It is not so unusual a thing for the lights to be on at Kensington Palace. It is rarely vacant. When the owners are not present, there are frequent visitors, guests and sometimes even tenants, giving the palace a constant presence of enduring life.
     He has been quiet (he has been thinking), the kind of quiet that precedes a war or a storm -- charged air that causes the ions of stillness to bump into one another and then, at the end of the chain, you. There are none who could so move molecules more than your William.
     He will not see Davydd tonight, but it will be soon. Another night, perhaps. Likely no more than this. No, no more than this. It is in the way he pours a drink. It is in the way he holds it, drinks it. It is in the sharpness of indigo eyes, the depth of intelligence there, coiled in colors blue and violet. It is in the determination set in the features of his Olympian face.
     And with it, a storm far more personal. Silent, it has passed for months, through France from Fontevrault to Paris, to his leaving Chinon and leaving Macsen behind and the old Andalusian -- such constant companions, now curiously absent.
     It is all connected. Somehow. In William's universe, it always is...
     William pours a brandy for himself, something made a few years ago in Chinon: plum brandy. In anticipation of your own desire, he pours for you the first scotch from your legendary stores. His hair is short, kept short. Thick and dark, it stands or sits as he wishes. His clothes are extraordinary, a new suit arrived recently from the private tailor. Its fabric midnight dark but made for the end of spring and the arrival of summer.

     At his table, Ian sits with a roll of paper and several bottles of ink. Practicing large flowers in a Japanese style, he keeps his attention before himself, save when he steals a glance at you. Ian does not ask or intrude, for he knows a thought wall when he feels it. The whiskey's pouring brings a smile, but he'll wait for you to decide to let him expound on what is on your mind.

     To see you painting. Do you know what a joy it gives him? He sets your glass beside you, out of danger and out of your way both (but certainly within a Scot's reach), his hand then skimming at the gold of your hair. William bends, closing his eyes as he places a kiss upon the crown of your head. For a moment, he breathes there.
     "You are really improving. Perhaps we should take a trip to Tokyo some time. You can study the masters of Eastern Art, and I can have tea waiting for you." William smiles to think of it. "I can be your samurai, waiting. You? The emperor, of course."
     Always, there is talk of hope, of things to see, to experience together. That is what brings him happiness. You. Seeing things with you. It is happiness, to him.
     What else matters, really. Really?

     "That is a thought," Ian grins, glancing up as if he could see you. "We have not been to Asia together. Only Africa," he nods. "I'd make a scholarly emperor," Ian smirks. "But I could be a samurai," he ventures, putting his large pen down carefully so that the tip is not disturbed. He spins to the side on his seat, most definitely to see you better. "Thank you," Ian finally says, "...about my improvement." There's a flush to his skin - it has taken eight centuries for him to try his hand at activities he only looked at from afar.
     "I'd just as soon go to Kyoto," Ian goes on. "There are houses on the mountainsides that might be nice to rent..."

     "Ah... Kyoto. Yes, that would be better." He pauses, his hand to your hair again before he withdraws. A touch given, held a moment, before he moves back to his own drink. "I will look into it, amours. Renting a house on the mountainside sounds ideal to me."
     No, not Spain or any of the habitual holiday jaunts. Something new. Something without history, or at least personal history, tied to it. Something not so crammed with meaning as to lose its enjoyment.
     "You are welcome," William grins, the smile so infrequently seen over the past several nights shown to you in full. How full it can be, and how much deeper the expression, when it has been missed. "You are definitely improving. And I think this style suits you very much. Is it relaxing? I hear it is supposed to be." William chuckles as he takes his brandy to a position near you, but where you can see him by merely lifting your eyes. "Perhaps I should try it for myself. You can teach me..."
     He takes a swallow of the brandy as he looks at you. You relax him, too. When he can make you his focus, when he can delight in you, and in the simplicity of being with you, the one he loves. "Will it bother you for me to watch you? I do not want to interrupt your study, my emperor," he smiles at that, his eyes fathoms-deep in their attention to you. "You would make a very fine emperor. Perhaps we should tend to that while we are there..."

     Ian's smile slants. "The overthrow of the Chrysanthemum Throne?" That is, if you wish him emperor. "It is not a seat to which I've aspired," he teases. Ian turns to reach for the glass, which he turns up at his lips, closing his eyes for the instant. A sigh follows and Ian gives you his full attention. "It won't bother me if you watch me. It is relaxing and most of the time," he glances to the side to his flower, "...I tune out most things. It is quieting," he notes. Ian's attention departs a moment as he drinks from his glass again.
     "Should I?" Ian motions with the glass at his artwork. Should he go back to it, or is there something else?

     The smile is true when your own slants. Smoothening across his features, it transforms into a brief, quiet chuckle that echoes in the bowl of his glass as he takes a sip of the brandy. William rests the glass on his thigh, his right hand holding it. As you gesture to your art, he nods his assent. "I hear that is an effect of the Eastern Style. Meditation. Control. Serenity. Wisdom." And all of these things -- they remind him of you.
     "I am finding I do not have much in the way of aspirations. Lately," he quietly admits. His head leans on his left hand, his right hand holding the glass. He watches you. Perhaps he will find quietude, serenity, even wisdom, vicariously through you.
     William, who for years has been your rock, seems to now be saying things that seem to be echoes of your own struggles in the past few years. Has this thing with Davydd set into him somehow? Or has it merely added onto an already bulging swell of unrest...

     "Well," Ian says, turning back to his work, "...what is there for us to aspire to?" His arm extends and Ian sets his glass aside for now. "We have health," he smirks, "...we are well to do. Many of our enemies are dead and those who do hate us will not rise up with a stake." White-blonde head nods approvingly. "These are all good things," he says, then smirks at his understatement.
     "Maybe you are morose? Many things have happened, laird, in the last year," Ian observes, picking up his pen. "And we have no great struggles."

     William smirks along with you. "They do say the best revenge is a long and happy life." The smirk fades into a truer expression. "I am happy with you, with what we have accomplished, how ... we have turned things around for us. Things are good. We travel as we wish, where we wish." A nod, a sip follows. "These are all good things."
     He is not depressed, for he knows the value of goodness in his life, of his own happiness. He can easily find the things that you and he have done well, have enjoyed, will continue to enjoy.
     "I suppose you are right." William tilts the glass, looking at the violet liquid cupped within, at the rippling reflection of his own image. "I think this thing with Davydd has me questioning much. About myself. I think I did not know him well. And I wonder how well I know myself. What... I have been holding onto, what not. Perhaps Davydd... is like Macsen. Something I am holding onto. That maybe I should not hold onto. No one can tell me this," he smiles at himself. "Not about Davydd. What I have done with that dog has been very cruel. And the horse," he adds. "I have held onto things... to force myself, I think, to be a certain way. Now, I question my judgement."

     Ian's hand glides across the rolled rice parchment, brushing large strokes as he works on some type of orchid. Ahead, a botanical with a color illustration. "I doubt he is like Macsen," Ian states evenly, distracted slightly now by his hand, "...but I think you are suggesting that he has...overstayed his usefulness? And that I find surprising."

     "Not in that sense, no. But perhaps as I kept Macsen frozen in time, I have been guilty of doing that to him, as well. And to myself." William watches you. There is a kind of zen that can be achieved by watching you paint. "So... I saw only what I allowed myself to see. I saw a man, and I kept him in his time. Even as I have struggled against myself, my own ... purpose or point in any of this. Perhaps out of fear that I mean nothing in a world outside of my own century. Outside of my family."
     He closes his own eyes, head tilting back as he takes a long drink of the brandy, far longer than would be recommended for a mortal man. His magicked breath clings with warmth at the glass' interior.
     "So... I go to him to find out who he is. I should most likely hold that mirror up to myself before I presume to ask it of another." Indigo eyes look to you then, your counsel sought.

     Now, Ian puts the brush down once more. His brow furrows and he's not convinced of your words. Turning about, he faces you directly, hands on his knees. "So, this is your fault? How you feel is your fault?" Ian rephrases. He doesn't believe it, clearly. "I do not like what I hear," he says softly. "It is one thing that we think about your family and your relationship with them. It is another to...release Davydd from the things he has done or not done, in his relationship with you. Do not confuse these, laird. I see your reasoning..." Ian shakes his head negatively, "...and I do not want you to beat yourself over this. Any of this."
     His irritation is now evident, but it does not seem directed at you. Ian keeps his counsel for a moment, pursing his lips as he waits for your thoughts.

     He looks to you, unwaveringly, as you speak to him. Like a brush to your colors, his eyes soak up your words. William glances to the liquid left in his glass, only a swallow more. He swirls it as his mind moves in silent thought.
     At last, he nods, his hand lifting the glass. He takes the last swallow of it and then rises to pour himself another. There is a glance given to your own glass, to its health. He lifts the bottle of brandy, uncapping it and watching the violet liquid pour. All this, while letting your words sink into his skin, absorbing.
     Yes, you do see his reasoning. And the unspoken arm of protection cradling a traitorous brother now, even as it had in the past more times than he can count. And he is sick of counting. And he is sick of thinking of them. William nods again, looking to you. "I suppose I have confused the two," he murmurs. "I should take them... one at a time, these thoughts. Not... jumble them all together, no matter how they may be linked." It is a bad habit of his, a general's habit, to put all the pieces on the board for a god-like survey, but miss the point in a way that a sergeant would not.
     "I do not know, Ian," William exhales, returning to his seat. "I feel I should have seen something. I should have asked him more... to have been so surprised." He pauses on a thought, then turns blue-violet eyes to you. "Did you feel this way, this lost... when you found out about Alexandra and Henri? I feel as though... my whole life is now suspect..."

     The world seems to pause in his motions. The lifting of his head, the gliding extension of his hand to touch yours. "What should you have seen, William? A secret in your house? That you should know all? We do not. I do not - despite our...my...our bravado. We know the truth of it. I was not lost because of Alexandra and Henri. I did not feel lost. My existence, as I knew it, was predicated on a lie. It was a lie, implanted in my mind," Ian's hand lifts to touch his third eye, "...by those who hate me at worst, and at best...saw me as something to destroy to achieve their aims." Golden brows lift. "And I almost let them. Almost."
     "Your friend," Ian whispers, looking at your joined hands, his now caressing the lines of your ring finger, "...kept a truth about his abilities. His nature. It was his secret to keep," Ian nods, "...just as we would have if such was known to us. And over time, his friendships and life made more sense, and a secret simply vanished as a secret. It was forgotten, perhaps. But your life is not suspect...because he kept his secret to himself. Because he forgot. Because his existence with you became so fulfilled, your friendships, work, war...overshadowed something he forgot. Something back there," Ian touches the nape of his neck, "...that became smaller and smaller as the centuries went on."
     "For me," Ian's fingers lift to touch your lips, "...Alexandra and Henri are irrelevant. I do not even think of them, laird, never. For I am with you, that is what I wanted, regardless of what was in my mind. And I wanted you to love and to honor me. That is what I struggled for. I know the truth of it. And I am firm in what I did not do, and what someone else did to me."

     His ring finger moves, shifting to move against your own, clasping with knowing and strength before your fingers move to his mouth. William closes his eyes, he kisses your fingers. "Merci," he whispers there. He opens his eyes and breathes across your fingers as he looks at you.
     He sits back and the look upon his face shows a break in the storm, a pause in the war of his own thoughts. "What would I do without you," he wonders in a breath, he reaches for his hand, and he smiles. "If you were not here to help me make sense of my thoughts, to... give me sense when I lack it," his full mouth quirks at the corner to show the start of a smile. His hand reaches for you. Come here for a moment, it says against your form.
     "In my case... nothing was done to me. It is different," he nods, understanding the difference. "And... I should stop going back into the past, mais oui? To examine every stone for something missed or something I did not see. I am driving myself crazy with this." William draws you toward himself, his head tilting for a kiss.
     "I have been driving myself crazy for months," he softly admits.

     "And me for centuries," Ian grins, pausing before giving a kiss, if he plans to at all. Ian hovers and winks. "I think you thank me for nothing," he offers. "Your friend kept a secret. And then he did not handle the telling of it well, and the choices that came with it. Do not mistake me - what position he put you in, the danger...when the secret came back to him, he should have remembered his loyalty and love to you with it as well. And that..." Ian whispers, "...is what he should never have forgotten. He forgot the centuries that came after his secret, and the respect and honor that that deserved as well."

     "I know," it is a quiet chuckle against your mouth as you give it at last. "I know. Poor you." William kisses again and lets you go as he sits back in the chair and drinks the brandy. The indigo eyes are still sharp when you mention the danger. Yes, he knows. And he frowns.
     "That is why I am angry with him. Disappointed in him." He was disappointed in himself for missing it. "And even with myself. That part of it is a little crazy on my part. I need to stick with one problem at a time," he chuckles suddenly. "I am not God. I cannot do this in a thousand days, let alone six. So..." he sighs, "I will go see him tomorrow night... not to rehash the past but to talk about the present and the future. The past... we cannot do anything about it now, and I am tired of living in it, personally."

     Slowly, Ian turns back to his artwork. The pen is drying. He reaches out for it and lifts it for inspection before setting it to paper again. "The past holds nothing for me," Ian murmurs, '...all I think about is what you...and I..." he smiles, "...will do next."

     William smiles at you as you return to your painting. He tilts his glass of plum brandy. And he thinks, to himself he keeps it, that he is through with the past. It should mean nothing to him. He is not there anymore. He is here, with you. And before the two of you, the whole world and its promise expands.
     "I think a trip to Kyoto," William says as he watches his image twist and ripple in the motion of liquid. "Scrolls and painting for you. Tea and bath houses for me." Indigo lifts to you. "You would be welcome in the steam with me, of course," William adds with his own wink. "I can drive you crazy in that way you like..."
     He goes quiet then, and he watches you as he sips his brandy. The motion of the pen in your hand, your beautiful concentration, your immortal focus.

     "You are too kind," Ian replies, his arm extended parallel to his parchment. He smiles as his hand begins moving in the air once again, and delicate lines appear in the mundane world of paper below.

     "I am too everything," William murmurs into his brandy.

Posted by rowan at June 01, 2005 11:03 PM