There is still open country between the chateau and the Abbey Fontevraud, miles of largely unchanged French countryside, smaller vineyard roads, a few main roadways. But traffic is minimal this time of night. It is 15km of largely uninterrupted evening.
     There is a synergy, both natural and mechanical, that exists between the large Norman duke and his large Spanish horse. The legs grasp, there are subtle changes that signal instructions. The straightness of his posture in synchronicity with the stallion's own easy, elongated gait. Both dark. Both beautiful. Both studied and full of confidence. They are a perfect pair, the black Andalusian and his Angevin rider...
     William has taken to keeping the black stallion with him, to riding only him, the others sent to Chenonceau, one to stud in Cadiz. He forgoes the prized thoroughbreds he purchased for you. This stallion is a personal choice.
     And as with everything else in his universe, the choice has meaning...
     Even as his choice to cut the portraits of his family from their frames means something more than conserving space in the vaults. They have not hung on the walls for years, and now it appears they shall never be seen.
     For what meaning do they have to him? What meaning, after all this time, should they have? And yet, William notes he is riding toward them even as he is attempting to put them behind him, to free himself of the need of recalling them in anyway other than ...simple nostalgia. He is riding to Fontevraud. Now, what is the meaning of that?

     The horse beneath Ian is relatively quiet for a young male. Perhaps it is the breeding. Certainly he may wish to challenge Ian's mastery, but he makes little vocalization of it. Perhaps the only sign of a struggle is the occasional glance downward from Ian, as if searing commands into the rear of the horse's brain.
     Heading toward Fontevraud is an enjoyable trip. The countryside is strangely unchanged, once the lights of Chinon are left behind. The river wends, lined with old groves of trees and soft dirt. Above the river banks, on the hills, things are firmer. These nights, Ian finds the familiar countryside comforting, even inviting. He rides quietly and occasionally smiles, but as with all things, Ian is perhaps lost in his thoughts, moving through some feeling or project and finding resolutions.

     How the two of you are of one mind these nights. That you should be perfectly content riding through France, side by side, not speaking. There are smiles traded, and glances, and by that you know he, too, is lost in his own thoughts. Of projects. Of finding resolutions.
     The Andalusian is quite ancient and he, as his rider, moves with preternatural grace, something far beyond the dressage gait of a seasoned warhorse. He is Other now, even as William is. He is the slide of a Plantagenet hand upon its own territory. His grunts are the commands to the earth beneath his hooves, and the earth seems to make way for him.
     His time on this earth should come to an end. No horse should live so long, see so much, know so much, be so far from equine as he is. It is a grim thing to know. It is a grim thing to do. This is, no mistaking it, their final summer together.
     "I have been thinking," so many nights start inauspiciously with that statement, "... of going to Paris this summer. The last time we were there, I believe that is when you were researching your familie," the Occitan sparks and flames like a candle, dripping consonants of sensual wax and singing the air. "Would you like to take in the symphonie, the opera?"

     Ian's gaze lifts, and he exhales a great wash of air. "Paris..." he muses for a moment, nodding his head. "It has been a while since we've had a cultural excursion," he smiles. "We have been in the countryside for a while -- instead of simply visiting the country, we act as if we live there. Heaven forbid," Ian smirks to himself, looking right, to the river.
     "Paris sounds nice for a few nights. Opera Garnier? I shall let you choose. I am sure it'll be lovely..."

     The quiet of the surrounding night is cracked open by his warm and true laughter. Laughter that only you in all this world are gifted with. Many have heard him drawl out in humor, grin like the very devil in angel's clothing or the betterment of Casanova, but none have heard him laugh as easily as living and as warmly as you have.
     "Heaven forbid it, indeed. I think we've been holed up long enough. The world is ours, as much as we want of it," William notes. "We should experience it again, this time together, mais oui? Opera Garnier... I will look into it and make plans. Just keep your calendar free for me," he grins that out, as if he doubts it.
     Yes, maybe that's it, William. Maybe it is not that you have been too available, too stuck in the past. It is that you and he have been stuck in the house! It is cabin fever. Pure and simple. William nods to that thought, "... enough of this cabin fever," he reiterates out loud.
     The river winds to the right and you and he meander this short distance from Chinon to Fontevraud, eight miles only each way. An easy ride for a long evening of such. "Is there anything else you wish to do this summer? I do not think my business will call me much to the Bella Flotilla," Venezia, "... this season. Next year," he notes. So now you can both relax about that. "So... we should get out from time to time, I am thinking," indigo eyes shift toward you, that face turning with them. "Carpe noctem..." William grins. Heels touch to stallion's sides and the Andalusian enters a slow and easy canter.

     Ian smiles and looks back to this side of the river. "Get out from time to time. You think we have cabin fever?" He looks down at the reins in his hand and blinks. "I do not know where we would go, William. Nothing seems to drive me these nights - I follow where you go." That is all I know. "To Chinon. To Paris. To Venezia." Ian shakes his head, shrugging as he looks down again. "Wherever you go."
     How is it when you have what some part of you wanted. A wish made eight centuries ago...someone devoutly wished it. Somewhere, someone's pleased.
     Even now, someone's pleased.
     Ian's grey eyes look to you and wink. "Where would you like to go today," Ian asks, borrowing a phrase.

     "Maybe it's just me," William admits with a slow spread of a smile. "Well," he exhales, the air warm enough now not to mist upon him doing so, "... tonight it is to Fontevraud and back. It feels good to be outdoors. I get ... restless," oh how you know, "...this time of year. It is a habit from the campaigning seasons, probably." He gives the Andalusian a pat as they move together toward the abbey, not yet in sight. "Mais oui, mon ami?" he says to the beast. And the beast, understanding, grunts and tosses a proud head.
     "I am in wonder at such things," he offers quietly. "... these ...habitual motivations, like internal reflexes." He shrugs a little. "There is no reason to change these things..." But he sees them, and he understands them. William is quiet for a time again, a time during which he spends much time looking at you. Safir knows the way better than he, it is the horse that is guiding, truly. William's attention is on you. "Are you concerned about this... feeling you have, this lack of...drive... I do not think it is something to worry about. After such centuries as we have had..."

     "A little," Ian says softly, hand tightening at the pommel for a split second. He appears as if he'd speak, but then settles once more, keeping the details of his thoughts to himself. "It's nice to be outdoors though," Ian offers, nodding his head. "Paris for a few nights will be nice as well."

     He notices the hand grasping. He notices the shift of topic. William looks ahead between his horse's dark ears. Between them, the stretch of the horizon. The future that is unseen, unknown. Indigo color may not be discerned much in this darkness, but the warmth that emits from them is unmistakable. So, too, the strength you know is there.
     "Wherever you are, I am there with you. The rest ...will sort itself out as naturally as Time itself." Do not worry too much. You will know what you will know, you will feel what you will feel, and I shall love you.
     "Let's pick up the pace a bit," William whispers as he leans in, smiling.

     The suggestion gets an almost immediate response. Ian manages to smile, encouraging his horse forward. Instead of a walk, his horse begins a gallop. "We should have thought to camp out," he says, spirits picking up quickly, "...where is Guillermo when you need him," Ian smiles. Too bad he does not keep his cellphone on him. "A night beneath the stars..." he trails off, pushing his horse ahead.

     Habits. Old habits that have become impulses, impulses that became compulsions, compulsions that, in some cases, became illnesses. And still we ride to Fontevraud...
     The gallop recently entered is halted, halted in protest by the evening-colored stud. His hand resists the urge to reach out and grab the reins to your thoroughbred. Instead, he whistles to let you know he's stopped. "I have a question for you," William announces. "Why do we ride to Fontevraud?"
     William glances toward it, not that it can be seen in the distance, but his eyes know the way. "Is it a habit, too? Or is it because it is close? Am I bound to go there," he wonders aloud, his wonder a self-accusation, "... like a magnet pulled to the pole?"
     And now he seems suddenly upset. Not with you but at the invisible tug of history. "You know... I do not want to go there. I pay my stipend to the abbey's continued health and restoration. It does not need me to visit it. And there is no one there for me to see, just ashes that used to be human beings."
     William is quiet for a few moments, he turns his horse back in the direction of Chinon, the lights of his village he can see from here. "I have a better idea. Follow me... we will go home and pack..."
     Pack?
     You know that look. You've seen it on the faces of his ancestors. You have seen it on his own face. The need to change locations. The sudden inspiration... if you will... to do Something. To be Somewhere. Anywhere, it seems, but Fontevraud...

     The whistle is acknowledged with a turn of his horse and grey eyes wide in the darkness. Arms hold the reigns, and elbows lift.
     Well, what a strange question.
     Ian's eyes narrow slightly. "I...thought we were going...just to ride. It was a convenient location?"
     Ah well. Horse already turns. Ian's eyes soften to normal stare and he shrugs to himself as he picks up the pace to follow back to the village.

     "I am sick of riding from one mausoleum to the next. It is my fault," he notes, giving his horse a little of the lead he wished to take before. "Chinon is my home, I built it to be mine, but it is memory enough. From now on... no more trips to the abbey..."
     What started a few years back, what metamorphisized in the last few weeks, that found itself again in recent arguments, culminates in this. It is time. It is time that the Past was given to the past and left there, where it belongs.
     "I want to swim," William calls out. "... in the ocean...and I want to have bonfires on the beach and listen to young men serenade you...to make you drinks and to look out over the cleansing sea..." He turns his head and grins as he looks to you. "How does that sound instead?"
     Bonfires on the beach...
     Young men, singing...
     Swimming in the ocean...
     Spain....

     "But..." Ian blinks, surprised and moving his horse to catch up, "...what about Paris?" And all we just talked about. "Camping?" he murmurs, the last topic he brought up. "I...mean...I like Cadiz, yes..." not to say negatively, but it's all rather sudden to wish to whisk to Spain.

     When he has started, he is difficult to stop. But even he recognizes he is jumping. And at his own, immense shadow. William halts his horse again and waits for you, his gaze lifting from you to scan his land, much of which he yet owns. "I am going too fast," he says quietly. "We will go to Paris, we can even go camping tonight... but I need to go to Spain."
     Turning to look at you, he shows the earnestness, the seriousness of his own emotions. "It is time to let things go, things that I have been holding onto. It is time for Safir to... go home. He should spend the rest of his days along the stretch of that beach, and to end there. To be at peace there. And with him... all of these... spectral things I've been holding onto so tight it almost choked us both. I am not William Plantagenet, he is gone, dead at two. There is only Guillaume here, Ian. And it's all I want to be..."

     The frown comes again at Ian's features, but this time it is one of thoughtful seriousness. Quick calculations with a stare of examination. There are so many ways to respond to what's been said. Yet Ian chooses a single statement.
     "I fell in love with William Plantagenet, from the day I saw him."
     He understands that some decision has been made. It is how you work. Ian goes quiet and passes by you, unsure of what's meant. His horse's hooves are the only sound as he keeps his counsel.

     He meant the title of the name, and all that name entails. But, to quote a greater writer: what's in a name? William looks at you and he exhales, riding alongside you far easily than he is sitting in his own skin at the moment. It has been a while since he has so cornered himself that he charges...
     But the moment seems to be passing...
     "I am he, but I am tired of his baggage. I am tired of history. It is not my father's time, it is not my brother's time, it is not my mother's time. They are dead. As this horse between my thighs should be. I have held onto these things... out of... I don't know what, security?" He looks to you, dark eyebrows knitted and face concerned. "I do not need them anymore to be myself. I do not need to be an Almost King or an Heir or a royal has-been. I own only the land that is personal to me, and my kingdom may be measured in the square footage of a bed. And I am fine with that. This William Plantagenet prefers it. I am tired of looking for Henry's approval. I don't want to be that way."
     This is the physical frustration borne over several nights spilling into this night. Now that he has seen it and understood it, he wants to be rid of it. As if he could peel it off like so much clothing. "I am still the man you love and the man who loves you," he quietly notes, heels nudging the stallion.

     "Wait," Ian calls sharply, stopping his horse. His eyes meet yours and he offers a bit of a smile. "It is just you and I, Guillaume. You love them - that is understandable. And," Ian grins, "...if you want to go to Spain, then...I am glad to go to Spain," he smiles. "We can to Paris later, hmm? Paris is not so bad in the winter when you have large apartments on the correct bank," Ian explains, "...and a fireplace, much to drink, and many opera tickets with heavy coats." He nods to himself, as if making the point.
     "Besides, we should catch the last warmth before Espana's coasts are too cold, yes?"

     It stills him when you understand. And, stopping, he turns his horse about, walking it toward you. William nods to himself, even as you do, then visibly relaxes. A moment later, the smile smoothens its way across that mouth, claiming it as easily as ever.
     "We go to Spain," he says, strength-in-quiet returning to him. Yes, that is what needs to happen. Spain first. To let it go, to give it to the sea, and to watch the last vestiges of his clinging to the twelfth century be swallowed by the ocean.
     "But not for long," he assures, "...not more than a week. Summer will not be done before we return, we just got here," William chuckles slightly. "We will have time for Paris this year, and we will go."
     William now puts his hand upon the reins you hold, and he leans in. "I promise," he whispers there. "And... I ...apologize for the..." the smile winds slowly, "...amateur dramatics..."

     Ian's brows arch and he laughs. "No, you are professional," Ian murmurs, shaking his head as he smiles. "And..." Ian's head bobs, "I accept your apology," tone simultaneously suggesting that it wasn't necessary. "Spain, then?"

     "I suppose I did have that coming," William grins as he remains close-in, his own eyebrows lifting. "I should get an agent. I could be missing out on a promising second career..."
     He will feel better when it is done. He will not rest until it is done. This, proof if any were needed that he is the namesake of Normandy...

Posted by rowan at November 04, 2004 10:47 AM