He had to go to Switzerland. To the country he simply Would Rather Not Visit. And there was nothing that he could divulge, because he was not sure, in truth, what he was going there to find. Apart from a vault with a rather sizable payment. One saga ending, another beginning perhaps. Such subterfuge. It felt like World War Two all over again.
     No more than two nights he promised, and no more than two nights he has delivered, his return impending and Chinon already seems to realize it. It is not in the sounds, though there are sounds of preparation to be sure, but in the flourish of lights that illuminate the rising towers and their blue-slate roofs, the airiness of the open archways and windows, the arms of the chateau flung out, it would seem, to receive him. Just as in those many years before, in those other lives.
     But no more the flurry of female feet to greet the returning Angevin lord, though the greyhounds announce themselves not with barking but by their sudden streaks of a multitude of colors, not one of them in fact grey. It is then, perhaps, that you, with your fine-tuned senses, could detect the press of heavy tires to the cobblestones and gravel as the limousine crosses the St. George Bridge and enters the courtyard.
     Is it him? Who else, says the cymbal-crash of energy as Plantagenet exits from the vehicle. Who else, the thud of the car door echoes. Who else but I?
     William has his own bag on his shoulder and a non-descript tube in his hand, one that might carry a tourist's poster. Maybe there is a gift from you in there somewhere. He is in a suit, god bless him, dark with a subtle thread of indigo, paired with a broadcloth shirt of undetermined thread count, but easily assumed to be toward the high end, that in a shade of blue, also with a subtle thread of indigo. Gathering his things, he begins to pivot, shoes on the gravel, eyes lifting to the environs of his home. Eyebrows immediately quirking...

     At the end of the train, behind the clamoring throng, comes Ian. A pale figure stark at the rear of so much color. He comes down the curved stairs leading up to the Logis, and comes to a stop against the smooth stone. He grins at your arrival as his eyes wander the greeters. He says nothing, and simply chuckles at the mess ahead of him.
     On the cobblestones of the middle castle sits another vehicle. In brilliant red, the car threatens even in its stillness. Lines are low and wide, ready to pounce at the slightest whim.
     The Lamborghini Murcialago is wrapped in a gleaming white bow.

     Hey - hey - hey -- the punctuating rhythm of Occitan lifting in half commands for the hounds to behave themselves as they wheel around his legs and lower themselves in yoga bows (the gurus got it from somewhere, right?), and half in laughter as he is glad to see his admirers, is grinned out as he holds the tube far out of their jumping range. A hand gestures and the gathering of greyhounds immediately disperses, going instead to flank you as you approach.
     Such a spectacle you all make...
     Tube held up and across his shoulders, William is grinning, a smooth, slanting curve as he looks from the ...gift?... and then to you. He gestures with the tube, the smile spreading. "That is nice," the baritone is smoother still, "...a gift from one of your admirers?" he teases.

     "I don't have any admirers," Ian explains, remaining against the stone wall. He kisses in return, then motions to the car's rear. "It's not for me," he murmurs, grinning at the French plate on the Italian sports car. "No one would call me El Hefe. What's that mean, anyway?" Ian blinks in rapid succession.
     "Happy birthday," he says, offering a black key made of a single thin rectangle of metal.

     El Hefe...
     Such a smoldering laugh, the sounds of it embering forth, when he reads it for himself. "El Hefe," William chuckles, dark eyes quite delighted. "Is this my new name? I like it. Boss," he translates. Boss. Chief. King. El Hefe. You do not need a translation for the sound that emits from his throat and from his chest as his hand closes over the key. "Merci... for another wonderful early birthday." It is not a birthday present. He never gets cars for turning older. "Thank you," he says in Gaelic at your mouth, another kiss given.
     "I have something too, for us. But it is a surprise as much for me," William hands the non-descript roll to you. "We will unveil it together. But.. first maybe we should go for a drive...I cannot just let it sit there, ready to eat the roads of France but sitting idle..."

Posted by rowan at August 02, 2004 11:46 AM