Evenings proceeded with all the effortless motion of wind rifling through scattered blueprints, scattered anything, tossed back covers, tossed back drinks. No mention of fathers, no regrets of sons, nothing untowardly hopeful, nothing untowardly discouraged. Nothing, in fact, out of joint at all.
But it is new. And it is different. How?
In the years following New Port, and upon the settling on European soil, your companion, your homme, had taken to new patterns of loitering through the night with you, being there when you woke, being present while you dressed and even, if not providing your meal himself, he was present while you ate. But in the evenings that followed the last scattering of words, he has been away when you have woken, he has showered before you have risen, and instead of finding him in his solidity you have woken to Him as memory, on the tip of the tongue of your senses...
As with everything Plantagenet, it is of course deliberate. Not even Fate is an accidental tourist in the Angevin Universe. However subtle the orchestration, there is without a doubt a Reason behind the reordering of Night...
What is it? You know your homme...
But in all of his early morning wanderings, his late night studies, his mid-evening appearances, his twilight disappearances, he did not leave you with nothing, no feeling of him at all. There were signs for you, silent messages, if you cared to read them. As always, if you wanted him, he knew that you would find him...
Tonight, unlike the night before when he was found in his jeans and shirt (another unusual sighting, William without a suit), pouring over a pile of blueprints like treasure maps and rolling himself across the marble tile on an artist's stool from old copy blueprints to New Millennium architecture (when did he become so technologically proficient?), William is on the ramparts and parapets of his own architectural wonder, this reconstructed limestone spectacle, being and living and walking among stone. Not dressed in the silks and suits of a prince among painters, but in the simple summer arrangement of a sculptor, stone mason, architect and engineer, William is crossing the bridge from the Tour de Boissy to the Logis Royeaux, his orchards stirring in scent driven by the wind generated by the windmill tower...
Sitting in the grass is Ian, surrounded by several of his dogs. The restored kennel should be their home, but in truth, he cannot be so parted from them. The kennel is simply too far. But in lieu of a walk with them, he's placed himself on the lawn between the Logis and the Dog Run, dressed comfortably in slacks and a shirt.
He looks up at the parapets and then to the bridge. After a stare, he looks back down to his lap where aging Ciardan's head rests. Around him -- a pack of younger dogs, somewhat looking for attention.
You've been busy, was all Ian said the other night. He smiled when he said it, and seemed glad to see the beginnings of long projects. For himself? He wandered to the grounds near the Donjon with Stephen and others, content to practice his driving with a new set of clubs.
It was the same the previous night, and the night after. His handmade Duirs, sent by Padraig once they were done, are withstanding their frequent use.
There is nothing so inspiring to him as the Beginning of Something, and in the rush of Newness he has been a sight to see. Energetic with moments of silent thought, but even in his ruminations he has been dynamic. Standing, thinking, pacing, writing notes and calculations. In his preoccupation, he is perfect. An image of general, artist, teacher, student, lover -- all existing simultaneously, covered by the same skin. He was the same way with Chinon, once.
Hands come upon the stone as he, in his wandering, is greeted by a feeling: You've been busy. The mouth holds a knowing expression, humored at his own energy. And at some other thought, held further back in his mind, present (for the present) only for himself.
Rather than racing down to you, striding immediately or soon thereafter to where you lie, William instead remains on the parapets and, leaning against the most solid limestone, himself most solidly against it, looks to where you sit. It is the planning before the planning, comes the feeling of those words beneath your skin, against your ear as if he were there after all, whispering to you. "Have you had a good evening so far?" William dispenses with the mental wordplay, his voice carrying from the height of castle to the soft earth below. The shirt he wears is a simple t-shirt, white to go with the black trousers of undetermined cloth. Casual these nights. Your man seeming simply that. No kings here...
It's alright, the sigh seems to say. Ian's gaze does not lift, and his hand continues to stroke Ciardan.
The dog is dying.
It's all alright. You seem busy.
The breeze lifts around the lawn and one of the dogs has a seat near Ian's side. This has become his life now, within the walls of two fortresses. Secure existence in seeming safety.
Tonight?
Or just in that general way that all things share, that ultimately they are all dying, trees, dogs, men. William looks at you and Ciardan for a time and he shakes his head. I'm not busy. Not now. "It is hard when friends leave us," William offers quietly to the air. The wind will carry his words to you.
And I should not be so distant...
You want him, and he will materialize. He is gone where you last saw him, a memory now for the parapets. A door closes in the distance. Soon, another will open...
Slowly but surely. Not tonight, but soon. There is slight melancholy, but acceptance of a fact that has percolated for the last couple of years. Each night brings it closer.
No rush of a call. Ian smiles as he pats the dog's head, easily remembering his younger days in New Port. Wolfhounds in Oregon. Strange sight, that.
Thoughts of golf come to mind. Perhaps another round of putting practice. Ian will be ready come spring.
Posted by rowan at October 06, 2004 10:56 PM
