"William," he says. His voice is thick. He actually sounds a bit drunk, or maybe he just woke up.
     "Mr. William!" the voice screams...it's Phillip, "Oh, God..oh please come home...Mr. Dunross...is...he..." there's are a couple of voices behind him, frantic....
     "Speak slower, Phillip...What is all this...what about Ian...Mr...Dunross?"
     "Oh, God...there's blood, everywhere! God, I think he slit his wrists or something...in the bedroom...and he's been there for nights and nights..."
     "Shit..."

     The house is quiet when you get there. Phillip greets you at the door, still nervous. "Oh..." he follows after you, "...in...in the bedroom." Everyone is gathered, waiting. They clearly are utterly frazzled, unsure of what to do.

     William motions with both of his hands...a pressing downward...repeatedly. Level down. "It'll be alright," William assures, suffering now from the after effects of too little sleep and too much alcohol and stress. He is a beautiful mess, he is. Pale for it all. "No one has been called, right?" This he says as he strides down the hallway and into the bedroom, figuring that Phillip is following....

     Phillip chatters, "We...Steven...he found him..." Steven is clearly distraught, another servant almost holding him up. The youngest of the staff, he is. "In the bedroom...it was everywhere...he was in the bed." All look and Phillip continues, "I...I...went in...checked...then I saw the note...."
     "I called you...instantly..." Phillip begins to get upset, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...we...no...no one was called..." he swallows, Robert looking sheepish, "We...we thought maybe not to...."

     The door is opened...and the room is immaculate. Ian rests upon the bed, he..the sheets, floor...room spotless and beautiful. As is he in it. Stark marble he is, cast immemoriam. The servants huddle behind you, watching. He lies...as you left him.

     "There..." Phillip points, "...is...an envelope..." Neatly on the bedside, yours.

     William nods as he heads in ...and the sight stops him. A half-step only. "Thank you, Phillip," he murmurs. He narrows his eyes. And he makes a dismissing wave of his hand. Stepping in like the very lord of Normandy he is. The only thing missing is the removal of gloves timed to his steps. He is at the bedside a moment later. First looking to Ian...his hand hesitantly reaching for the envelope. He does indeed take it...and opens it.
 
     In a grey envelope, Ian's stationery, is a folded note on grey...blue ink.
     I don't know what to do or say. I feel empty. I am sorry...that I am running...have I ever run before? Maybe it was too fast...being different. I...trusted you...finally. Really. Inside...unlike before. This... he scribbles, ...was real. It was different...once I was different...for you. Maybe, if you forgive me...wake...I will have something to say...to explain how I feel...it was one too many I think. Right now, there are no words, just nothingness inside.
     Except, I love you. I feel that.
     I love you...
     Ian.
     The charm falls out of the envelope, put inside for safekeeping.

     Phillip nods, and after a long look, tries to gather everyone to go...closing the door behind.

     The charm is a little thing really. In comparison to his large hand. And yet it is heavier than a sword. And it is hard to be wise. It is hard to look at it and look at you and to read these words and not want to slip into the darkness with you. William...purposely...stands in the silence of it. Grieves it. Hates the silence of it. Hears and feels his every mistake. Your every forgiveness. And wishes he were where you are. No where. And his fingers close over the charm. It goes to the safest place he knows. Around his own neck. And he climbs into the bed with you.
     Out of his jacket, he draws a small knife. He never leaves without such in his pocket. William closes his eyes, and whispers the words, "I love you." And his face makes a wince, though he makes no sound of pain. And blood falls upon your lips. First drops...then a stream...

     The blood flows freely over the ashen lips, deep crimson over blued marble. A statue he is...when has he ever felt so cold, so unfeeling...so dead? But as it trails down the soft crease, it tumbles down his cheek and towards his ear and the bed helplessly. Nothing. It will take more than You, dear Knight. Only once before this has happened...during the Inquisition. Yet this is so much more painful in some ways...done by self...not by others. And so the precious nectar flows...that mixture of you and of him. And he cannot respond.

     This house, this city, this earth will rock if you do not wake. For he was not with you then. And he does not know much of Who To Ask. What To Do. He closes his own wound. That was useless. Useless. And the knife is embedded in the wall. With a hum. So deep. Excalibur was embedded no less. William sinks off the bed and to his knees. And so
he will remain. For days.

Posted by rowan at June 02, 1998 01:03 PM