There is a nose to the earth, the smelling of the way, the forging ahead of a lord's hound. It is something out of a painting in the British Museum. Two young men, several hounds and one large horse. The implications of such a painting would, of course, be scandalous. Only one horse? What do you suppose such young men do out in the woods needing only one horse? And with an extravagant amount of hounds. Clearly, they are sleeping together.
     But the clothes are all wrong. It is not some period piece landscape or hunting scene snapped from the distant memories of the 18th Century, but a modern spring, the air still crisp enough for sweaters and layers, and Valan Montague is layered in chocolate browns and deep reds with a gold scarf that matches his golden, disarrayed locks. He looks a student in that, strolling through Dunsinane as if looking for the ghost of Banquo or Macbeth.
     All that's missing is a book in his hand. There is a tiny book (in fact, a small volume of Renaissance fiction), though hidden, kept on his person by way of the inside pocket of his corduroy coat.
     "I did not get a chance to explore much of the gardens and outdoors the last time," Valan says, looking over to his equally golden companion. "Thank you for coming with." There was a shared understanding, perhaps, that tonight it might be better being outside than inside...

     "Mm," Ian nods, agreeing. He pokes the ground with a large stick he found in some fallen brush. He seems the more native in the woods of Dunsinane, as if he were the very secret the trees have worked to hard to keep. Ian smiles as he pokes some leaves, then looks over at his walking companion. "I am glad we get to walk," he says softly. "Most are afraid of Dunsinane," Ian explains, grey eyes looking ahead, "...but..." he shrugs. He's not. He has never been. "It is a forest, nothing more," he grins slanted, looking to his companion again. He'll let you believe as you choose.
     A sigh and he goes on. Perhaps he could walk for nights. The moon's not much help within Dunsinane's canopy, so Ian knows where his feet take him. "You should visit us more often," Ian observes, his white-blonde hair picked up by a breeze. It causes his gaze to lift. "Well, maybe not us as much as Strathfayr. It is a nice place for a walk. A rest." If you get tired of everything else going on around you. But Ian makes no assumptions. He knows little of your life. "Maybe that is why I can never leave," he tries to explain. "I am less, when I am not here."

     "To be so connected with a place," Valan muses. "I wonder if I shall have such an experience." There is a momentary pause, a glance to the moving of the forest all around him (it is very much like That Play suggests), and then he is smiling to you. "I do not think about the future as much as I did my first year. I think about it a little, but it seems whenever I try to do something specific, the opposite is what occurs. I have stopped trying for now. For now, I am content to Be. I think...whatever it is... I will know it when I see it. I do not yet have a place. All I do know is that it is not London."
     There is a glance to the forest and back to you. "I am not afraid, but then... you are with me. I will only start to worry if I see that you are worried." That makes him laugh a little, for he knows that if he sees that you are worried, he will be running.
     "I...we," he speaks for Edward for a moment, "...may stay for a little while. It is relaxing here. Very comfortable. It is a home of friends and way out here, you can...take a moment to think. In London, there is no thinking, there is only dancing and drinking and distraction." He looks to the woods again. "It is easier to get lost there than in this forest..."
     So easy to get lost. So easy to become something else. "I find myself longing to return to my studies, to ...even in The Moment, to have ...meaning. Substance. I get so easily bored." Valan looks to you and smiles grandly. "It does not bode well for a long life. But... maybe...it is time to slow my universe down just a little...Edward, too. He and I are going to France after Scotland. I think we need to stop for a moment, let Time fall away for a while. The vacation was nice, but ...not nearly long enough..."

     No, there's nothing from Ian when the forest shifts and rustles around him. He continues to walk on, listening quietly. But when his opportunity to speak comes clear, he does. "Studies are good," Ian acknowledges, "...there is so much to learn. You have time, but," Ian smiles, "I understand your boredom. It is," he frowns a little, as if making sure he says the right thing, "...when there is little struggle," Ian observes, lifting his voice over the barks of dogs, the crunching of leaves, "...it is easy to fall into such feelings. He loves you and your time together has been easier than most I know," Ian watches you. "This is no insult, just observation. You were a precocious mortal," now he does assume, grinning, "...and something beyond all interest has come to you. It came in a handsome form. It...is not at a loss for activity, parties, excitement, I would think. And there is no poverty in it. Your feelings seem...consistent." With such a life.
     "So, study," Ian nods, hair shifting at the shoulders of his grey sweater with green buttons. "You have the time and luxury. Not all of your Unlife will be so...explorative. I am sure you would be supported in your efforts..."

     "I think some people need the struggle. Maybe I am one of them. I don't know. I haven't had to yet. Not in my mortal life, not so far in this life. I sound...spoiled? It is true. I have had a ...charmed existence. It can't possibly last. There should be something else, a strength if nothing else, held in reserve." He grins when you do, accepting that assumption.
     "It is what they say: what else is a long life for? If you are not going to make it worthwhile, then what good does it do you...or anyone else? What path I take?" He shrugs. "I am content to let that be revealed in time. I have not been successful at selecting a path, but I should at least take the opportunity to be educated. About the world. About myself. If I do nothing else, at least I shall not have been a time waster..."
     There is an intervening quiet, a moment of self reflection and then Valan is turning to look at you. "And you and William. You will be staying here for a while? I imagine that there will be...much to sort out before you can relax into your home again." He smiles a little. "When we are all gone, ne c'est pas?"

     The topic switch catches Ian off guard for a moment. William is never so far away, but for a moment, he simply lingered somewhere in Ian's background. "Oh," Ian inhales to start his reply, "...we will be here through summer, I think. Then we will spend a fall in Chinon. Or he will, I do not know. If often depends on how we feel when we pack our bags." The rest is left for now. Perhaps it is of no consequence.
     "You said," Ian goes on, "...that you will to France? Missing your home, then?" he wonders, shifting topics as deftly.

     "It was Edward's idea," Valan quietly notes, such a change in him when things become about the man he loves. He becomes quite simple. Quite normal. The soft tones of a spouse that you would recognize. "And it is an idea I both supported and agreed with wholeheartedly. I came to London because it was his home, his city, his adopted place. But I am happy to be returning to France. First to Blois, then... I do not know. Maybe we will simply stay at Fleurlil for now until a better idea occurs to us. There is no rush. I think that... We," the larger sense used now, "...rush too much, discard too quickly in the name of a freedom most barely understand. Without judgment, without thought, even some might say without study, what freedom can there be? So," a breath unneeded is set free, "...we go to France and we will see what we will see. I am in no rush. Not now. Before it was hurry up, hurry-hurry. But I am tired of running around and accomplishing nothing."
     A new Brujah for a new century?

     The ground continues to crunch beneath Ian's feet. He looks over, but his glorious eyes only seem to stare. Brujah words. Talk of freedom...but it's said strangely. "I've never," he admits, "...understood the obsession," he smiles. Maybe not even most of what you've said. "But I understand wishing to go home." And no questioning of what you meant. It means something to you, and that's acceptable. "A place to figure out what to do next, right?"

     Valan Montague smiles, recognizing that this is an odd meeting of the minds, as it were. "It is a place to figure out what to do next...exactly. And, before we leave, I need to find out where you got the bed and the sheets. I do not think I have ever slept," or anything else, "...on a better surface. I have been charged," eyes twinkling as his voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, "... with buying a new bed..."
     Maybe a castle can be a home. For a while at least. Maybe there's nothing wrong with simply being what and who you are, no pretense, he thinks...
     Valan looks around, "It is beautiful here," he remarks. And Fleurlil shall also have its beauty. And its place. There is no loss of freedom in that.

     Ian laughs, "I would tell you, but I do not know. I do not buy sheets," he explains, the haughtiness of the statement followed with a smile. "I am sure if you ask one of the servants, they will find the information for you."
     "And thank you," Ian goes on, looking around the darkening wood. Without the moon, night arrives deeply. "I cannot take credit for creating it, just for owning it."

     "I will. Felipe has been very nice. It has been good to practice my Spanish. The Infanta will be pleased," a smirk at that. He doesn't for a moment believe that to be true. "I was never used to servants, but sometimes when you are in bed beneath a large Frenchman it is nice to have someone draw a bath. I can see the logic in it," he laughs a little, eyes momentarily wide. Edward and William are of an age when Frenchmen were enormous. Clearly.
     "You are welcome," Valan Montague replies easily. "You have a beautiful home, gracious staff, and a famous forest. I would be discourteous not to mention these things. I ...find I enjoy my time here. I appreciate having such doors open for me..."

     Ian looks over at the notion of Frenchmen. He makes no comment. "Servants...are essential in this life. Unfortunately. Fortunately." He hasn't decided. They take care of so much, but also are such a risk. His smile is polite. "I hope you and Edward both know that you are welcome to stay as long as you like, yes?" Ian wonders. He looks ahead to the wandering pack.

     Valan nods to what you say. It is not a motion of agreement but one of absorption. Consideration. "I have an accountant, handling my inheritance from my father. The winery in Bordeaux, the accounts. I may have to keep him..." for longer than the usual sort of term. "I trust him. He has been with my family a long time. But such things... I have not had to do yet. I am still learning," a slight smile follows. "But it will come to me," Montague nods. He is confident in that.
     "I have only been in this life for four years. Not time enough to see some things. But I think... I think a lot of what I will need to do in the future. How to stretch money, how to make more. The winery... if it turns a profit we are having a great year, you know how wineries can be. It is, of any place, my place. Bordeaux. I move slowly, perhaps this is wise," a glance to you, allowing you to offer your opinions. "I am not a hasty businessman. There is much to weigh, in terms of immortality and mortal business..."
     Valan watches the progression of a falling leaf, the birch leaf spinning and twisting to lie curved in a green crescent upon the ground. "I appreciate that, Ian...I think we will stay for a bit. To rest. To prepare ourselves for our trip, mentally at least. It has been a strange, fast, hectic few nights..."

     "It seems that way, yes," Ian observes with a smile. "It's good that you move slowly, thoughtfully. Few do. But..." he shrugs, "...right now, in truth, is that what is really important?" Business. The time and energy given to it is perhaps far more than it deserves. "Stick...to what is important and the rest will come. In time. You will have what you need."

     "Do not tell Edward that I am such a worrier," Valan smirks, eyes lifting to the canopy. "He would never believe it." There is nothing else said on business matters. He has heard you and your words have been locked away. There is nothing else said on matters of France, for all that needed to be said as been. There is no mention of Davydd, for what is there to say...
     If only he could hear the trees...
     What is important now is Edward. The life they can make together. The Joined Road. The rest ...the rest will sort out as it sorts out, he knows this. And he hears it repeated. Live in the present and cherish the now, for it is all you have...
     His thoughts wind their way toward the one sleeping, the one that has led all paths to Scotland. And of his waking. And of what sort of life he may have now. And of three friends. In his mind there is a picture, the image and memory of a gift given a couple of years ago. The Triad. The Triumvirate. In the quiet of the stroll, Valan considers them.
     Gold-green eyes, so like a cat's, flicker over to you as he walks along with you in silence. The young man does worry. He is not as laissez-faire as he might seem. He has a conscience. Despite what his aura may show. "Love and friends," he says at last. "That is what is important..."

     Ian stops, and the noise immediately around him stills. The dogs, a bit ahead, understand their master's cessation and look up, ears pricked. Behind, the young horse slows and guffs, wondering why the people aren't further ahead.
     "That is all there is," Ian says softly, cocking his head a little. There is nothing more, Montague. If I am nothing else to you, let me be a reminder of what happens...when you lose your way in that."
     Ian's gaze returns to his path and his feet pick up again as he walks ahead and deeper into his forest.

     ...A stray birchleaf floats downward from an aged tree...

Posted by rowan at June 20, 2004 05:49 PM