The twelfth month of the year, with its Twelve Days of Christmas, its constant state of celebration (for one thing or another), began with snow and it is the fourth full day of such, leaving a blanket of white upon this northern world, a dusting of silver and white upon the old keep and its stables and surrounding towers. The moors and the heath are plains of white, wherein the hardiest plants still retain a particle of green. And Dunsinane stands in silver and green array, evergreen, immortal, despite the passing of the seasons.
The seasons of Time have not touched you, not that any eyes may see, nor him, not that anyone could guess such to see the two of you moving down the hallways. Evergreen partners to Dunsinane's Wood.
He has been very secretive since the snow began to fall, waking up early, smiling with something held at the corners. As foretold he has been spending much time out of doors, particularly when the snow began. Out with Eammon, he and Marco leaving you and Amadeo to weather the first bits of winter weather.
He insisted that you and he leave the warm confines together tonight. He would not take 'No' for an answer. When William cannot be denied... and there are times enough when you manage... he can be a most persuasive individual.
By force, if need be...
He is in layers of navy blue tonight, shirt beneath sweater, sweater beneath jacket, overlying navy wool trousers, pinstriped subtly. A navy and white striped scarf is cashmere, as the sweater is. In the light, all of this pulls out the blue in his eyes, makes the black of his hair more prominent, slightly blue-ish to the eyes. A navy wool longcoat brushes at the snow upon the ground.
A gloved hand clasps your own. William has insisted on a ride. The stable doors are closed -- the rest of the castle has better sense than your husband perhaps...
"Bloody Christ, Will," Ian grumbles beneath a heavy black sweater, undershirt turtleneck up and over his mouth. Those aren't enough. He's got on one of his thickest wool coats, roughhewn and brushed. Certainly, this day, this month -- Ian knows that something's up. This is the time of year. But he's never been one to mark his day of birth: he enjoys Yule generally, but the first week of December, for him, passes like any other. Or at least he tries to have it pass suchly.
"Do we have to come out for a ride now? It only means more work for the boys with the shoes -- they'll have to change them when we're back. The horses won't like it..."
He'd rather be inside, talking with staff, hearing about their holiday plans with family. Most will leave, but a few will stay because it is their home, Strathfayr is, or because a skeleton crew is required to make sure the house is safe, warm, fed, and secure, even for the most minimal of left-behinds. "Dionnach was going to make toddies." With scotch of course. "And I was going to taste her rabbit pie."
"Oc," the Occitan 'Yes' sounds muffled but firm behind the scarf. In the lighting outside the stables, his olive-complexion is dark and ruddy with the chill that his immortal skin feels -- howeversomuch he refuses to acknowledge it. "It's a good pack, we probably won't have better weather all year. Besides," he says, and then he's swinging the door open...
It reveals a warm and well-lit interior. Normally, the stables are simply impeccably clean. It's undergone a bit of a revamping, with horses reorganized, new flooring, swept so clean you could eat off of them. And stalls normally filled with equipment or vacant are now full. Three exquisite heads show themselves, tall, over new doors bearing the new owners' names.
"It's your birthday, god damn it," William smiles, tugging down the scarf to show it. "And I care even if you don't. Come in," he whispers, hand gives you a gentle tug, mouth is cool and warm both -- seeking to warm itself in a kiss, and then he stands aside.
The horses in question are new, strangers to Scotland and strangers to this keep. Tall thoroughbreds, wrapped in the best, professional blankets, their stall doors adorned with ribbons. One is a deep chestnut. A second is black-brown. And the third, slightly smaller than the other two giants, is a mottled black-grey. All prick ears, eyes and voices to those coming in.
In the back, Marco is standing, grinning, with arms folded. He turns to give you privacy desired.
The grumping is expected, yes? Ian drags behind, hand still clasping. He shuffles his feet upon the wood - wood? - and then looks down at the odd noise beneath his boots.
But say! Ian's eyebrows arch as he comes to a halt to stare at the sight ahead of him. "Dhe!" Ian chirps softly, a bemused smirk crossing his features. His hand extends and he walks towards the nearest stall.
"Shh, Aluinn," he smiles, hand coming to the horse's neck. "Daicheil," Ian murmurs. Familiar words those. Handsome. Beautiful.
"Where'd you get these?" Ian asks, brow furrowed in surprise and amusement. It's a blush, that, coming with the upturn of his nose and crinkle of his features.
The stable door is closed and William comes behind you, but not right behind you, not hanging on. Instead, he remains slightly back to give you a moment with the tall, black-brown stallion. "That is Bonnie Boy, registered Bonnie Prince Charlie's Return," William murmurs. "Derby winner 2008, grand national champion. Descendant of Eclipse, through Beningbrough."
Smiling now, he folds his own arms against his chest, warming by the minute. He turns and gestures to the taller deep chestnut behind you. "This is Geordie, registered St. George. Out of the prestigious St. Simon line, owned by the princes of Hungary. Nearly every offspring has been a derby or stakes winner."
He gives the chestnut a pat and heads past him to the black-grey next to Bonnie Prince Charlie. "The mare is Queen Bee, out of Beeswing, the British racing queen of the 1830s. She's a solid performer, but an even better broodmare. A son captured the Preakness last year and took the Woodlawn Derby in Ireland."
William leans against the new stable door at Queen Bee's stall, surrounding the mare's jaw with his arm as she nuzzles, his hand giving her a pat. "Happy birthday, amours... as for...where I acquired them? It took over a year of negotiations for all three. This is what Marco was doing when he was away for a month -- closing the deals with help from Patrick and Stephen. Do you like them? I am thinking that Strathfayr Farms has a good ring to it."
The names and lines are all familiar. Ian'd nodded to hear them, but the lineages have never been an issue for him. The quality of the horse was all there was.
"Strathfayr Farms?" Ian hears, twisting around, though his hand remains on the horse. His nose crinkles again, brow deeply furrowed. "You're kidding, laird, right?" No way. "I don't have time..."
"You don't have to do anything. And... I'm just thinking. Maybe. We will see." You know how he thinks. And he will ruminate on it -- or, perhaps he already has. "I asked Marco to find me the three finest thoroughbreds in England and Ireland, not necessarily the winningest at the moment. But horses from which, if one decided to, could build a barn upon. Just in case," William adds with a wink.
Just in case...
"And I worked with Henri and Amadeo and the staff here in the revamp of the stables for our continued presence -- and to make room for the three new roommates. If we decide we want to race, I will work with them to draw up the additional structures. Ah, and we have a new heating system."
And if you knew what else he had up his sleeves, you might faint...
William smiles, "And we don't have to ride tonight, no. I think the toddies and rabbit pie will be just fine, amours." It was a ruse, a way to get you out here. He offers you an out if you wish to take it. Giving Bee a pat, William moves to you and to Bonnie Prince Charlie. Now his arm comes around you and he leans in for a kiss.
"I see you've spent time thinking," Ian notes skeptically, hands coming to rest in the pockets of his weighty coat. "They're lovely, Will, thank you," Ian smiles. "The stables look great -- why didn't someone mention this to me?" While a gift, the idea that the stables could be entirely reworked and no one mentioned it to him -- Ian will always be Ian. Eyes scan the area, distracted from the nearing kiss.
"Because then you would have wanted to -inspect- it, it would have slowed down production. And ruined the surprise, laird. Forgive?" William asks just short of a kiss, grinning, a hand rubbing at your back. "Just a new floor, and new stable doors and fittings," he murmurs. "But it is why I didn't bring any of mine with me. That's when I thought you'd start getting suspicious," William chuckles. "It was one big dance of 'will he, won't he'. And Marco was very patient with my many demands."
A kiss is stolen at last, or rather given because it is placed at your temple. With that, he steps away. "Marco, venuto qui per un momento," William calls out to him, hands going into his navy blue pockets as he strides toward the back of the stables.
"Si, signore?" Marco offers, appearing again as if he had an invisibility cloak he could step in and out of.
"Grazie," William says. "Lavoro molto buon. Lo soddisfa notevolmente." His hand comes out to clasp the sometimes lover on the shoulder and he turns, gesturing to the stables as he speaks.
Marco bobs his head, smiling but tempered with respect due to an employer, even if a sometime lover, and he looks over to you, coming behind William as William begins to return to you. He smiles, warmly, that Marco, still with the respect due to an employer if sometime lover. "Buon compleanno, signore. Spero che lo gradiate."
"Grazie," Ian simply states, eyes moving between the latest residents and the stables proper. "It's magnificent," he says to Marco, nodding his head and extending a hand for a shake. "They're marvelous," this time said of the horses, directly complimenting Marco's choices.
Marco smiles. It is a genuine look, a pleased look. He bobs his head again and murmurs, "Grazie, signore." A glance given to the horses, Marco allows himself a moment of pride. "I..." that was Gaelic! "... am... made happy? That... I could be helped," the syllables are so odd! "...be of help," Marco corrects. "The signore," he continues, turning to William and giving him a bob of respect and a smile before turning back to you, "...mi ha insegnato una piccola della vostra lingua. E duro! Perdoni se gli ho reso un disastro."
He even blushes a little. A second birthday gift for you. William has been teaching the Bei Ragazzi your language. A little bit of it anyway.
William smiles to Marco as he speaks, there is fondness there not unlike a father to a son, though you have been sandwiched between them, both murmuring your name in very unfamilial moments. "He learns quickly," William gives praise in Gaelic. "And I could not have given you this gift without him. So, perhaps it should be from both of us in a way, yes?"
Ian grins, "Not a disaster," he nods, extending his hand to touch Marco's shoulder. "Very nice," grey eyes flickering between the horses and groomsman. "You learn, and I ride," Ian smirks, giving a squeeze of his fingers before exhaling and letting go. "Thank you," he finishes, seeming done. Hands return to Ian's pockets, shifting attention between the two men present.
"I'll be happy to go out tomorrow," Ian observes, "...earlier in the evening." For now, something familiar with the cold and the moors is perhaps best.
Marco seems genuinely relieved. There is a luminance that comes upon him. Solid beneath your hand and happy to be so. But he has learned something, it seems. Perhaps it is his place. "Tomorrow," he says in English, not quite as 'broken' as his Gaelic. "Molto benvenuti, signore." Nodding simply, a smile given in his gratitude he steps to the side, leaving the two of you to your evening. He is going to see about his own. It will be yours, of course, if you call. Regardless of whether you do or not, he will be with his Amadeo.
As Marco passes out of the stables, that leaves you and William to tack your own beasts. That is, if you are still game to ride. The riding was a ruse, and so William will wait upon your word of Yea or Nay before proceeding. For now, he is content to come to you, to share your space for a moment.
"I thought you might enjoy more Gaelic around the household," William offers with the slight upturn of his mouth. "The night is yours, amours." A pause, and now he grins. "Much like every other night." He must concede it. A kiss warms against your mouth, but it is brief. "What would you have your night to be?"
"There can't be too much more Gaelic," Ian grins. "It's nice to hear Italian once in a while." He's not for missing Gaelic in an aging Scottish staff. "As for the night," he shrugs, "I am not beholden to riding. I am happy with whatever..."
"Si? Dovro ricordarsi di questo. Dovrei esercitarsi in, si, prima che lo dimentichi tutto. Come il mio Spagnolo." William smiles. "Tomorrow, we will go riding. We will get an earlier start," he notes. "I will remember to wake early. Maybe the weather will cooperate. For now, I think there is some really old Scotch in your bedroom, and I should raise a glass of it in toast to you." He pauses, smiling suddenly. "Though, I may hand it to you to drink." You know how he gets.
And he is not of a mind to be moody...
William holds out an arm for you, a glance given back to the horses, each one of which is head over the stable doors, ears pricked and whinnying farewells. "We'll have to go fox hunting, now that we have suitable jumpers..."
"An excellent idea," Ian agrees, turning about, "...both of them." Scotch and fox. Ian folds his arm over the one offered to him, and proceeds to head out of the stable.
"You know -- Spanish..." Ian thinks to himself. For him, it reminds him too much of his time among the Tremere. "We should practice," he agrees, patting your hand as he leads out to the snow and darkness.
"Are there any... parties or gatherings this season that we should attend? I think the last one we attended, that we did not also host, was in our first year in Scotland from New Port," William thinks on that. "I remember I was in a tuxedo and it was snowing, or had snowed, and we looked incredible, nearly made love in the car on the way back." Indigo looks at you, lips twitch in the slight, and humored, smile. William leans in as you and he exit the stables and are pelted with white flakes like confetti. "It was a good night. I leave my social calendar in your hands, amours."
His arm unwinds from yours to rest instead around your shoulders. With this, he draws you in, so that you and he are flush together as you walk, the way slowed slightly, but degrees warmer. He says nothing for a time...
When snow falls, it makes a sound something like falling notes from a measure. Indigo eyes turn from you and look to the progression of these drifting notes, Mozart and Schubert suspended, airy, drifting, falling. Flakes catch in the short muss of his hair, melting against the darkness of it.
"It is good to be home," he says at last, pausing just for a moment at the door leading to the kitchens, from the kitchens to the backways leading to your joined keep. A hand is warm and cool as it touches against your cheek, moving your hair back, remaining upon your skin for a moment. He thinks about kissing you, you see that as he simply falls to staring.
Posted by rowan at February 15, 2004 01:28 PM
