Soft cobalt, like ever-encroaching dawn or forever twilight, the walls hold every moment of illumination with warmth and color. Edged with gold, the painted paneling provides several layers of color and texture. A treasure in and of itself. The music chamber peels back a leaf of time, and the salons of the Baroque live once more.
     The floor is jeweled with white, Italian marble -- its veins silver, threading throughout -- and each square has been painted with gold and fitted in a seamless pattern. Seating areas are arranged at the four cardinal points, each one a collection of period chairs and sofas. Small tables are unobtrusively placed amid these areas -- and upon them rest antique tools. The vast center space of the chamber is left open, but at center-back rest the Baroque-era harpsichord and a piano. In opposite corners, focal points for two of the seating areas, are two standing harps of differing sizes. Above, a depiction of music spans across the entire ceiling.

     Russian. Something from the East End of Empires. Something from the 18th Century. Lightly, like rain -- the sound of the harpsichord reaches your senses. Up and through stone. A little known piece in the Modern Age, but one these ears recall. Oddities that Immortal minds retain...
     To follow it, you shall end in the Music Room, your personal salon, and come face-to-face with a vision of Fraser. Seeming in every way to be the namesake he has but recently taken upon himself. A hand-knitted creamed sweater. A greyhound at woolen feet. And there is the familiar press of him upon the air. William. In brilliance. In brashness. Both. Though his fingers are large, they move upon the keys, stroking even as you taught him in a salon long since. Black hair drapes forward where head is slightly bent. And he has hunted already. His olive complexion is bronzed again, as if Arsuf were only yesterday...

     "What do you think?" Ian murmurs, flying quickly into the room, dressed in white shirt and black pants. "I have a list but it seems rather ...err... short..." he informs you, ignoring the fact that you might be enjoying a moment of musical bliss. Hand waves with a pen in it, a small notebook in hand with the ever-traditional scribbles. "I think...I have just servants on here..." he notes for the record, raising a brow at his own observation. No vampires getting gifts. "Oh, well, I think Victoria is on here, but that is about it."

     "Henry and Stephen Fitzsimmons..." He tosses off a name or two. And indigo eyes flicker, darkly..brilliantly, as they lift from keys and hands. The tune quiets, and the smile that was born upon his lips at your rushing entry spreads slowly into a full-fledged grin. "Or shall we be getting Henry and Paddy... a coupled gift?" Incorrigible. "I hear there are shops in London that might carry things they both could enjoy..." Us too for that matter. That holds in the gaze like fire, and causes his lips, sensuous, to slant. "Victoria... " hands lift from the keys, the music ends and Macsen lifts his
head. A look and a canine grin for you there, Other Master.
     "It is hard playing Santa without someone on my lap... " comes the languid baritone, along with a waving hand. "Come here, amours..." If you should come round, you'll see the rest of him. A Fraser kilt -- odd, to see an Angevin Scot playing at the harpsichord?

     Ian strolls over, peering at his list. Absently, his hand reaches down and pats the nearby hound, pen wavering between his fingers. "Sit at your lap?" he finally says distractedly, scribbling as he shuffles. "We could get Paddy and Henry separate gifts, just like each person in the Houses," both yours and his, "...will get. And then something else as a pair." Lips press and Ian nods, liking that idea. Grey eyes look to you, as if suddenly
recalling something. "What kind of shop are you talking about in London?" Something special? "Can't it be gotten with the others...a couple gift?"

     He can see you won't be baited, and so thoughts of you on his lap with nothing to protect you save a thin layer of Scottish wool are set aside. At least for now. Though, as you know, your Norman is never so easily vanquished. As you move, indigo is upon you. Fastened. Fixed. In love and all the rest that comes with that. The smile yet remains half-cocked. "Ah... non... we should... get them something tasteful. Paddy's a bit... well, I don't want to throw him into a panic by getting them a couple gift at a sex kiosk..." The smile spreads, smooth and full. "His head might explode. Like in the movies..." Scanners, to be exact. With a clearing exhale, William turns a bit upon the harpsichord's bench, straddling it. As if the next moment shall find him standing. Amusement flickers in his gaze, held upon
colors both violet and blue... as if gems were broken into shards and tossed into a brazier's fire. "What about Gerald's daughters..." Suddenly recalling.

     "Ah, yes, I keep them on a separate list," Ian nods, moving towards you still. He waves at you, as if to say 'shove up' and turns to share the bench with you. "See, there is House staff, in all residences, and then a business list...like for Gerald and Arthur...and then a personal list. My personal list though...um...just has one on it currently." He shrugs, not that
surprised at the lack of personal friends, those who have nothing to do with home or even remotely business related. "Gerald's family, of course, is business. Though, I guess I should send something to Alexandra," he surmises
somewhat unimpressed. "And Robert." That brightens. Yes, that is a personal
associate. "But whatever I get for Gerald's family, I just have him give them. I am sure...they really do not recall me so much." As well it should be. "Are you keeping a personal list?" Ian asks, head tilted to the side. "I will let you know, I am not buying anything in a..." he winces at the word, "...sex kiosk." Ugh.

     There is space enough on the bench for you both, and as you sit, he leans in toward you. For closeness, and to spy upon the list perhaps. A kiss is left behind upon your neck. "I do not have many on my personal list... mainly, it is you. But... I will get something for Edward... Davydd... Donal. Maybe even Uncle Henry." Northumberland the Nosferatu. "Though I'm running out of clever gifts for someone who lives beneath the ruins of Hadrian's Wall..." His voice is soft in thought. "Ah... and Girault, though...what I would get him, I have no idea. Nasr would be offended if I bought him a Christmas gift. You and I... we should send him something for Ramadan..." A nudge to you there. You can mark Nasr on your list. "Then there is the household for Chinon... and our boy in America." That would be Phillip.
William leans back, eyes lifting to the ceiling of his own creation. "We must not forget Tavish in Edinburgh..." He is not cruel. Just because he cannot look at the boy who almost stole you away from him, does not mean he does not wish to be a King-giver... and bestow gifts upon one who is still a part of the household...

     "No, no, of course not," Ian agrees, "Tavish is already in the household, so is Phillip." Already in a category. "But you should keep your own personal list." As if he thought about any of your twelve. "Have you..." Ian looks around, "...started one?"

     A finger lifts and points to his temple. Locked within, it says, in motion. "The lists for Chinon, Florence and LionCorp have already been done. Guillermo will purchase for Chinon and Stephen has taken care of LionCorp. I have a list for my Lionheart artists and my personal list." The smile comes warm and easily. "The Lionheart list is in the pocket of my leather coat. I won't be wearing the skirt into London," he murmurs, voice rumbling and low, as close to a purr as ever he gets. "... it's too drafty. The others... I can remember it well enough. It's a short list." The air tingles, and
electricity is a tangible hum against the skin as he rises.
     "As for Navarre... I should imagine that is a ...business matter. I ...won't be sending personal regards. For Victoria... we will pick something out for her..." A touch to your shoulder as he stands. "I am just hoping I can find something for you. What can one do after two orgies?" The smile is both warm and fond, and wicked. "Give me some ideas... what would you like...?" He has given you fencers, spanish servants, a chessboard carved by his own hand and individual personal pieces, he has painted murals on your ceilings, and a portrait of himself.
     But well you might know by the look... he has something in mind already. Perhaps a few things already hidden away...

     He expected no less concerning Navarre. Ian smiles at your preparedness, then smirks and looks up from his list when you bring up the orgies. "What would I like?" Ian murmurs, bringing pen up to touch his bottom lip. A very secretary is he. "I do not know," he admits, bobbing his head. It's a good question. "I will have to think of something," he grins. "And
what of you? Hmm. I can barely recall my own gifts," Ian confesses, setting
list down upon the harpsichord. "Maybe we could...find places for all of our gifts to each other? Put them in the keep?" New gifts given in a new light. "Maybe decorate here?"

     For Navarre... you feel there is a kernel of 'death' held in the darkness of deep blood. Disappointment. Disillusionment. Disfavor. For all she proported to be but was not. To the falsifying of a heart now known to be nothing but Manipulation Personified. He protected her with his life once. He will never do such again. Not yet dispassionate, but certainly disconnected. She is, quite markedly, not in Plantagenet's Circle any longer. For him, it is as if she never were. For to him, had she ever been really? But the one who likely was the first to whisper Angevin Whore in the darkness... and the one likely who yet whispers it to all save him.
     "I have an entire library of gifts from you," William murmurs, smile dawning upon his features, illuminating the beauty there, warming his features. A touch of his hand to your head, your hair. He bends and a kiss follows after. "We will look around London and see what inspires us then. I have not thought about what I want so much. I seem to have ... Everything I want at my hand," which rests yet upon the crown of your head. Open affection. Eyes light at the thought of a room for all the gifts, decorations. "We should...hmmm... all of the second floor," indigo settles upon you again, both brilliant and dark. "Decorate it all, and keep our gifts to one another in our room?" He pauses and looks around. "But here... it would be nice to decorate the salon..." He likes the music room. The painting, the astronomer's instruments, the musical instruments. It reminds him of Old Europe.

     There's a warm look of affection as he feels what crosses your heart about Navarre. It is understandable. It is...regrettable. But once where he worried on such, he does not now. Her acts reflect not on him or you, or your love. She will suffer the consequences of what she did. Just as you all will on any number of acts committed in your lifetimes. He feels no sorrow for her on that. There is only a bit of sadness that she disappointed you so...and it is not his place to fix it for her. Hand seeks your own, but Ian discusses it not. If you wish to, you can. "How about...new cabinets. I want to put your small paintings up you made me when I was here alone last. And the small birds with colors," Ian's face brightening. "The chess set...may go
downstairs, hmm? And we should move your Arsuf landscape to a room too. But yes, we should put our newer gifts out and keep our gifts this year in our
room. I suspect though...we will get things for the keep's rooms as much as for each other."

     Regrettable. Perhaps it is. She may count those regrets upon the beats of silence from Chinon and doors that were once ever open that now shall be closed. He need say nothing at all. Wishes to say nothing at all. For what more can he say than simple Silence? It best describes it. It is something she will deal with at Judgment. He has his own matters and sins. He leaves it to the Universe and to God. How noble has the hot Angevin blood become with Time. Or, it is a testament to his strength and command of himself that he does not let his ...more fundamental nature get to him. But for your warmth of understanding, there is Knowing. And nothing more is said on it.
Just the grasp of his hand and a smile. "Downstairs... in the sanctuary," the catacombs, he quietly wonders, "...or near the grotto... ? And as for a cabinet... we should check Soth's... perhaps there is an auction..." Wouldn't that be entertaining. "...we will find something." William pauses in Thought, a dark brow arching. "Do you think we could put Arsuf in the armory... ? It seems a fitting place near armor and ramparts..." And then he grins, liking that idea. "I think there will be an element of both, aye," he murmurs. "But always... there will be something...just for you." Knightly fingers, softer in swordless centuries passing, clasp around your own and lift your hand to his mouth. A kiss left upon knuckles.

     The smile is lady-like as his fingers are clasped and kissed. "My Knight, my Prince," Ian chuckles softly, unable to see you in any other way when you kiss his hand. Ah well. Ian sighs, then clarifies, "No, downstairs in the great room for use. I think the chess set is very colorful for there. And Arsuf would be good in the armory," he agrees with a series of nods. The beginnings of a plan. "How long do you want to stay in London? I want to be home before the second snows come..."

     "Three nights should do it..." A pause, a lift of his brow. "Do you not think... will it give you time enough to shop with me and visit Robert? We can always go to London in the spring. I prefer to winter near the top of the world..." Broad and warm, the grin comes to that. And in furs with you. "I think three nights' time will be enough. Just enough to enjoy it and return home. As London should be done, oui? And I agree about the chessgame... near the hearth. A good place for it. When shall we depart?"
Your fingers are lowered from his mouth, finally -- his every preceding word was murmured against your skin -- but he does not let loose of it. "Your knight and prince is starting to feel a draft and wishes he had a pair of trousers on..." And to that end he gives your hand a tug. Come on, it's time to try to civilize me...

Posted by rowan at June 17, 2000 03:33 PM