Upon returning to Strathfayr (and what a pleasant respite Moray Firth proved to be), a call came in from Poitiers -- from a much unheard from prince. Ah, but well these things occur, do they not? When one is lost to one's work. And a new relationship. William was surprised, and glad to hear from his friend -- earlier awkwardness now a forgotten matter between the two, treated now as the figment it always was.
     But the business was with you...
     Not that William could not also provide advice, but it was not a general's advice he required. It was a justicar's advice. A more political advice, rather than tactical...
     He announced his intent to visit by the next evening, and that he would be bringing a gift for each of his hosts. No room would be necessary, for he and his lover would be staying in Beauly.
     It is the end of spring and the weather is fair. By day, the rise and fall of the earth are swarming with flowers and bees. By night, the air is still humming, somehow still vibrant. In Beauly -- what a village, Beauly, covered in flowers, a tiny paradise for one such as Alire -- his lover (and travel agent) is waiting in a room, waiting for him and for his eventual return. In Strathfayr -- what a castle, Strathfayr, sitting on its ancient haunches as it watches over the valley.
     Alire's car pulls into the courtyard, circling as it rolls to a stop. A hired car, available even in Beauly, it is dark and new. Golden and ancient is the one who steps from it, doing his own driving tonight. He closes the door and gathers his coat about him.
     For even though it is nearly summer, it is afterall... still Scotland...

     There's a nod from the man attending in the kitchen courtyard, well within one of the keep's sets of gates. Eamonn only smiles at the gentleman arriving, then peers inside to make sure nothing is left behind. "Sir," he says, motioning to the kitchen courtyard door. The guest will have to walk through the working kitchen area in order to get to the main hall. But this does not seem to worry Eamonn. Folks have seen worse than Dionnach.
     "The lords are waiting within," Eamonn explains, closing the car door.

     There are no bags. Nothing but himself and driving himself. This prince travels lightly.
     "Thank you," Alire smiles. He reeks of politeness, but there are worse things to reek of, certainly. He moves through the door to the kitchen area, eyes out for Dionnach -- a familiar face to him by now. His smile remains and he gestures to one of two doors. "Through here?"
     This place is such a maze...

     "Yes, Sir," Eamonn says, ignoring the men and women in the kitchens. These nights, Eamonn is head of all things outdoors: he's rarely inside. But when he is, he still seems lordly. He walks through another set of doors that eventually open up into the Great Hall of the keep.

     Alire follows his lead to the Great Hall, ducking to step past a lintel that was never designed for a 6'6" tall Swiss knight. There is a last look to Eamonn, a final nod, and he moves to be received.
     "With the lighting on the outside, you can see that the fields are still bleeding violet," Alire says in opening. There is a warmth to his tone and, indeed, a happiness that surrounds him.
     After William's concerns, perhaps you would more expect him to be showing evidence of strain or... something. But William's concerns, much as his jealousy, appear to be unfounded...

     "They are," Ian smiles, rather delighted at the guest, "...until high summer. Then the heads will begin to wilt, leaving an ashen glow." He knows his Scotland. As he crosses the room from what seems a staircase in a tower, Ian's grin only becomes wider...and wider. He's dressed casually in grey slacks and an off-white shirt in the same color palette. His stare says, Ah, what have you been up to? "My goodness, you do look...well."
     A hand extends in greeting, but certainly kisses upon the cheek will follow. "Alire d'Avignon, welcome again to our home." You are well met by a rather happy youngster.

     One hand (no gloves tonight, it is warm enough) clasps with strength and affectionate warmth. His smile widens to a more normal breadth -- not his usual slim style. Of course, the continental kisses come, one upon each cheek, and then a final third. A greeting between friends. "And again, I thank you. For both. And do have something for you as I promised..."
     His other hand holds two packages in separate, highly ornate sacks. "This is for you, something you should have had long ago. I recently found them as I was going through things. I realized they needed to come home to you." What treasure could this be? The damask bag holds a perfectly square, fairly sizable box with some amount of weight to it. "This is for Guillaume, a few treasures from Avignon.... I will give it to him later..." When I see him, I presume? He sets it aside for now.
     "It is always a pleasure to see you. You look amazing as always. I am pleased that happiness abounds. I was hoping to have a visit sometime this summer. I decided it could not wait..."

     Oh? Ian grins as the kisses are finished and he accepts the bag. "We're glad that you decided to come." Always 'we', as if some invisible other is present. "Come sit," he motions, "...a drink?" if you do such. "Of anything you like," including the best of the house, he certainly means. Ian moves to one of the many seats and plops himself into it, fingers beginning to unwrap the damask bag. "William, of course, will see you privately in a bit. He is finishing a call," Ian explains.
     "How long has it been?" Ian wonders as he unwraps.

     "When in Scotland... a scotch...I should drink nothing else. Particularly in this house." Your stores are a thing of legend. Alire removes his coat and he takes a seat, settling as you unwrap the damask box. "I do not want to say, I fear it has been too long. Embarrassingly long," he admits. "Pardon my silence. These past two years have been... very hectic for me. Not that such should ever be an excuse between friends."
     He looks at you as you unwrap the present. There is a tenderness to his look. "I should say, as you unwrap that, that the gift is really from William. I am just the messenger." He smiles. "I have missed saying that. Ventrue Express, only in this case... many years delayed. I forgot I had them..."
     The box is simple, taped shut on two sides, regular square cardboard. Inside, there are bundles gathered together, rubber bands holding aged papers. Envelopes. Letters. The paper has turned colors with Time. Some are stained with blood and smell of the residue of smoke.
     "I am sure you will wish to view them privately," Alire murmurs gently. "But it is ... a reminder to me... it was a reminder to me...of my earlier duties. I have longed for them. I had not realized how much of an errant knight," a wandering knight perhaps not all that different from The Wandering Jew, "...I had become until I no longer wandered..."

     Now he's confused. Ian quirks, not understanding that the gift is from William. A young man suddenly comes into the room though, and without a pause, he moves towards a bar. Ian continues to open the package, tenderly handling the documents inside. "I don't understand what they are?" Hm. Ian doesn't go into it with you, but he does seem moved by it all. "I will do as you suggest," Ian affirms, sitting back to get another look at you.
     "And two years?" Ian searches the rafters above. "No, Alire, is it not three?" It must be. Before the art show. "I hear wonderful things from Poitiers, Alire. Congratulations to you," Ian smiles, crossing his legs as he sets the package aside. "Are you enjoying Poitiers as well?"

     "They are letters," Alire softly speaks it, as if it is a secret between the two of you. "William wrote them during the war, before and after every engagement. Letters that were to be delivered to you..." Should he not make it home. He doesn't say it. "I will take the chance in weathering his anger, if he thought them destroyed."
     And that is why you should read them not in his presence. It is not for him to know or to see.
     "None of them have ever been opened. They are ... as they were... the moment he gave them to me."
     Alire does not glance at the servant coming without a vocal command. Who needs to use the voice when one has a perfectly good mind? His hand comes out to take the scotch as it is handed to him. Neat, as it should be tasted. Unpolluted. "At least the first year, I still remembered how to use a telephone," he nods to you with a smile. Yes, it is three years. Tempus Fugit.
     "It is about Poitiers... or rather me in Poitiers ... that I wish to speak with you. As I have said," a glance from the glass to you, he does not sip until he is finished speaking, "... I respect your guidance and your experience. My mind is now...superceded by my heart." He is in love. "I am not used to it and could use a trusted ear to hear my thoughts..."

     The look was drawing serious until notions of the heart are mentioned. Ian brightens, waving off the servant who sets Ian's drink near his hand. "Oh, well," he smiles, "I do recall our conversation on this - I presume..." he dips his chin. It's the same man spoken of then.
     "Forgive me asking," Ian sighs, rolling his eyes, "You wished to talk politic," he reminds.

     The smile shows itself and speaks the Truth without him having to say anything else. Yes, he blushes, but he grins along with it. "It is... the same. Mio Giancarlo. I have experienced something ... I never thought it would be mine to experience it again. I never held out such hopes. I wish that I could divulge the fullness of the story, perhaps when I better understand it myself. But..." Yes, politics will follow, "... we are together and very much in love. It is a match... for lifetimes."
     He spoke that in the plural. Has he embraced his love?
     "And... no forgiveness necessary. I like to talk of him," Alire chuckles a little. "But it has made me realize... that my life is so much different than I ever expected it would be. And truly while Poitiers has had my body, it has not had my heart or my soul, some nights... not even my mind." And that is the nature of the issue.
     "I have realized that it is not my path, the path of kings." Old terminology. But then, he is old. "My path has ever been that of the priesthood. And now with Giancarlo in my life... my life so radically different in so many ways... that has only become more apparent to me. So much so, in fact, that it is my intent to speak with Messereich...and to hand the future to someone else. And this is why I have come, Prince. To hear your counsel on this matter. Before the realization becomes thought becomes act."
     How refreshing a prince of Poitiers Alire must be for Messereich. So unlike William in every degree.

     But he is truly stunned now. So much in your statements. Ian's brows arch and he looks away, just to think an instant. The point of it all is where he starts, "No longer be prince?" Ian frowns, mulling the words upon his own tongue. The tone suggests that it's almost unthinkable. Grey eyes switchback to see you and Ian exhales through his nose. Tactile that.
     "Perhaps I am not the best to counsel on this," Ian begins, "I do understand your evaluation of being on the path of the priesthood," even Ian knows some philosophies never die, "...and your concern over your attention to your city. That is where you duties lie," Ian nods.
     "But to leave?" Is it... your happiness, these changes...are they so extreme? Yes, it is extreme to do what you are suggesting. Many have spoken for you for this role. You have not been there so long. We..." the clan in this regard, "...need you to hold the seat. And...you are well-deserved of it, Alire. It is yours."
     "Those are..." Ian nods, "...my first thoughts. My political thoughts. My Ventrue thoughts as one who has been a price, strove to keep it, use the position, and eventually passed it on to someone else, after the appropriate amount of time."
     Grey eyes peer at you. There is another mind, another series of thoughts Ian is not yet expressing. But he leave that there for now.

     He absorbs what you say. For a time he says nothing. He does finally sip at the scotch, and he mulls upon its flavor even as he listens to your counsel. Alire nods at length, hearing things from you that he has heard himself say. What he has heard Giancarlo say.
     "I would not wish to do anything that would subvert the Clan's position. It would negate my previous work, not to mention make my present life more... interesting than I wish." His expression turns to thoughtful -- and thought full. "Perhaps then... as one who has held such a position and ... who has had such a love... can speak to me of... balancing these things. Perhaps my discomfort is not the position," he thinks of it now, "...but how I am approaching it in terms of my life, and of the changes in it."
     Alire sips at the scotch again, his expression turning to admiration as he looks to you. "How, Prince, did you achieve such balance? You were very successful in Edinburgh. You had a vision, and you maintained a private life, a personal relationship few could fathom." He can fathom such a love. For he has such a love.

     Ah, now we are to it. Ian nods, almost sadly. "I cannot say, Alire. I believe that I did not do it so well. Yes, I was prince for almost one-hundred and fifty years in Edinburgh, but...William was not with me all of that time. In fact, my eventual departure was in order to rectify my relationship with him," again. But he'll not say how many time reconciliation has happened in eight centuries. "He did not like the Scottish cold or...the darkness, he said. But only of late has he changed his mind on this to wish to stay here for long periods of time."
     "This is why I feel that I do not have the best answers for you. For you see, Alire, my love...and I...have had our share of togetherness and departures." Pain and anguish, in truth, but Ian will avoid going into gory details.
     "I guess, the thing to think of...is what would you want from the clan in the future? What do you sacrifice now, what do you gain, and those sacrifices...can you regain them over time?"

     Again, he absorbs what you say. He is quiet as he listens. He does not interrupt, or think about his replies while you speak (how refreshing). His thoughts are in motion, that much is evident to one such as you.
     "That is, I think, a better way for me to consider it," he agrees. "My... career... has been largely good. I have cultivated it no less than my gardens. One does not typically set fire to one's own field." He listens to your advice, to Giancarlo's and to his own. Coming full circle. He remains in Poitiers.
     "I think I must find a new way in Poitiers," he thinks aloud, another sip of scotch -- unlike William, he can make one glass last for hours. "My first vision for the city was merely to transition it gently. That has been done. Perhaps this ... discomfort has merely been the projection from one phase ending, and another beginning. For I do wish to serve the Clan in the present and in the future. If they believe it was done merely for personal comfort... to what shall I be trusted in the future?"
     Alire stops thinking aloud, looking to you as he finishes his glass. "I thank you for the questions you provided, for those are often more important than the answers, Prince..."

     Ian grins, one eye closing in bemusement. His nose wiggles. "It's alright," he casually tosses, reaching for his drink finally. "I confess that there are such rumors on myself in our circles," Ian explains. "It is for my own choices - and those reading my mind -" he grumps, drink waving in the air, "...for some of the same reasons that now sit in front of you. I cannot tell you not to do what you feel, but to think of how long you have for things to go the way that you wish."
     "And so," Ian's brows wiggle mischievously, "...can you speak of what happened with your young man since we first talked on him? Is he here? Is he in Poitiers? He has accepted you then, yes? You were worried about this..."

     The blush lifts again, so easily apparent on Swiss, and vampiric, cheeks. "He is here, with me. He is in Beauly. He lives with me in Poitiers, though I think he misses Italy. I will have to work in more travel to my schedule." The blush begins to fade somewhat, but it is followed by a smile that will not stop, not even when he speaks.
     "He has accepted me... I have not told him anything to endanger him, but he understands my condition. Or at least the terms of it," its restrictions and predilections. "He is not involved in any of the politics. For both of our sakes. And for the sake of our bedroom," and now the blush returns. He finishes the scotch.
     He won't try to correct that statement. There's no correction he can make. "It is a good life. I had not realized how ... empty... routine my life had become until it became so suddenly full. I am very much in love, but ... I am sure by now that is obvious..."

     Ian laughs at the comment of your bedroom. "It is obvious," he finally gets out. "I am glad for it, Alire. You deserve such. I know William would agree. Politic and in love - success is due you in both areas. Take advantage of both."
     The glass is swirled and Ian looks at you over it, grinning boyishly. "So..." he begins, "...is it all you imagined? Him in your bed?" Anyone, he'd guess, but this person in particular you seem enamored of.

     "Thank you," he murmurs, collecting himself. Though his coloring normalizes, his smile remains. There is a ... warmth...call it what it is, even a priest may burn. "It had been a long time," Alire notes. "A century." Could you imagine? A century without such closeness to another? "He ... it is his territory," he chuckles a little. "I just live in it. But I do so happily, even gloriously..."
     Alire sets his glass aside, his hands steepling at his stomach. He wears no ring as you and William do, but it is so evident in all ways, jewelry seems unnecessary to him. "To have that closeness," he shakes his head. He speaks of true intimacy, not sex. "I ... am nightly grateful for it. I cannot begin to describe it...and he... knows my story, he knows the story of every scar ...without my having to speak it. He is a blessing to me. It is... a great thing to be loved... as you know perhaps better than anyone else I know. And how are things with you and yours?" he thinks to ask.
     Though he does not ask about your bed...

     "That is astounding, Alire," Ian says, nodding for it. Perhaps he is used to such young love being so effusive. Ah, that is how it goes. And then next century, he shall speak of another in the same way. But at least there is someone. "It sounds as if you have found something that everyone may only dream of. I am glad that you are with someone, really. It makes me worry less for you and be happy that you are not alone."
     "Things are well for us, thank you for asking," Ian goes on. "It is our usual. Part here, part..." he shrugs. In France. Nothing so new and shiny for him. "William continues for Venice. I...as you may have heard...continue with the clan. Time will correct all things," Ian chuckles a little, drinking from his glass.

     "I worry enough for the both of us," a small joke at his own expense. "But I appreciate your concern," he murmurs that, truly touched by it. "The measure of a true friend. I am glad to hear you and William are doing well. I have heard ...interesting things coming from Italy. But then... Italy is always ripe for interesting news. When one part of it is happy, all other parts are miserable and envious," he chuckles.
     "I have heard that your businesses are profitable. Some are, of course, amazed at the recovery. But that is only because they do not pay attention, or are too young to know better." Alire smiles. "Poitiers wishes you well in all, you and your love. The City is always open to you."
     An offer of hospitality extended. In perpetuity. As long as he remains, of course.
     "Do you and William plan to travel? If so, please stop in my City ... allow me to roll out the red carpet, open the wine cellars, and even have you and William to my home. If memory serves, William does enjoy seafood a la Provence."

     "He does," Ian affirms. "He loves all things Provence," he winks faintly. "We shall do that, next time we are in France or traveling to Italy. You may wish," he smiles, "...that you had not said such. You did read 'King Lear', didn't you?" Ian teases.

     "Yes, but you are not one of my thankless daughters or her equally thankless lovers. Am I remembering the right play," Alire wonders suddenly. He even searches the rafters for plot points of memory's keeping.
     Looking back to you, Alire smiles, "Good, then I will hope to hear from you. For now, I should see him, give him my thanks and the gift. And to give you time to enjoy your own gift... it is the kind that should be enjoyed in private. It is a matter between you and the man in your heart and bed." Bed! He said it!
     And he blushes for it.
     Standing, Alire pauses, waiting his turn to clasp your hand and kiss your cheeks again. This time in preparation of farewell (for now). "Again, thank you, Prince. This has been a great help to me. If you should ever desire a role in Poitiers, perhaps we can talk. I could use a wise counselor..."

     Ian rises and laughs, touching his stomach in the process. "No, I think I am all out of political wisdom," Ian smiles. "But you can call me if you need a question or twenty." For personal use.
     Arms are extended and kisses given. The last one is slow to part, but Ian does. "Be well in all things, Alire. I guess I should to my bed as you recommend," Ian grins.

     The last kiss is slow to part for his part as well. "Thank you," he says there and he parts at last. "And you, Ian.... in all things." He takes up William's gift. He will deliver it personally. "Shall I wait in the gaming room? Offer a challenge to a game of billiards...?" It is your home, after all. It is for you to decide.
     He smiles. A few years ago, to have had that kiss. It may have turned into another kiss altogether. Now, it is no less meaningful. It is merely different.

     "Billiards," Ian nods. "Upstairs, first floor," Ian points. "I think he may be expecting you." For his package, Ian turns to pick it up. "Do not keep him so long, Your Excellency," Ian winks.

     "One must tread lightly on Plantagenet patience," Alire whispers with an all-too-knowing smile. "It is rather like walking on ice with your boots on fire..." And even Alire knows how to wink. Isn't it shocking? How less aloof and guarded he seems than before.
     Indeed, how happy...

Posted by rowan at May 22, 2005 06:54 PM