are. Who in this house turns down time upon a horse on the surrounding lands. But still, he pauses left, then right, grinning almost cheshire-like.

     "Need ye ask, sir? I've be'n itchin' to get out an' about..." Laith replies, a huge grin upon his well-built, Norse visage. Dark eyes sparkle at the chance to get out on a horse again. He straightens up a bit now, pulling up to his full height...he is a tall one.

     Ask the heavens, Tavish, and they open wide! The grin does not bother to contain itself or hold itself in polite check. It is immediately exuberant. "Oh aye, Lord Dunross... I was just saying..." A look over his shoulder to Lioslaith and the grin remains, and warm. "... that it was a fine night for it. No snow and little wind..." Green eyes return to the lord -- as they always seem to, drawn there. "Want me to fetch a hound or two or...?" His hands gesture, speaking for him. Anything else?

     "Well," Ian winces, looking up again, "Actually, I...want to keep this between us, hmm?" Ah, a good conspiracy. "Just us, the horses..." and he looks at Tavish, "...you're the guide." To Lioslaith, "And you're the getaway man. We should...leave quickly," he smiles, enjoying a good ruse, "...before..." and finger points upward. Before someone notices. "Think we can do this? We'll need to be out...a couple of hours?"

     Oh, it's a trip like that.... more hush, hush... Laith nods and says more quietly, "But of course, sir... by yer leave, I'll get a couple o' horses readied fer us...?" He waits before moving, in case there are more instructions from Lord Dunross.

     Bobbing his head, Ian gives leave, already backing out. If you can feel his approach, certainly The Other can as well. "I'll...meet you stable-side," Ian says, "...and just prepare...in case we're stuck out for a while." In the snow. Something for warmth and care of the animals.

     Green eyes. Green the color of the grass of the meadow in the heart of the forest. Or the marble that is said to be prized of Ireland, where the tribe Scots originated. These are bright with the prospects and... the secret? Brows lift again, both in concert, and he glances to Lioslaith briefly. "Oh... aye, sir. Of course." He brushes his hands against his trousers, wiping the rest of the leather soap from them and he reaches for his gloves. Beside them, hat and wool scarf. He'll need his coat as well. "Aye sir," he whispers. Already practicing stealth.

     Quick but without making too much racket, Tavish reaches for his heavy lamb's wool lined coat and heads to the stables proper. He'll not ask about which mounts will be best. He'll just grab the closest three...

     Mm. Ian turns about, to Tavish, "Nevermind the hounds," he remembers. "He'll notice." With that, he heads out and east, down towards the far side of the stables towards the Fair.

     Indeed, he is out there, staring off towards the east...to Dunsinane Wood. As you both approach with mounts, Ian turns about, ready to go. Good choices all.
     Leading the horses, Laith approaches quietly. The only noise would be from the horses themselves. Saddlebags have been packed thoroughly and extra blankets were rolled, just in case.

     Mist lingers on the air. Frozen fog from the nostrils of three of the lords' fine mounts. The eager dapple grey Andalusian known as Curtmantle. The black andalusian who moves steady and slow and with the presence of a king, Safir. And a warmblood, blood bay, intelligent eyes and quiet demeanor, Niamh. All are tacked -- it took a few moments, but it was done well if quickly -- and led out. The black is given to Ian by Laith. "They know the woods best," Tavish says, mist lingering after he speaks. This, well Laith himself knows. Tavish holds the dapple, leaving the warmblood for Laith.
     Will Fraser wonder where two of his mounts have gone? Oh surely not, the house exercises them all the time... it is... all part of the service... aye? Tavish pulls himself up and takes a few moments to settle. They are all horribly well trained...

     Not wasting much more time, Laith moves over to Niamh, the blood bay. In one swift movement, the large Scot swings himself up into the saddle, pulling his furs close to him. Nodding toward Ian, he says, "Aye, I rem'mber it." Looking to Tavish, he asks, "D'ye rem'mber where tha' was, Tav?"

     Ah, so you know too. Ian nods at Lioslaith, then looks to Tavish expectantly.

     The building. Building? And then the realization hits the green. Tavish nods and gets Curtmantle moving. "Oh aye, sir... I know how to find it... and these beasts. They were there for the journey of it." Against the dark, Safir and Niamh can but barely be seen -- without the gold hair and fair skin of the riders, they'd be nigh invisible. But Curtmantle is a shock of grey and white against the night. And the andalusian tosses beneath Tavish. The stallion bred for battle feels the approach of action. Turning about in his saddle, Tavish nods to Lioslaith. "Aye, Laith... the path might be a bit covered with the snow fall, but I think I can find it easily enough..."
A look to you both and heels press against the stallion's flank. He's not so fine a rider as all that, but he'll hold on. Good thing the horses are trained for smooth rides. From the Aonach Fair Yard, he heads along the edge of the moors and gardens, keeping to the high land as much as he may...
     For who knows how deep the snow is on the moors proper...

     The forest is white with snow and frost. The trees bow, heavy with their winter's coats. The pathways are mostly hidden, but thankfully for the deer who live here through out the year, there are ways picked through. Some tracks are quite fresh...
The outer woods are mostly birch, with wide and forgiving spaces. White and marked only where their bark peels black and deer have fed of it, the birch trees creak with every passing wind. Ah, famous wood. It speaks tonight...
     Tavish slows the dappled grey andalusian to a jostling walk, somewhere between walk and jog. It is a special gait that the horse knows, but Tavish knows not how to control. Breath leaves in six clouds. And the mist lingers in the air like otherworldly fog...

     "So," Ian calls, cloak spilled around him like a mane, "...tell me how you all happened upon this place again?" Eyes look to Lioslaith firstly, being the elder here, but then they wander to Tavish as well. "What was it...what did it look like?"

     Keeping his horse near to the andalusian, Lioslaith motions to Tavish and says, "Ye can tell 'im...ye've a better mem'ry of it, likely, than I. I dinnae go too close to it, myself... I stayed with th' horses that time." He has good control of Niamh, his horse, having many years experience and a good hand with the beasts.

     The farther into the woods you travel, the larger and older the trees. The denser the growth. The more distant the lights of Strathfayr. Soon, even the sky and its winter stars are mostly hidden by the bare branches of the yet impressive canopy. The pace slows again. For conversation? In part, but also as the way becomes more narrow. As the snow deepens in spots. As it becomes necessary in order to keep up with you both -- as lighting dims.

     "We were hunting a boar, I remember. And Fraser pushed us deeper into the grove than I had been in a while, sir." Eyes glance to Lioslaith, "And we had the dogs out ahead... and there's a clearing...up ahead a ways... and we trapped the boar there. Well... unfortunately he made it past the circle and disappeared into some fallen brush and such... Lord Fraser charged after it... but Curtmantle here, he reared up on a sudden...seems the fallen brush and trees had hidden it..."

     Eyes look to you both, then to the earth. "Careful... there's a rise and a fall here..." And he ventures first down the path. The grey horse, the beacon to you both...

     The foliage thickens, and beneath it in glimpses may a path be seen. Leading into the deeper thicket of Dunsinane Wood.

     Where Ian's face had been filled with mirth, curiosity now reigns supreme. He glances at you both ever so often, leaving Safir to lead though his own devices. A good strategy as the warhorse is quite preternaturally smart.
     "What...sort of place was it?" Ian looks to Lioslaith first. Habit. "Have you," to the groundsman, "...been out to check on it at all, perchance?"

     There is much of the Other in that black stallion. Ian of course realizes the Inside Joke few others could fathom...

     "I've no idea, Lord Dunross..." comes Tavish's reply with a turn of his head, with a frozen cloud left behind. Were the lighting better you could both see that his face has gone quite flushed with a mixture of warmth and chill. Chill at the air against his face, warmed by the layers of clothing and jacket to be sure. Or perhaps it is a blush... for speaking out of turn. Tavish is still for a bit...

     Shaking his head, Lioslaith replies deeply, "I dinnae, sir. 'Twas a buildin'... Wi' th' snow and brush, 'twas hard t'see what it might have be'n." The large man shrugs slightly, letting his own animal follow the path behind Tavish.
     Lioslaith pipes up again, saying, "Sir, th'other Lord bade us not t'continya searchin' it. 'Twas hard t'tell if it might even still stand wi'out th' trees holdin' it up. I'm not sure, but I think he came out here t'try t'uncover it on 'is own, but hasn't been out in at leas' a month or so."

     He nods again, Ian does, his brow a little more disquieted. But he manages a smile, at least for the two of you. "Ah, but yer game lads," he smiles, continuing onward. It is a smile when he faces you, but when Ian returns to scouting ahead, once more the placid features set in.
"Maybe...we should have brought the hounds," he rethinks, attempting to inject levity.

     Laith looks to Tavish and shrugs slightly. It was suggested, but nothing can be done for it now. And so, he just rides with the two of them, watching out for the building.

     "It must be pretty old, sir... I've never heard tell of a building in the middle of Dunsinane... " Of course, Tavish is one of the younger men of the household in truth. Tavish's voice falls hush as each progressive step brings him, and you both, deeper into Dunsinane. The oak trees know. They've known the kings that have come before. And the lords and lords' daughters and sons. Thick trunked and with knotted arms they deeply groan with wind that is never felt. No, it is trapped high above...
     Green eyes lift and scan then shift to you both. Comfort sought? He slows his stallion yet again -- this one, always desiring the charge, undaunted -- and looks to the way ahead. Narrowing paths... lost and buried in the snow. Tangles of oaks, iced over and frosted. But from one way there comes the sound of water. you head in this general direction. To the words on the hounds, Tavish twists in the saddle. He smiles beneath the woolen scarf. "I think the black there's as good a hound as we have..."

     There comes no response from the young blonde lord, shoulders rising to bring his cloak further towards his ears. He has gone quiet, even more silent than the trees around you.
     He has never shown worry when in this wood with you both. But now, something settles heavier than the quiet. It is Distress, wound up in occasional waves of something worse. Dread. Yet Ian perseveres, clucking his tongue and encouraging Safir onward, ever onward.

     Lioslaith watches the young lord with concern and worry, keeping such thoughts to himself, however. He is here and never far if there is trouble. Though, what trouble could happen here, in the woods? He, too, urges his own mount forward, following the group, watching out ahead of them.

     The forest opens outward, and where land dips, descending sharply -- and just now, with the slickness of snow -- a meadow, cut by a yet babbling stream, greets you. The brook is a dark but glittering line through the otherwise white. And across it, one may indeed see a manmade curve. Of stone. Of structure. But it has not been completely cleared.
     Some work was stopped...
     Two trees had fallen and yet had borne one another up just off of its roof. The plants and cover that used to hide it have been stripped away. They lie in a heep beside it. Stone structure still half hidden, only half cleared by hands...
     The grey stallion lowers his head and inhales and exhales in puffs. As if feeling the dread of One. He holds at the brookside. And Tavish turns. "There it is, Lord," he says, hand out to gesture. "Lord Fraser said it might not be stable...we shouldn't go in or near it... but ... there was a time when he was quite earnest in tending to it. He stopped coming out here before I left for the city..." Just before in fact.

     Safir comes to a halt.
     For a long moment, Ian's back is given to you both, his figure enclosed within a mountain fur. But, ah, how he can be felt.
     Leather covered hand reaches up, pushing at the half-worn hood, revealing blonde-white hair. Over the halo of gold do his fingers hover, slowly cascading downward, around his ear and to where the muffle of ermine and fox gathers at his shoulder. Hand disappears back to the saddlehorn, leaving a forlorn youth to stare ahead.
     A loving hand, a tender thought should all belie a giving heart...
     "What...do you think it is, Laith?" comes Safir's rider's voice, softly borne.

     Lioslaith's head tilts to one side as he watches Ian. Hearing the question a bit belatedly, he shakes his head in mild confusion. "I... I dinnae know, sir... an ol' buildin', certainly...but, as to its purpose, I dinnae know. D'ye know, sir?" He chances that last question, hoping that Ian really does have the answer and was merely testing him.

     He does not remember what he heard that one night. Or what he felt. Or what the other felt for him. That... has all been graciously lifted. But when the young lord looks so, Tavish lowers his gaze at first, then looks to him. Averted glances, like a servant of old. Can I do anything for you, sir?
     The grey andalusian puts his muzzle to the snow and licks at it. Seeking grass or moss beneath...

     Somewhere, indigo eyes are narrowing...and whatever he was doing...is stopped...

     No one has any ideas. I would prefer not to have any ideas.
     Mixed with the bubbling brook lilts the whispering song of a young man:
          "A loving hand, a tender thought
          should all...belie...a giving heart..."
     Ian's voice trails off quietly, the brook becoming predominant again.
     Sorrow swells in the space, Ian's gaze turning to the water, elegant profile for you both to see. His face is red though, splotched cheeks dark from a rush of crimson under the skin. Lips part, pale, and white clouds pour from his mouth, swirling like the last deep sigh of a saddened dragon.
     How did I get here?
     Shoulders slump and the gaze returns ahead, the warm breaths still swirling above his head. "I am not sure, Laith," he answers, any expression gone, a faint sniffing inhale drawn, "...I don't know." I just don't know.

     Lioslaith watches the saddess wash over the young lord, and sits upon his horse, stunned. He feels so badly for him, but isn't sure what the problem is... But, he does not stare. Instead, he turns his gaze to his horse, patting her head momentarily. His gaze flickers from the horse, over to Tavish...perhaps he knows what's going on.

     Green eyes move slowly to Laith, then quickly to the lord. And a shiver runs through him, and a readjustment of his jacket follows. "It is starting to get bitter," Tavish offers. Casual noting of what is simply apparent. But beneath this is a voice warmed by concern. "We should get back, aye? Before it snows again..."

     Laith. I do not know. I don't have any ideas on't. I don't want to have any ideas on what on't makes the master so sad.
     So visibly sad...
     Tavish tugs on the reins and Curtmantle's head lifts with a snort and a cloud of mist. He, a different sort of dragon. More obstinate than sad. "Shall we go and share a warm drink and wonder on it there?" In the keep. Near a fire.

     Christ, Dunross.
     The blonde snorts, his shoulders stiffening to their upright and locked position. "Aye, a drink'd be good," he whispers barely. Lips loathe to part. He loathe to move. If I do, will there be more to remember?
     And so he remains still, though Safir tripples faintly, beginning to back up...

     There is a burst of something... subtle... somewhere. Searching. A tug to the keep. To the one who is walking down a set of stairs, dressed now in black leather and a black turtleneck. Wondering. Where are you, love... and what is this sadness...? Ian...

     "Aye, sir... a good warmed drink will b'good fer us all. Let's get back," the large blonde adds, watching Ian for a brief moment to make sure he'll actually come back. "Mayhap we can get some o'those pies, too..." Laith suggests, seeking for things of comfort, it seems.

     Spreading, the frozen mist of a sigh lingers upon the air, heavy, moments after Tavish turns. The mention of pies gets him to grin and he looks over his shoulder. "Aye, sir... I bet Dionnach has a plate steaming warm and waiting. A good mulled wine, ah or the mead the Welshman brought..." Davydd Llewelyn...
     Tavish moves to lead the way back... twisting in his saddle to look to the lord... coming, sir...?

     Yes, I'm coming, the distracted look seems to say. Another moment.
     Ian continues to look at the ruined building and the coverlet half-removed for a moment longer. Then, as if the reverie never existed, he lets Safir finish his turn, bringing mount around to face you both. Yet Ian's face lifts little. Just enough to see the path. His grey eyes remain half-downcast, the hood thick around his shoulders and neck.
     A cluck of his tongue again and a bob of his chin says 'let's go.'

     This isn't good. Why did they agree to come out here in the first place? Right...they all wanted a chance to get out on the horses. Laith shakes his head minutely, concern spreading across his face, but he does not continue to stare at the young lord, for fear of making him uncomfortable. So, with a click of the tongue, Lioslaith gets Niamh to turn around and head back for the path once more, not saying anything.

     For his part, the dappled grey stallion lunges forward and upward. A jump that nearly jostles Tavish clean off of him. Clearing roots and ascending the rise of earth back to the path in one bound, the andalusian begins to blend into the winter white landscape...
     Clinging to him, Tavish. Wishing all the way that he were a better rider...

     He lets Safir follow. Not because he controls the horse, but that he trusts he knows wher he goes. And with the two of you in lead, the horse is sure to make the right decisions....
     The dark horse is wise and he knows the way home. Pitch dark of Dunsinane darkness or in the bright light of day. It matters little. The way is known...

     And in a line the riders form, a slow procession down narrow paths among the ancient oak. Here, again, Tavish falls silent in some subconscious reverence for the old wood. The andalusian stallion beneath him begins an extended trot, smelling the warmth of home. And he seems to float. Otherworldly upon a world of white.

     Laith remains silent, also, just as Tavish. His thoughts fall onto the building what it could possibly be...and what could possibly cause such sorrow for Lord Dunross. He sighs quietly, knowing it is not his business. So, he lets the warmblood follow the path as he gets lost in his own thoughts for now.

     I saw as much awe in the hands of Lord Fraser, as he pulled the branches and the brush away from the stone. I saw myself how his hand halted. Like he knew this place. He knew what it was. And he stopped us. And it was he who came out here... nightly they said. Nightly. To tend to it himself...
     Why...
     Tavish glances back as the way begins to broaden, and as birch trees emerge among the oak...

     "If...Lord Fraser asks you," comes the young blonde's voice suddenly, "...tell him you accompanied me upon my request, yes?" Whatever transpires, is not your bother or problem. Just so you both know. Ian sniffs again, the pallor of earlier lifting as you depart the wood's edge. He has put himself together again, your faithful lord has, and with paling cheeks, he taps Safir a bit faster, eager to see the keep once more.

     Nodding toward Ian, Laith replies quietly, "Aye, as ye wish it, sir..."

     There follows a swallow and a nod from Tavish, and a glance from the younger to the older. "Ah.... aye, sir," he murmurs, "Of course..." There is a pause as the stallion beneath him begins a gaited canter. Eager for the warmth of the stalls. Spoiled this one is becoming. "Shall I have Maire send mead to your sitting room and chambers?" Always tending, young Tavish. There is open admiration for his young master.

     Ahead, the lights of the Keep are visible. And the gardens and the moors. And the voices of those from the kitchens. And closing doors and gates. The first settling in for the night has begun...

     "Aye," Ian sighs in the syllable, "...that'd be good, Tavish, thank ye lad..." and nodding, he adds, "...thank y' both." For your camaraderie, presence, quiet, strength, and discretion.

     "Think not'ing of it, sir," Laith replies in a low murmur, offering Lord Dunross a friendly smile. What else is there to say? Not much from this one. He looks forward now to the warmth of a mug of something and one of those pies. He clicks his tongue at his mount, urging her to keep up.

     There is none in this household who is not loyal to the lords...
     And of these, steadfast is Tavish. There is no nod nor word of thanks to that. It is what he gives. It is how he works here. It is a part of who he is and who he wishes to become. Heels touch the flanks of the glorious beast beneath him, and though he rides him awkwardly, it makes a lovely sight. Arched neck and fanning tail...

     Once the grounds are reached, Ian is quick to dismount. You can tend to the animals. In a blaze of swiftly moving fur, Ian's feet touch ground, even before Safir comes to a final halt. The reins are tossed onto the saddle, and Ian reaches out to give the horse a hefty pat on the back. "You two should get something to warm yourselves and a bit of whatever pie is left," he smiles faintly, returning to his usual self. "I've kept y'both up too late, tell her."

     The castle is stirring. Living. Fires yet let and so the stone seems to glimmer. All around, in a sweep of black and white, the snow covered moors. Dismounting, Tavish reaches to take the reins of Safir. The lord is a blur. But he only nods. "Aye, Lord Dunross... an' I'll have Maire bring up the mead for you and the other lord..." For surely you're off to see Lord Fraser. Green eyes, soft green as that meadow deep in Dunsinane shall be this spring, lift to Lioslaith. Wondering. "I'll lead the mounts back," he offers quietly. All three? He is eager to prove himself, isn't he...

     Nodding with a smile, happy to see even a trace or hint of a smile on the young lord, Laith says, "Aye, don' ye be worryin' about us. We'll be into Dionnach's famous pies in no time.." Soon Niamh halts and he swings off of her, keeping hold of her reigns. "Tavish, I'll lead this one back, don' ye worry about her," he adds to the eager one.

     "Aye, Laith..." A reassured smile, and the young falconer heads off to round the side of the gardens and head to the stables. Clucking to the horses as he moves, speaking softly to them. "Not long now, lads... and a blanket for you both..."

     With a thin smile, Ian nods, something warm and grateful in how his eyes wince in the motion. Knowingly. Beginning to pull at his gloves, he turns about, the coat swinging and leaving a wake.

     "Goodnight, lads," he says softly, bare hand waving as Ian turns, and slowly makes steps towards the keep proper.

     Tavish is followed with Laith leading Niamh, leaving the young lord to enter the keep on his own.

     And Waiting...
     Downsweep of lashes. The nearby fire of the western fireplace shadows even this slight motion. And I want to go to you. And I want to make it better. Where are you? Shadow moves against the stone of the hearth, trailing after the passing of the dark-clothed knight. His eyes are brilliant, indigo more vivid than the eyes of peacock feathers. The downsweep of his lashes bends his gaze to the violet liquid held cupped in a crystalline glass. Where are you...
     The plum brandy holds distorted glimpses of his own face. Something darker, there... a reflection of his own eye. It's like staring at the face of Bacchus. And Motion and Purpose suddenly fill him. And he tightens like the sky, one second before a lightning strike. His hand lifts, his eyes close, his mouth parts. And he drinks. The brandy swallowed, not sipped. There is a quarter of it left behind. Moving in a miniature tide and ebb, held in its circular universe.
     The gardens...
     And the crack of lightning comes again, and William crosses the chamber in his slow and languid stride. Wherever you are. I am coming...

     The antechamber's door opens, revealing a wash of fur and golden hair. You were coming. And I am here. Felt simultaneously. Ian smiles at you, pulling the trail of fox and ermine behind him and twisting to close the door.
     "Sorry...I lingered too long." Outside. Gloves are tossed aside, and he bends to slowly remove his boots. Think before you speak. He shall not leave a muss of snow on the rugs, and so his hands pull at the lacings as his blonde head is given to your view.
     "How are you?" he asks, panting faintly as he tips his head up.

     "I was to ask you the same question," comes a whisper of Provencal. His language. Meaning he is speaking from the essence that is Guillaume, Eleanor's son. As he is wont to do when speaking his heart to you. Or secrets between you. Or passion between you. He makes love to you in Occitan, your William.
     To see you smile, this brings relief. And you can see the placid features are yet thought-tinged. His looks still crammed with meaning, and the search for meaning. His eyes look to you. Knowing. For, what can be hidden between us? Vivid, those eyes. Brilliant, though dark. All the more so for his clothing of black. The cashmere turtleneck. The lambskin leather. Ah, how it holds him. And indicates him. Revealing, even as it conceals. "Where did you wander, amours?" comes the Provencal again, upon that smooth baritone voice. The depth of velvet, the gloss of silk. A dark brow lifts. And suddenly -- another crack of lightning -- he smiles. "I sound like the jealous husband... I will stop. You are... alright then?" That only, in a hush. Yes. I was concerned. I still am.
     "There will be warm mead waiting us inside..." William continues, with a prophetic cadence. You know... it has already been arranged. "I am well, amours..." he mentions it casually, off-handedly. As if it is to be neverminded, even as it was forgotten for moments after you asked him.

     "Good," Ian begins, rising and pushing overboot off with foot. He smiles again, shifting his weight to perform the task again. "And you don't sound jealous..." he smirks, "...but...you...well, it's not like we are able to hide much, hmm?" A shrug and warm grin pulls as he steps away from the soggy covers and into the room proper.
     "I...was out exploring," he murmurs, stopping by a sofa. Fingers release its clasp, and the furs fall away easily. "With Tavish...and Lioslaith." You can imagine where, and if not, a thin smile suggests it. "I should have...asked him earlier about the subject, but with everything else and then him heading off to school -- " Ian just sighs for it all, tossing the homemade coat aside. Hand waves and he runs it through his hair nervously, "I found...the building." The one you spent time on. Grey eyes look at your own, but there is little there. For lack of definite emotion, there appears to be none.

     He is silent for a time and he moves behind you. You see he was drinking his plum brandy -- his favorite treat... apart from your blood, that is -- of the holiday season. Every winter, he drinks it -- the plum brandy made the previous season. He can taste Chinon in it. There is much of him... in that drink. But he does not go to it now. For your look, for the lack of definite emotion, there is just simple... Knowing. Acceptance.
     And between you, nearly a thousand years. And among you, the ghosts of former lives. And rising on the air nearby, the smell of mulled mead. The promise of warmth. William looks to the floor a moment, and then... he tightens like the sky again -- ah, another bolt courses through him... and he moves forward to where the mead rests. In the seating area near the western fire. "I didn't realize anyone had said anything..." And by the timbre of his voice, you know he did not wish them to. It was supposed to be... me. The one to tell you. The one to take you there.
     The gold of the fire paints him bronze, his complexion drinking in the light. He seems... truly seems ... regal in such lighting. He ladles a cup full of the mead for you and for him. Spices and honey rise upon the air. "I thought it was a shrine," he whispers. And black hair shines as he shakes his head slightly. Indigo flickers as he half-turns toward you. Right hand holding forth to you the offer of the warm drink. Empathy... sympathy... understanding in his eyes. "Non, amours... we... are not able to hide ...much. Next to nothing." He exhales, features softening. "There is no point, love... in trying."
     William lowers his eyes, jaw setting. You know the look. "I only wish ... I had been the one to tell you... or... there... but... maybe it is for the best that way." It is yours. His. Both of Yours, you and Iain.

     He waves it off, Ian does, sighing as he moves to stretch. And almost suddenly, any tension dissipates. "Don't worry about it," he murmurs, "...and it was not their fault...they went because I asked." Apparently it is not so important.
     A kiss is placed at your lips, a soft peck, and licking his own, Ian smiles, "Plum. Nice," he whispers, looking around you to see whether there is more upon a table. Perhaps another goblet for him. "But mead will be good too," he says cheerily enough, finding the target and moving around you to zoom in on it. His hand pats your broad upper arm as he does, and his feet slow once Ian's expression is away from your own.
     "Besides," he says softly, "...it's nothing important, huh, Will? Not a shrine, nothing..." he smiles, twisting a little to see you, "...so impressive or theologic. Just...an old building," his brows softening and head shaking in easy dismissal. Don't worry on it. I know what it is and
nothing more. A wink and he turns to spot a glass.
     The bond seems to confirm such, in truth. But what was there before, was no less real. Wishing...that things had gone differently. A bit of time to say I love yous and goodbyes. A bit of understanding about what transpired. To think of that brings a bit of melancholy, but nothing that cannot be washed away in a few drinks and being in your arms.

     Then I removed more branches, and I knew it was Iain's. A shelter in the woods for hunting. And I could almost smell the last fire. I could imagine my young love there. With his first love. With the one he would have stayed with had the earth tilted that way. "I can repair it," he murmurs that. Speaks it on a hush. Your stoneworker husband. "If you want, Ian..." A pause. "There's an old stone circle out there... I ... call that a shrine, though... not to any gods I ever worshipped." He turns then, a cup of mead for himself. You kissed him. His mouth was warm, pliant to it, tasting of
plum. Of brandy both. "The trees fell on it... in such a way that it was preserved well enough." Simple fact. Spoken like a stone mason.
     William intakes a breath, and with it a swallow of the warm mead. Sweet and heady, thick and rich, spiced with a dash of cinnamon and clove. Even vampires will feel this potent draught after a few cups. This, courtesy of Davydd. He rounds the corner of the couch and settles on the sofa, and then his eyes settle on you. Knowing. Understanding.
     "You... are not upset with me for not telling you..." William says it, even as he knows upon the blood... or what he feels of you there on the bond... there seems to be no anger. But he says it anyway. Indigo eyes flicker -- from the reflection of the nearby fire, from some innate light -- as he looks to the golden mead after.

     He listened quietly, shaking his head only after you ask a question. "Of course not, laird," Ian exhales, brow thickening. "Not at all," he reassures, arriving to take a seat next and against you. "I am not upset," the sofa heaving with the joined weight, "...or anything like that. I mean," he smirks, lifting his glass, "...we have no idea what that building is, really." Said for whose benefit. "Look," he smiles, "...I appreciate the kindness, love," he leans over, chin at your shoulder. "I love you for it. But...it's just...no big deal," his warm breath comes, glass held lovingly by twined fingers. "Thank you though, for the offer. If...we decide we need a...hunting building...out there, maybe then you can apply your considerable talents to it," he teases, nudging your side some.
     Eyes close as he rests facing you, your shoulder still a pillow for his chin. Let it go. If we both do, then it does not exist. It was...a thousand years ago. "I love you," he whispers softly.

     Unfolding darkness. Cashmere is soft to your chin, and as he shifts -- that arm to enfold you -- your chin rests against his chest and fingers play with your blonde hair. So golden in comparison to him, you are. "I know," words are murmured against your forehead and he closes his eyes for the brush of his mouth there that follows. A kiss.
     He knows. That you love him. That you loved Iain. And that there is room in the heart for both the old and the new. Or, newer in his case. His left hand holds his mead, balanced against a leathered thigh. Such soft and pliable lambskin. "I will build you... anything you want," William murmurs, leaning back a little...just a little, so that he might see you. You yet rest against the cashmere overlying the knightly chest. "But a house of cards... I... never had the knack for that." He smiles. It is genuine. But no... no... if we close our eyes, it will not go away...
     It doesn't work like that, love...
     "I was thinking," ah, here we go, again with this, "... we should take our warm mead upstairs... to our warmer bedroom... our furs... "
     There seems to be nothing relating to Tavish. No worry there any longer. He likes the young man. He knows... where he stands in your heart. He is in the middle of it. William bends his head, leaning in, another brush of his mouth left behind. This time against your cheek. "I love you..." You did not need for him to say it... you can feel it. Upon the air, around you, in the hold, against you, and riding the current of shared blood.

     He shifted to accommodate the new arrangement. Ian tastes his drink, then agrees with your assessment, "Upstairs is a good idea," already shifting topics, "...we can talk...well..." he laughs, "...well, maybe we shouldn't talk at all." There. That makes things much easier.
     His hand brushes your cashmere, he already stirring to sit up and rise. "I could...use...dinner," he notes, now that he thinks about it. Ian nudges you again and then rises, extending his hand to help you up.

     Dark brows lift and warmth eases across his features -- the true sign of a...lightening of mood. His concern? Ah well, you know him. He will always be concerned. But he sets it aside when there seems to be no cause for it. Sensuous, the smile that pulls slowly after. "Hmmm... dinner. Anyone you wish in particular?" You do not eat food, you cannot mean that you are eager to nibble on shortbread -- though, in truth, there is little that makes me smile more than to watch you nibble on shortbread.
     Such casual sensuality. In every look, in the motion. As naturally existing in him as regality. Both worn as sleeves of the same Plantagenet coat. He rises with a low sound in his throat, as if that truly took energy, and then straightens. The lambskin barely sounds. You feel the hum of someone called. "I will have this," a nod to all, "taken to the room, hmm... and if you wish to talk, we can." The smile comes easily now, both to gaze and to mouth. And he draws you in to him. "Though not talking... this... would appeal to me..." he whispers. A graze of his mouth at your ear. And he lingers there... even as one of the Valets appears from down the hall...
     He has no shame, Your William. Mouth parting and capturing the lobe of your ear, then wandering to that place just beneath and behind it...

     Was that a palpable growl? If so, it is gone in an instant, the valet seen in the preternatural periphery. He does not move, but Ian does come to attention, patting the small of your back.
     "Thank you," Ian offers to the servant. Someone has to be polite. But he laughs, drawing away from you to give the servant the drink, then begins towards the stairs, shaking his head. "You are moving too slowly," he calls, departing the great hall for the night.

     "We would like the mead upstairs," William begins, his stride begun.
     The uncoiling of power that is his gait. Prowess, strength. The Plantagenet stride with a conqueror's bearing. And a king's. He is in his element, becoming...more so all the time, in truth. He tips up his cup and his mead is drained.

     "Yes, Lord Fraser," says the young valet -- ah, the valets. Young and lovely men of the north, all. And this one, for his dark quality is given a second glance. "It shall be done, sir..." he says beneath the weight of the brief attention. What mortal could not feel William's every glance? It moves them. No matter how brief the look.

     You notice he does not quicken his pace, but comes in his languid way. Fully expecting you to be in the bed by the time he gets there. Perhaps... that is how he likes it. "You never said," echoes his voice, spiraling up the turret, "... who you wanted for dinner..."

     Ahead, Ian coils to see you, grinning. "I am in a mood for prime rib," he explains. This means you. "Unless you...had some other idea? I was in a mood for something Provencal flavored, laird.."
     Ian continues upstairs to the second landing. A door is opened and closes a moment after.

     How long as it been since He has passed your lips? Vow of sanguine chastity lifted, mortal blood has served you both. Your Norman has become quite the fixture around Beauly. Once every couple of weeks or so since then he goes. Those nights, filled with thoughts of you as the blood of Others passes over that mouth...
     To think of such now narrows the space between you. Closing distance. Charging the air. "Prime rib, an excellent choice... mais oui. And... convenient, yes," comes the lilt and drag of Provencal behind you, "... that you have it on hand..." Laughter, deep and throaty, spirals up the stairs after you and into the hallway as you pass. Lingering still on the air, even as he... aha... appears before you to open the door. "Non... allow me," says the knight. I must be allowed my moments of gallantry...

     "You are so kind," Ian chuckles, hand at your side as he passes within...

     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 nondescript. It is the double doorway that draws the eye, with its Gothic Leaves adorned in gold and goldleaf.

     "You never said," Ian notes, "...what did you do with yourself this evening? I thought you were in the stables at one point?"
     Shoes are quickly dispensed. On stocking feet, Ian pads towards the inner doors, loosening the watchband around his wrist.

     The door is closed softly. Barely. The valet shall be up any moment, shall he not? With your mead. Ah, though it will not be necessary, perhaps now. You have chosen your primary vintage. Once within, boots are pried off, stepped out of, left behind. Soft woolen socks left behind. They whisper against the carpet and stone. A pause, then the sound of his barefeet. He is leaving his trail behind him already...
     "I exercised Safir and Curtmantle," he murmurs. "I must have just missed you in the stables..." A realization. A smile. "I came back upstairs to shower, you were not in the room, then... I read a little and waited for you to return... from... whatever it was you were doing..." Said so conspiratorially. But with a flicker of a wink. He moves to inner doors. "It was a quiet evening for me..."

     The outer door to the sitting room opens, and the valet enters with another. One carrying the mulled and quite warm mead, the other glasses and baked apples upon a tray...

     Now that gets Ian's attention. He will never be able to eat any of it, but the smells...those do sometimes pull at him and make him wish he was more like you and others. He watches the valet enter, tipping on his toes to see where the tray is set.
     "No wonder they were in a mood," he notes, sighing as he moves towards the fireside sofa, hands catching the folds of his turtleneck and summarily lifting it over his head. Tossed aside in a fell swoop. Soon his back is to you and he stares at the fire, thinking while the valet finishes his setting.

     "Here, sir, or in the bedroom?" the dark-haired valet wonders, blue eyes looking to you both. The other waits his cue.

     And William turns to you. Where do you want me? Wondering as to your pleasure. He will tend you tonight, even as he feeds you. Can you feel the subtle orchestration for your pleasure? The subtle Angevin... and Ventrue... chivalry. The smile transforms to a grin and a brow lifts. "Ah, it must have been quite the little adventure through the forest then..." A short chuckle. He had worked them just enough to get their blood flowing. And poor Tavish could barely hang onto the young Curtmantle after. Safir? Ah, he is much like William. Once you know the touch, you may ride him with ease...

     Ian turns about, looking to the valet, then to you. He had been expecting you to give the orders, but Ian simply says, "To the bedroom, please, thank you..."
     Valet dismissed, Ian smirks, "I think Tavish will need to find a mount that is more his...speed," he grins, shaking his head before turning away from the fire to head towards you. "But...it was an outing." Nothing more.

     A finger to your lips. Not to shush you... not so much as to bring the focus back to the promise of blood. And him. Indigo eyes glance from you to the departing valets, but then... settle firmly upon you. Unwavering in attention. Palpable -- until the air crackles with what is between you. He studies how your mouth curves beneath the light press of his finger. He smiles. Warmly. Smoothly. Broadly.
     Ah... perhaps Tavish only needs to be taught how to ride...
     William chuckles, the sound captured in his throat and chest. He glances up from you as the valets leave the bedroom... and then the sitting room. The door closes. We are alone. His finger leaves your mouth, his hand lowers. And there is a rise of cinnamon as the cashmere is lifted up and over. The dark turtleneck drops to the floor. Now... all there is is the lambskin. Supple, dark. Fingers land against your hip, gently directing...
     The bedroom...

     His eyes brighten, and Ian turns obediently towards the other room. "I guess talking is right out then," he chimes, needing to inject that into the silence. Always needing the last word. He laughs and stumbles towards the inner doors, occasionally glancing at you, to see your mood.
     "You left that on the floor," he notes, pointing at the turtleneck, as if it desperately needs saving.

     "That is why we have servants," he murmurs. So... noblesse oblige...
     The door is closed quietly behind him, and locked from within. There will be no need of servants -- unless you wish to call them for some other, darker purpose. Otherwise, it shall be the last time you and he leave this chamber tonight...
     The mead and apples have been set upon William's side of the bed. You will taste the apples on his blood, will you not? You will know them, even though the fruit would not set well with you. You will drink twice the mead. You will taste honey and plum there. And beneath that, his last meal in Beauly. And beneath that...
     William smiles, his mood held in his dark yet electric eyes. Morning glories, and something about tangling like those vines... that is what his mood is. You will have your wish. To fall into his bed, in his arms, and in that -- both remember and forget. Remember where you are and who you love. Forget the pain of the past you cannot change. The smile sensuous spreads. "Prime... rib... was it?" he murmurs, syllables heavy with Provence. "... a taste of Provencal..." Dark brows lift as he moves past you, a brush against you, and moves to pour you and he both two more glasses of the mulled mead. Warm. Still warm. The blood will be warm and frothy with it.
     The bed sounds with his weight and leaning back he brings his glass of mead to his mouth. Even as his right hand moves to the hidden laces of the black lambskin.

     There's laughter from Ian's vantage point on his side of the bed. "I see," he murmurs, having been educated. Mention it, and you run away with it. "You should almost make me feel shame, Will," Ian teases, watching you. He has never been as you are, so comfortable and at ease with your body and the rest of the world. "Oui, I mentioned prime rib, I just never expected it would leap off the plate at me..." he explains, crawling across the bed towards you.
     Coming to a halt, Ian kneels, hand out to take his cup of mead. "It is normal for the meal to dress itself and care about presentation?"

     Laughter is cupped in glass, echoing there and amplifying slightly. A slight cough... yes, he nearly choked at that. Leap off the plate indeed. And you can see the very next moment... oh, and for three heartbeats after...crimson spreading. A quite royal flush. To combat it? He tips the glass and finishes the swallow he started. A clearing of his throat, a grin at the rim of the lowering glass, and his hand moves from the unfastened, yet still cupping, leathers. "I will let you ... pick at your plate as you may then..." he chuckles. Blush lingering, though fading somewhat. A shake of his head. Touche'...
     A leg draws up, arched foot to the surface of the bed, and settling back, more roseate now than crimson, William turns his head upon his pillow -- one of several at his back -- eyes on you. And then he remembers the apples. Sitting up slightly and leaning, deft fingers pluck up a still warm wedge. "If you want me to get dressed again, I will..." Syllables lift and lower with a lingering edge of laughter.

     The beast in its natural environment. Ian waves off, eyes downcast as he shakes his head, "I know better than to enter this tease with you. I will lose, most definitely." Taking a swallow of his drink, grey eyes stare over the lip of the cup. And apples. Ian smiles...maybe I shall have the chance to taste them afterall. So dependent am I upon you to experience the world. A moment of Age. He smiles wistfully and watches you eat, then reaches out to push at his pillow and take a lean upon the cushions.
     On an elbow, he manages to look down at you, watching you eat. "Tell me," Ian whispers, "...how you can...pummel my desires into submission? That is...suddenly, watching you, I feel so terribly..." Ian laughs, amused by it all, "...inadequate. I have...a glowing star in my bed and I don't know what to do with it, sometimes." A confession.

     Shock. Open and genuine. Lying against his features. It is an expression that is immediately intimate. One, between old lovers. Dark brows lift in an opening arch and indigo pools, colors shifting in the two ... blinks. "Inadequate? You? Ah, Ian... how can this be?" he asks softly and
seriously. Though, yes, there is still the lingering fade of the earlier blush. Complexion is nearly back to normal. Apple is finished and juice and cinnamon upon his fingers is offered to you. If you cannot have the apple, you can have the spice and juice, non? Turning in his offerance to you, he
lies half upon his side. "You have always known... what to do with me," he murmurs. "You have... made me what I am. You have taught me, guided me..." William pauses, smile slanting, "...pinned me between the sheets. You are... amazing. You have nothing to feel inadequate about..." A truth for your confession.
     A pause. "Do I pummel your desires into submission?" A quiet question. A sudden concern. "I... should be... rather... opening them up, unfolding them. It is a poor lover," dark brows draw together. "...who beats down the desires of his partner." Tell me... I do not do this. "I ...do have a way about me, though... mais oui..." A confession of his own.

     He laughs brightly, leaning to kiss your nose, then your lips. Fingers slip between his lips for a long moment before he finally chimes, "You...have a way, William," he says softly, in case saying it louder might upset you. "It is a way...that has churned the hearts and loins of men and women for centuries," Ian's head shakes, as if to say 'you silly thing.'
     "Maybe pummel is too harsh," Ian rethinks, leaving your fingers dangling at his lips. "Maybe it is my own insecurities...ah...in fact...I know it is," he admits, face softening. "Most times, yes, you...cause me to want to be more," Ian explains. "Then other times, I think I am...in control, and," his glass waves, "...you remind me that while I may be a teacher," he grins using your illustration, "...I am not you. You...are a Natural," he concedes, smiling for it. "And I watch you...stunned out of my mind. Afraid to touch." Again, he does not seem upset by it, but is glad to say it. Like Spain. Like other times, when heated desire suddenly became conversation.
     "Maybe one day, this ... embarrassment ...awe...will leave. But for now," he leans in, "...it still remains. I am...awed..."
     Ian's eyes are smoldering cinder, gilded in gold. "I was awed eight centuries ago, Guillaume," his words in your French, "...and I still am...today," his voice faltering, trailing off into pensive silence. "Your power, your beauty, your confidence...your need...these...are unmatched, amours," he whispers, "...and I...your teacher," he grins, "...do my best, in truth, to keep up..."
     And some nights, he simply cannot.

     You are not going to be satisfied until my complexion is forever stained like this. This red. No, this crimson royalle. The magic -- you told me once it was a blessing and a curse -- held in the blood, the blood remembering its old and mortal functions, warms the skin. Heating as it colors. It is as you say, natural. Even upon the face of the supernatural. "Do you not think," he murmurs in his Provence, "...that I find you to be the same for me..." Indigo lifts and complexion begins to soften again, to return to normal. For however long it shall last. An eyebrow lifts slightly. "So beautiful... I sometimes weep just to look at you. So strong... with such courage," oldest French meaning intended here and said with that inflection, "... to have done all you have done... you ... my inspiration for everything I have attempted in this life. All done for you, in one way or another. No, you are not me... " And William grins. "Thank God for that favor when you see Him..." a pause and a wink, "...or her... I forget you are not Christian...but thank him, her, it... nonetheless. As I shall thank him for sending an angel to me. I have for eight centuries... endeavored to deserve him," You. "Sometimes... I did not keep up too... yes?" William shakes his head. "No less than you."
     There is a moment of quiet as he lies upon his back again. He does not reach for an apple, but rather concentrates on you. Studies you. How he loves you. "The power... the beauty... the confidence and need you see in me," William whispers, "...these were all brought out in me by your hand and your love." A smile smoothens across his mouth, claiming it, that damnable grin. As deadly as it is devastating. "Although... you know... being a peacock by birth didn't hurt matters any... "

     The silence holds, until Ian says, "I did not mean for this to become a love-in," to borrow a phrase from your heydays. He chuckles, "I...just want you to know why...sometimes...my..." he blushes too, "...switch is suddenly sent into idle." Like now. Will you make me say it? Ian shakes his head and finishes his present drink, handing you the empty glass for a refill. "And being a peacock, does not help," he agrees, grinning. "That is the part...that is uniquely you."

     "I've never heard that so... politely put," comes the smooth intonation of his voice. Fingers take the glass easily. You can hear skin chime against the surface of it. Twisting, William leans over to pour another cup of the mead for you. He will refill his own after. Cupped and balanced against the palm of his hand, your refilled glass is offered back to you. Again, he settles back upon the bed. This time, foregoing the drink. He would rather watch you.
     "I will try to remember this, amours. So... when you go quiet, I will not worry." He watches you, the golden earl with your golden drink. He cannot help the smile. He cannot help his own awe. Or the tangible presence of his love and his desire. These things are natural. "Would it help... on those occasions when I am too much for... you to have someone else here to... balance it out a little?" The words 'too much' were accompanied by a gesticulation, the words chosen...you know what he is getting at...

     Chin upturns, cup held at his chest now. Ian bites his bottom lip, then lets his tongue run across the mark. But his face is flush. "Those are my favorite occasions," Ian smirks, feeling the conversation returning to the pressing issues. "But if you find that I am quieting...just give me a bit of a push." To turn things back to the desired course.
     Another taste of his drink, and Ian twists, leaning across his side of the bed to place his cup upon his nightstand. Returning, he sighs, heavily resting upon his perch. "Maybe...we should have that conversation tomorrow." Not now. Now, I want you to myself.

     The smile is warm, spreading. Without jest, genuine. And as you go flush again, the smile transforms into a grin. You wear this color well. "Ah, then.... good... so that we understand one another... I will push, hmm? I will be...sure to do that..." Oh lord, you can just imagine. With the grin and the bond, you do not have to. Images carry easily to and fro. None are otherwise vocalized. The bed sounds with his shifting weight, and William reaches for your hand. Indigo locking to the grey.
     "Tomorrow," he murmurs. Concerning all notions of talking that is not moaning, conversations other than 'take it' or the rattling of wood and creaking of bedsprings. You know the sort of night it shall be. You have seen it unfold a thousand times. More. Just as you have seen him unfold from such leather a thousand times. More...
     And then you feel his smile at your ear. "There is nothing that is so quickly my undoing than to see you blush..."
     It shall be a night of such heated chivalry... prepare yourself, Dunross...

Posted by rowan at August 02, 2000 01:29 PM