He has not come down to the beach as he said he would. It is not like him not to want to be walking on the beach, hand-in-hand with you, and discussing the finer points of his life with you while removing his clothing and daring you for a swim.
     When last seen from where you stood on the sand, near the water, William was turning with something to his ear. Not a shell, not here. It must have been his phone. And he leaned on the railing of the deck he built, semi-circular, a place to enjoy the weather (when it's fair with its gentle trade winds, as it has been since your arrival, and one another. His arms folded. And after a few minutes of talking, he put his phone away.
     But he did not move from his spot, standing and leaning. His arms returned to their folded position. He stood like that for another minute, maybe two, before unwinding with a breath and turning to find you. That is how you may see him now, in casual attire meant for this coast and its fickle weather, his hair short -- not giving the wind much to mess with -- and his hands landing on the wooden railing.
     "Found any buried treasure yet?" William calls down to you. "I know of at least five ships laden with gold that have met a bad end on this stretch... you know... if we find it, we'll be rich." Spoken as if the two of you weren't rich already.
     His voice is deep, the sound carrying as you know it can, filled with warmth and humor, as it is so often with you. But it comes with a face drawn in something other than humor. Something more pensive. Something more upset.

     Down on the beach, when the word 'rich' is mention, the figure lifts his arms above his head and dances. Apparently, he wants to be rich and likes the notion very much. He'll start searching tonight, it seems, as he skips back and forth a few steps.
     Then, he stops and looks up at you, hands on his hips as if to say Get down here.

     William laughs, shaking his head. Who would ever believe this if I told them? No one. And I am glad. It is our secret. We are owed a few of those by now. He leaves his scotch and his glass behind, the ice melted now, polluting what little remained of the blood of Scotland, and he moves barefooted upon the world, his weight given first to the planks of the deck and then to the stone steps that lead to the ocean beach.
     The sand is fine here, whipped and beaten into a tiny frenzy by winds against the rocks. "Of course," he goes on as he slowly approaches, "...I think a couple of the ships were Irish, so gold will be a bit scarce but the whiskey should be nice and aged..."
     The wind tries to move through his hair, but it's short. It only further musses it without him losing the style of it. The shirt is undone over a pullover tee, both untucked over a pair of jeans. Both of you are unrecognizable now. You with your dancing and he in his dungarees.
     William's expression lightens somewhat as he comes to stand before you. There's a softness in his eyes, something to the smile. "We should have the boys buy us those metal detectors. Then we really will be old men combing the sea..." His hand lands upon your side, he bends and gives a kiss. "Sorry I'm late... I got a call..."
     Surely the only reason for the mixed mood...

     ''S'alright," Ian offers in his native tongue. He sways beneath knightly hands, allowing his hands to rest on soldierly shoulders. "Who's on the phone?" Ian asks, his brogue darkening with each passing month. It's been a long visit home, and Ian hasn't complained. "You haven't thrown me down on the sand yet, nor suggested anything lewd involving water." He smirks, but it's not so pressing. Something's up, that's clear. Here's your opportunity to speak it, freely given.
     "Maybe we should stop your phone calls while we're here," Ian teases.

     "A very good idea," William counters with a smile, his hand remaining on you. In fact, his other one joins it. Soon, you are surrounded. "It was Edward. He sends his greetings to you, as always," he says it like he's mentioning it now, before he forgets. It was Edward. William takes a breath and looks to you. "He called about Davydd..."
     "Seems," he continues, you'll stop him when you wish to, "...he and Davydd met on the street...had an uncomfortable time. Edward is realizing he is angry, more angry than he had given himself leave to be earlier. So, now... like me... he is not sure where or how to move things forward. And he says that Davydd is alone. Rebuffed by the Ventrue, hanging on by a thread with Tattinger I'm sure...he wasn't faring much better than that a few years ago. His woman has left him. And now... his only two friends aren't or can't speak with him."
     That mouth of his. Every smile, the birth of a new Casanova. Every frown, the birth of a new Caesar. Right now... it is neither one nor the other. With narrowed indigo eyes, William seems... to be without decision. A rare thing for him. "Apparently... his only ally is Isabella of Bristol. He is treading on mighty thin ice there..."

     Ian was gazing into indigo eyes, swaying in his knight's arms.
     Then Isabella was mentioned.
     He winces.
     Brows arch to relax.
     "Well," Ian begins, "...that's not what I was expecting to hear." Instead of collapsing headlong into the kiss that lingered out there for him, Ian blinks a few times and pats those knightly shoulders in camaraderie and brotherhood, sighing as he begins to let the embrace fall away.
     Politics is on the table.
     "Isabella..." he says her name as thinking upon it, "...wants very little now. But what she wants is grand," Ian ponders. "Dangerous. And well, mythic. There's no reason that she'd succeed at it."
     Apparently, he knows something.
     Ian shrugs and shakes his head. "I guess Davydd could care." But he can't really imagine why, knowing what he knows.
     But then Ian frowns. "You have me talking about him and I had no plans on talking about him at all." Davydd, that is. "This is becoming unfun," he notes for the record, looking down at squishy sand between his toes.

     "I will say, for the record, that I am not enjoying it either," he quietly responds. He looks to you as you move from his embrace. The eyes that know that you know but wonder: will you say? An eyebrow lifts as the once royal head inclines. "You know something about it." It is a question, and not a question.
     His mouth twists, still in a noncommittal frown. William looks to the sea, as if it shall somehow clear his mind or reveal something, some missed truth in all of this. Some real reason for any of it. As usual, the ocean keeps its opinions, and its motives, to itself. "We don't have to talk about him," he says, turning back to you.
     His hand reaches for you. "Irish pirates used to raid these harbors. Some of the most dangerous waters known to man out there, just dripping with gold." It's a good story and a worthwhile dream of adventure, at any rate.
     No, we don't have to talk about it. The air reverberates with that. "We will look for some... when I return from London..." He is going. As you know he would. "I am hoping ... that the I in that sentence will be turned to We..."

     Ian does give you his back, but only as he watches the black water lain before him. He crosses one arm at his chest, and the other props up on it, finger lifting his own chin. The consideration is one of pending proclamation. He knows something, and he will share it.
     "Isabella," Ian says, "...wants what was, William. What it was like here, on the island, before Mithras arrived." It's a name he's never feared. "Well, she wants what was here when..." she and her Other walked the grass as demi-goddesses. "Before. Before she lost what was lost."
     "I'm being generous," Ian turns back to see you, smiling. "Something changed, it is true. How wonderful it was, well," Ian grins, "You can see I may be of another opinion. I don't think on it because I do not spend energy on what cannot be, let alone what may never was," he says in mauled tongue. That grammar wouldn't work right in any language.
     "At least that is what I have thought from her...and those who whisper about her." Maybe he doesn't have first-hand knowledge. But Ian sighs, frowning as if he does. "My opinion, to her," he acknowledges, "...is known. Hence..." some of the coolness between them. He had not been to keen to see her when the business with Henri transpired.

     "What was here before Mithras was here... and before We came," he says of his own people. "I fought with Davydd over similar reasons before. Granted, I didn't know him then, not personally." Now, he frowns. "I suppose it is easy to see then why he might fall in with her. He is of that mind. He's... British." Not English.
     William looks to you, murmuring, "It's all right, amours, I will not be angry if you curse the Saxons and the Normans that followed them. I take no offense at fact. It fairly well wrecked it all. So... he fought me... and Mithras embraced him... once I was gone." A pause. "Mostly...embraced him." That is.
     William Plantagenet frowns and exhales at History. He folds his arms against his chest. "It is...not in my nature to be idle," he speaks again, quietly. He looks from you to the sea again. "Unfortunately, that is now how me...or my kind... ever moved in the world. But, I must also realize that ... just because I want a thing, does not mean that I can make it so." Yes, he is upset. "No matter how I wish it to be so. See, like Isabella... I too wish things to be as they Were. I do not know if that now cannot be. Or... in fact... if it ever Was..."

     Ian faces you, arms at his side. A tale to be told. He lets a hand lift to strain white-golden hair through his fingers. "They say that once, the island was nothing but magic. The creatures lived here in harmony and the sylphs frolicked in rings in the glades. That it was clear when magic was good and when it was for ill. When life was in balance - Albion, I guess. A mythic place, seen and unseen simultaneously." Ian smirks and rocks onto his heels.
     "I will guess that was before my time," he chortles skeptically.
     Ian tilts his head to see you. "I think it is not so literal, but...it is something in their minds, those who think it, I guess. Just...not the Now," he presumes.
     "She talked to me of it once," Ian confesses, "...after I laid the rules of My Court," a time he rarely speaks of, let alone refer to in those tones. "An open court," he nods, "...it's what I demanded and what I got. All who wished quiet got it," he recalls, "...as long as they didn't bring any danger to the court, and as long as I allowed. Wolves, fae, banshees...there was even a hag or two." A McInveray came from it. Ian frowns, recalling, "I think she saw something that wasn't, in that. In my actions. But you know me - I am but the selfish pragmatist. The outsider. My court was set for my convenience, not...for whatever she saw in it. And so," Ian finishes, smile returning when his gaze meets your eyes. There you have it, his tale.
     "Oh and if you want me to go to the City, I'll go," Ian adds, recalling the previous point. "But Davydd with Isabella; the enemy of my enemy is my friend?" Ian shakes his head, 'I have never ascribed to that politic. He'll pay for any alignment with her, regardless of anything."

     "Is she an enemy? Or someone you just decide to ignore? She has her universe, you have yours. Parts of hers," he smirks at that, a wink given to you. Yes, whatever any might have, part of it may be yours for the taking. He loves the conqueror in you. He admires it. It thrills him. Has he ever said it plainly?
     "Davydd will pay no matter his move, it is only a matter of Time," William murmurs. "I just do not know how not to love when I still love. It would be easier if I could, like a switch, turn this on and off at my pleasure and leisure. But... and I don't think it was all a mirage...this time that has passed between us. From the time I was nineteen to now." He shakes his head.
     "What am I to do but go to London?" he asks but he knows the question already. "I am compelled by my ... own sense of love, of brotherhood, which exists... regardless of whether it is returned. Does brotherhood end... does love end... when it is needed most? Or does it in such trial confirm its rightness?" William takes a breath, then his undecided look returns. "Am I a fool for caring, Ian..."

     But that is the point, isn't it? Ian softens, leaving politic behind. "No, you are not a fool," he explains. "Now recall the source when I say that - only a few years ago, I might have said yes. But now? No. Centuries are a long time - I do not understand why what happened has happened. I cannot see it in the light of larger things. Some context. But in the small frame," Ian steps up, arms at your biceps, "...of you and your friend, no. Love can end or be lost. I guess...I would only worry when fighting for your friend puts you in extraordinary danger, when the love is not returned, I guess. But I do not know, Gui, for," Ian admits, "I have no friends as you do. I never have."
     "And maybe I...and my life...are the less for it," Ian offers. "You have had something else." With those you love.

     "I have... difficulty..." He stops there, exhaling in his own frustration. "My head, it is telling me one thing. It tells me... things as you say. That to continue this relationship is to put myself... and particularly Us... at risk. And I cannot do that. No more than I have already had to do."
     "But my heart," he looks to you as you touch him, "... with him, it was forged in blood and fire and war, laughter and liberation. When I was in despair during the first and second world wars, he was there, with me all the way, his hand on my shoulder when it was required. Wherever I have needed him... he has been there. And my soul ... does not understand how I may choose to do anything but love him."
     His hands come to take you in their grasp once more. "So, here I am... at war with myself these past weeks. And... I apologize... for barking at everything else but what has been nagging me." Yes, those conversations. The knee-jerk reactions to...nothing. Seemingly to nothing. But you knew, didn't you? As you know there is no such thing as nothing in the universe of Plantagenet.
     "I do not know what to do, Ian...for the first time... I honestly... do not know..."

     Ian closes his eyes, letting his weight fall to your arms in the embrace. He smiles as he turns his face to the darkened sky. He pats softly at the apology, soon following it up with, "I cannot say what to do about your torn heart, Gui. Your friend put you into jeopardy by concealing something so basic, so...essential. Yet it was perhaps not done out of maliciousness, but from personal fear? I do not know."
     "I guess," grey eyes open, "...the thing to do, is to reevaluate. What kind of relationship do you need going forward? Assess," the rational mind suggests, "...what you need to know about him now? Security, safety, trustworthiness. You must start, I think," he frowns, "...from the beginning? If you met him on the street and had a drink, would you want to know more? Would you trust him to make him your friend? And if so, what would you demand to know and understand, without any doubt?"

     You come into his arms, and he holds you. His mouth moves against your hair. He says nothing for a time. William listen to your counsel, breathing against the gold strands at his mouth. His hands tell you that you are right, that you are wise, that he thanks you. The circular motion of those hands on you, the light touch followed by the stronger grasp. Entire conversations can pass this way between the two of you.
     "I would not trust him right away, no. I would have to know him." Indigo looks to you. "I would require of him what I have required from everyone I have taken into my confidence. Truth. Honesty." You can see it in his eyes, those eyes you know so well...
     He has made a decision. Once made, it is a duke's resolution...
     "So, I know what I shall do in London." A pause. "But ...we will also go out, to the best restaurants," he is smiling now. "Allow me to be extravagant with you. You can show me off, hmm?" You get your kiss at last. It comes gently, warmly, a brush, a breath of I Love You, and then it parts for you.

     "Now you are making no sense," Ian whispers, determined to enjoy the moment. His eyes close again as he leans against you, the kiss still on his breath. "I rarely leave Kensington and I cannot eat," he chuckles, knowing you know both.
     "Are we done now?" Ian asks with a drowsy smile, his hand finding the nape of his knight's neck. The topic has become tiresome to Scotland, apparently.

     He laughs, and Beauty explodes with it. "But I thought you liked watching me eat. Maybe that is only chocolate," his mouth is given to you again. "We are done," William whispers. And he means it. The air around him lightens, his hold around you strengthens, and warmth issues between you borne by things other than the gentle trade winds blowing through the palms.
     "Do you want to go ...seeking after buried treasure now... or later?" William speaks against your neck. And you are suddenly aware that there are two meanings to the question. His mouth is on the move, wandering at, then beneath your ear and downward to where your shoulder begins.
     But maybe he means the swimming...

Posted by rowan at May 08, 2005 09:28 PM