There's a long sigh from Donal as his eyes linger upon Alexandra as she departs. His hands fold at his front, dangling low against the heavy coat. Dramatically wistful. "Aye, Will...she's as beautiful as th' first day I gaz'd 'pon 'er in London..." Deep inhale and exhale---and the McReedy's is slovenly tossed up again in the air, turned up at his mouth. A gulp, and it drops, him sighing. And wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his coat.

     He has to take a drink at that. Truly, Beauty is escaping him at the
moment. He looks at it, sees it. I mean, only a blind man couldn't. But if he lingers thought on it long, he'll...ache and not have a thing to do for it. William sighs. For this. For many things. His eyes are on the McReedy in the glass, then it is tossed back. Downed. His hand moves to the side, ready for a refill.
     "Aye," he murmurs, and was rather noncommittal about it. His sire is in a box nearby. At least he's here. William sighs again, and while the strength remains yet in him..and while he appears every bit Henry's Son for it all, some resolve melts away when Alexandra takes her leave. He does not make a show of it to you. He is unhappy. And that is how he looks. "I suppose so," he says quietly. "She reminds me too much of my mother for me to...look upon her thus. But I will not argue the semantics with you."

     Your mother? That gets Donal back to the present. Still watching her departure, he pours from the bottle into your glass, wrist angled. A sigh and he finally looks to you. "I ne'er seen y' look like this
b'fore, Will." Bottle drunk from, a sucked end and a pop. He looks at the box, eyes narrowing. "I don't wanna know what happen'd to 'em. I don't need t' know. But..." he looks back at you, "I know somethin's gotta be done. An' you gotta do it." Now the assessment is made, eyes looking down you, "Yer not ready, Will."
     For whatever. There's drunk before a battle--he's done it. There's unhappy before a battle--he's done it. You've done it. Then there's unprepared. And unprepared is a whole 'nother issue. And it'll get you dead.

     There are very few...just a handful...who can cut him to the quick. That no matter the "face" he puts on for the moment, know the face behind the mask. And now, all the masks are gone, but still...one of those handful can see to the "fifth essence" of it. And Donal is one
of the...twelve plus two who can. Who always could. "I don't think I could tell you if I had to, Donal," comes his voice, even and quiet.
     Can you hear the lament in it, Scot? If his heart could make sound,
it'd wail like your pipes. His eyes drift to the box and then skirt away. And William moves to take a seat. A chair by the box. The McReedy is swallowed...not downed, there is some remaining in the glass. For now. He is quiet, his expression setting. Jaw setting. Strong -- oh do not doubt it. Torn -- no denying it. The indigo eyes darken a little as they focus on his hand. And the gold band around it. "And what'll you think it'll take, Donal." For him to be ready. His accent is lilting. British upon the British Isle. And his head turns, and his gaze is on you then.

     "What'll it take?" Donal repeats, muttering. He walks towards you,
neck of bottle already extending to your glass. He hasn't taken his coat off yet. Unknowing, he offers, liquid burbling on pour, "Unnerstandin'. Acceptance." then, "Fire." That brings a smile. "A cut t'know what's impor'nt...an' wot's just not."
     He looks at the box. Never did he understand your connection to that one in the box--not just cause of himself, just cause well...women are so much nicer. But he does know connection. Love. Attachment. Mating. And he ponders his own, the ones he has had, the ones that were mates. Slowly, his eyes glaze and he murmurs, slack-jawed, "Th' rest is garbage, y'know? Y'self, yer own pain, others' pain, politic. It's like..." he inhales, "...savin' th' truth. That thing in th' universe...that only you can do somthin' about. At the expense of all th' other garbage. You do that one thing. It's focus. Y'save that...an' y'know th' rest will fall into line." Hooboy, is he rambling. Maybe.
     Then, "An' most of th' time...it do. Cause y' made the rest...jes unimportant." Donal whispers, taking a swig from the bottle again.

     William always preferred women. In truth, if he had to choose between any if Love were not involved, it would be a woman every time. No question. But that is not what Fate had in mind for him. That is not where Love went. Love went as it usually does. Where it is never expected. On its own time. Obeying no man's leisure or ...preferences to pleasure. Uncaring of...any prejudicial structures we place upon it. Oblivious to politics. Half Fate. Half Whim.
     William closes his eyes, head going back, drink taken. Not a modest swallow either. His eyes are tending downward. To hands. To ring. To box. To thoughts. Perhaps he understands. Perhaps he doesn't Perhaps he's just intoxicated.
     He is still for a bit and then the drink is finished. William sighs, and he turns. Has he not already done this? Has he not come all this way, with the one focus...the only one he has...of waking Ian. No matter if he lives to see it or no. Not caring about who should know of it, not really. No one, not even the twelve, are foremost in his mind. Just the man in the box. But for his own pain. Is that the garbage? And if that is stripped away...what then will comprise William? He sighs again and takes a seat. On the box.
     Elbows on his thighs, empty glass held in steepled fingers. And then he sets it on the trunk with a soft thud. "Pour a glass for him, will you...?" he whispers

     "Aye..." Donal smiles, voice lifting. He picks up one of the other glasses, setting it upon the box. He pours generously, grinning. "'s Faith, Will. An' as long as I known ye...I don't recall ye havin' any. Not in th' powers o' th' universe." Bottle is lifted from the glass and put to his lips again. He talks into it, "Not in chance, in God, in any power, in happenstance, in..." he waves the bottle, "...serendipity...faith..." he looks at you, "...in Love. Faith in th' rightness...an' goodness that y' deserve." He glances at the box, "In what he might deserve. That somethin'...cares for ye." He shrugs, "An' it'll be alright." That drink is taken. "A lil Faith..." he smiles, "....a lil confidence...that'll it'll be Right."
     And he's lived such. Knowing that something out there likes him. Something out there makes the rain stop when he steps outside...and if it didn't...then they were havin' a little smile on him. And smiled back. And steps taken with great leaps of Faith.

     Oh, he's lived it differently to be sure. He was the last Plantagenet, he made his own faith, as They always did. He made his own confidence, forged from his own strength. That he'd always succeed. That at the end of a bloody day twould be his head still upon his shoulders, and his sword well used. He made it himself, with stubborn Norman persistence. Not in faith in Providence. Or God. Never one to be a religious man at all. Never. What Plantagenet ever was? He was Henry's Youngest Lion, and somehow the waters would always part for him. Perhaps, the Plantagenets have sinned too much.
     William sighs, reaching out with his hand. For the bloody bottle. "More talk of God. What is it with vampire sermons?" he gruffs. Yes, he bristles. "Shall I pray and you think it'll mend my heart, Donal? Christ and his ton of angels," he says, looking at you incredulous. "...what good will it do to hang hope on't, Donal?" His eyes are wild with color, violet and blue. Pain. Uncertainty. Which to a Plantagenet male is just another sort of agony.

     Donal shakes his head, "An since when I been believin' in God like
that or th' Church?" He sighs. "Yer not listenin, Will. I'm talkin ... somethin' else." He takes a drink. "Ferget God. I'm talkin' how when you step outside, the sun comes out. How when th' electricity goes off, yers is still on. When ye go down to th' cellar an' y' find that last bottle of Langenoch...th' one y'd stuck away fifty years ago. When y' lose a million on an investment...an' y' find a bank account from last cent'ry that's worth three?"
     A sigh and Donal waves his hands. "Ferget that, Will..." he gruffs, foot coming on the chair. "Just listen."
     "Do you deserve t' be happy? Answer that."
     "Does he deserve 't be happy?"
     "Ha' ye done right...general like...by things?"

     William is quiet for a moment or two. Had he? Had he ever really. His eyes narrow, focus on it. "He deserves to be happy," That he answers readily. Quickly. No hesitation in the slightest. And he takes a breath, a swallow of McReedy. And his eyes narrow again. He doesn't answer about himself directly. It is hard to answer now.
     "I've tried to do right whenever I could. I've always done right by things...as much as any man ever did." And that is true enough. He doesn't answer about the other. Does he deserve to be happy? "Don't we all ...deserve to be happy? Am I any worse than any other, nor any better," he adds quickly. And then he's quiet again. Staring at the scotch. At the ring. Thinking. Feeling. The ache. The burn. The desire to be happy. "I..." he begins, and his words come in fits and starts, "...I've tried..."

     "No...not ever'one deserves t' be happy," Donal says with conviction. "No." He rises, "Some don't. They do evil, Will. They...no matter what they be...want t' destroy an' destroy. Nuffin' more. " His eyes narrow and he peers at you accusingly, daring, "Are ye one of those Will?" He shoots a look at the box, "Is he one o' those? Do y' exist to destroy?"

     "You should know me better," he says with as much conviction, gaze lifting to find you as you rise. No, not everyone deserves it...but maybe at one time...every evil man and woman was a frightened child. He doesn't know. He isn't evil.
     "I'm not an evil man," he says, emotion for the first time in days...and days...sounding in his voice, pulling at it. "I ...have always treasured life. Even when I took it." William's eyes narrow. And he rises, he has to. "I don't kill for what sustains me. I seldom ever did. What sustains me...lies in that box..." he says, his voice about to roar...but strained he tames it. There is crimson in his eyes, if you look careful, but he doesn't set it free. William sighs again, from the heart and it is heavy. "And he isn't evil... he's not," he finishes in a hush. "He's not a destroyer... " He shakes his head.

     "Then if ye ain't," Donal claims, his voice lifted, resounding off the stone, "...then act like it. Act like y' done Right...an' ye deserve t' have Right done by ye." Christ, man, you can hear him breathe, "If it's like ye say, an' ye lived like ye say...as best as ye say, with thinkin..." his hand move, "...an helpin' ... sometime with error...if'n ye lived life...even this life..." he claims, looking at the floor, making his point, and then looking at you, "..then Act..act like ye deserve th' same Right ... thatcha ha' giv'n t' others."
     Eyes flare as they look at you, compelling you to believe, to know, to flame. To Act. "If'n ye done Right..." he shrugs, finishing, "...then expect Right t' be done ye." And he looks at the box, "To be done ye both."
     "Faith, Will. Believe ye deserve a little Right t' happen t' ye." Donal whispers. "Each day...Each Night."
     The bottle is picked up again. "Be ready for 't...when it come. Be prepar'd...to Accept Right...if'n ye not Ready...it can walk by ye." He pours your glass again and his own...Ian's still filled. A toast he's waiting on.

     You've got his mind in a whirl. Perhaps he was the one who swallowed The Rogue the most, hmm? He tries to add it up. All the past things. As he takes a seat upon the box again, heavily and with a sigh, his hand reaches for the drink. Absently. The scotch is taken, but not swallowed yet. Cradled only, stared at.
     William is speechless for a time. Laid bare to the bone of his soul. You've flayed him, Donal. And he cannot help the flow of crimson. You're a Scot, you understand emotion. Wild and unfettered as it can be. He didn't have anyone with him to tell him that...he couldn't have helped Catherine if he tried. And there was no one with him when he found Ian...to tell him...William, there was nothing you could do, mate.
     "I have been...blessed," comes William's voice, accent thick...picking up traces of your own. "...in all things save...love. Perhaps I should take the other things and leave my heart behind..."

     "Ach..." Donal shakes his head, "...ye been done Right there too, Will. Twice, y' loved. One has gone for...how long? An' ye got th' balls of a brass wolfhound t' sit there..." Donal sighs, "...y' ungrateful, Will." He sighs, "It ain't perfect. Y'got...twice...th' universe done give it t' ye...twice...what some are sellin' souls for for once. Aye, e'en that y'got. Two who lov'd ye. Y'got hand'd that too. An' all ye can think of...is that ye lost? Or ye wish it ne'er happen'd at all?"
     "Y'don't want Right t' keep comin' yer way." Donal takes a drink, shaking his head. He looks faintly disgusted ...not horribly so, just amazed. "An' ye say ye been Bless'd...save Love. You dunno what it means not t' be Blessed in Love, is why you say that bunk, Will."
     "Someone's loved ye....since ye were young. And someone else ha' loved ye since more..."

     The glass is set aside, untasted of again...as of yet. And his head goes in his hands. God damn it, don't you ever tire of being right? But he could not have heard it from anyone but you. Not Alexandra. Not Edward. Not Nasr. "Then I don't deserve it," he whispers. "I have had it all along and all I could do was turn from it..." He bites that off, then shakes his head. And then sighs. Nothing he says is coming out right.
     "Someone's always loved me. But the two I gave myself to
...utterly...when I laid down the Sword and put the heart and soul of me on the line...when I gave, instead of took. When I surrendered to it, instead of fought against it. I found myself alone." He looks to you again after a long while, "Does it make sense, Donal? If I'm doin so Right, why are they suffering?" He looks tortured and unsure.

     Shrugging, he says, "Who's sufferin'?" He looks around, then to the box. "One's dead...ain't suffer'd in..." he glances up, "...oh, some eight-hundred twenty years. The other..." he glances to the box again, "...ain' sufferin' either." He snorts, "He saw t' that. Besides...who said he was?" Then looks back to you, accusingly. A smile. A blink. He picks up his glass and lifts it. "Only one I seen doin' any real sufferin'....is you."
     He laughs, "What I seen o' Dunross....he ne'er suffer'd that much. Nothin' he wasn't prepared' t' handle...in whatever way." And that gets a stern look at the box. His brain is putting things together.
     "I dunno, Will." Donal murmurs, taking a sip after he lifts his glass in toast, "...who's been sufferin'? Hard sufferin'?"

     William chuckles. Soft and sudden. It has been so long, he thought himself for a moment he was sobbing. But, no, it's laughter. William shakes his head. "You know...I've too much of my mother's drama in my heart. God help me for the wild wine of Aquitaine."
     He takes a swallow of the scotch. His gaze to the box. "I've hurt him time and again. My adoration of women was a ...constant pain to him." A look to you. You know he hasn't wanted for feminine company at the beck and call of his gaze. He could have any woman he landed eyes upon. You've seen it.
     He shrugs a little. "Catherine suffered by dying. I ... don't think she has thought about it though...in quite some time." He tries a smile. It almost works. And then he falls quiet again. Before murmuring, lifting his own glass, "Suffering? Apart from me? I think the prince of London is still suffering a lack of wit...."

     Oh, well, now, that he'll agree with. "No stuff..." Donal grumbles, "...limey English pompous rat-faced bastard. No love in 'im, Will." He smiles and shakes his head, taking a drink. But he adds, "Lov'rs...are so. They go up an' down. But..." he frowns, "...does he leave? Does he love ye?" He smiles, thinking on it.
     "Take th' Right, Will, laddie. Expect more. It's in yer life....yer a lucky bastard. An' whatever pass...it be tempr'y. Right don't go far from ye. Embrace it, hmm?" And that's about as philosophical as he gets. Your heard the thick of it. "Live in th' Right...cause ye can. Cause y' do it yerself. An' it's yers."
     Donal chuckles putting a hand on his heart and bowing faintly, "An' mine too." A long smile and closing of his eyes in the bow, then he rises. "But none fer tha' damn'd Prince o' London. He don't deserve nothin' but a box o' feather an' a bottle o' Witch Hazel." Whatever the hell that means.
     The drink is stopped at his lips, "An' not that Sultan either." That gets a rich laugh and he stumbles backwards, howling loudly.

     William raises his glass in a bit of a toast, "He'll find his wit
exactly were we left it. Stuffed up his own arse." Release, William. Take it where you can find it.

     And as you make the second jest, he masks tears of longing and missing his own mate into laughter at a friend's expense. "Ah come now, you know you love him," he says after a moment, wiping at his eyes. That's it...really. The source of his pain. It's longing. It's love. It's not the absence of Love. It's because love is so much there that when he cannot see it reflected in his lover's eyes...it is torturous. And he misses the touch, and all of it.
     Thoughts have turned to Ian again, maybe you can see it in the slightly wistful...mostly fiery with longing look in the old knight's eyes. "He left a time or two, I left a time or two. Even so, I couldn't stand it. He loves me." More than I deserve. He nods to the rest. It's uncertain if it's really sinking in yet. Truly. On taking the Right of it. Embracing it. That requires so much ... hope. And he is frightened. You can see under the skin and know that much. He's scared.

     "He's left a time or two...aye...an' you...an' this..." Donal looks at the box, '...is another." Oh, he can see the sadness, a sadness he has never really known. He knows this. Looking at his glass, he murmurs, "An' if' yer Right. An' he's been Right...an' y' know that ye been treated Right...an' y' really open...really ready for it to come again..." he smiles softly, "...so why y' scar'd, Will? There's nothin' t' be scared of. Cause...Right is witcha." A nod of his reddish face and beard, "..y'miss 'im. I bet..." he glances, not really sure what that's like, "...he miss ye. In there. But wot ye scar'd of? Cause....it'll all..." he smiles, voice lilting, making his final point, "...be Right."

     Part of it...perhaps like any Plantagenet male, he wants Right to come on his terms. At his desire for things to be done. He cannot help it that he is Henry's Son. But more than this. "I... what if he doesn't wake, Donal?"
     He looks at you. Miss him? He nods to that then turns away again. He misses him inside and out, but he doesn't say it. It's etched upon his demeanor well enough. And the more he drinks, he knows the more he'll want. The more he wants, the more painfully he'll be reminded of who he's missing. And what. You know his appetites. You don't know his vow. "I...don't know how he'll find me when he wakes. I...am not the man I was before he ...left, Donal," he murmurs. "If he does not return...I am lost. I am lost...I feel...either way. I can't ...be the rake anymore...and not just because I vowed to him not to take another...I don't think I could, regardless of a vow."

     "So...ye won't love 'im when he wakes?" Donal asks, confused and surprised. "An' why wouldn't he wake? Don't he love ye?" Donal asks again, drinking from his glass. "Right ... says he wants t' be with ye an' he's workin' to make it so. He'll be wakin'." But his chin drops, "But ye won't love 'im?" After centuries? After lifetimes?

     William sighs a bit, "Christ, it's all coming out wrong," he gruffs. Frustration. "No, it's not that." William sighs again and knocks back another drink. "I don't know why he wouldn't wake, Donal," he murmurs, "I only know that...there's a chance he might not. Ever. Or for a long while. And...I am not the ...tower of london that he knew when he left." He tries to make you understand, and then sighs feeling that slip away too. "The overconfident, brash, ballsy, roguish, artist and warrior he left....doesn't exist anymore. And if he loved any of that, what will he do...even if he wakes?"

     Donal blinks a few times, licking his lips. A swallow his emptying glass and he says, "He lov'd Will." He shrugs, not understanding. "He'll look at ye...an' be happy. Th' rest..." he blinks, shrugging, "...is nothin'..." Focus again. That one thing. "I bet..." he adjusts the warm coat, "...aft'r all this time...he'll jes be glad t' see ye." It has been centuries. Centuries. Dozens and dozens and dozens of lifetimes. Change?
     "What be it you think he loves?" Brow raises. "Think what I said b'fore...Right, Will. Th' rest...is garbage." Donal finishes his drink, setting the empty glass on the box. He sighs. Enough of that talk. "Aye...someone's not doin' their job..." he glances towards the open hallway.

     William shakes that off, then shrugs. "You should know better than to talk to a Norman drunk on scotch. We make no sense," he quips, and with a bit of warmth. It's beginning to sink in. A bit. He sighs. Weary...not enough sleep. Pale....not near enough blood. Sorrow...no clasping between the sheets for a week. "Aye....garbage," he murmurs. And the scotch was downed. His gaze follows yours after a moment. "What are you on about?"

     Donal waggles a finger at you. "Do that thing...make th' girl come wit th' drink." And like a bear, he lumbers to a seat, flopping into it, sending air whooshing out of the pillows. Coat is fixed and he waits.

     William takes a breath, his eyes focused on the doorway. They glitter, violet and blue. And then William looks away. He remains sitting on the box with his lover within. It smacks of dishonor...and yet...he's comforted by having Ian nearby. He may curl up in bed beside him. He hates to think he'd be in a box for...howsoever long.
     The girl appears but a moment after, bottle of McReedy on a tray -- no glasses. William glances to you. Ta dah...

     "Ooh..." Donal blips, hands clasping and rubbing. "Aye...yer good fer somethin', laddie..."

     William chuckles quietly. His gaze returns to the girl. Masked hunger. He looks away from her quickly enough as she leaves the McReedy behind. There will be beds creaking across England and Scotland and his won't be one of them. "So...I've got to find his own sire...to have a chance to get him back." On his own terms. if such is possible. "You know....when I swore that oath of fidelity of blood and body, I didn't know he'd ever be gone ....like this." William looks to his hands. "I don't ...I'm not sure how...." He sighs again. "...to be another way." Other than the Temptor...seductor...rake.
     "Wot oath," Donal murmurs, eyes following your own. His red brow raises as he watches her disappear. "What way?" he adds, head falling to the side.

     William lifts the hand the bears the ring. "This oath. I give my word, and you know it...you know me, Donal. Once my word is given, it's done." But you also know that he'll not make it another fortnight without some...attention. But to do it...breaks the promise that he made. It would not be...Right as you say. But then, neither is starving. What is he to do? He goes a bit quiet again. "Any way...but what I was. I...cannot...." He sighs. Hunt. "I have always...won it, by...seducing my way to the heat of it. But...I cannot do so, and remain in the Right."

     "Ach...who said so?" Donal pshaws, turning back to you. "Wed ye are?" he asks, now seeing the ring. Men. Getting married. Oh well, who is he to say something. He shrugs, "Ye made an oath of some kind...an'...ye can't eat?" His voice lowers, "I don't be thinkin' that's what he'd say is Right. So, yer suppos'd t..." he shrugs, reaching for the bottle and opening it, "...jes'...be faithful? Unthinkin'? All is Black an' White t' ye?"
     "So..Marta..." his longtime sometime, "...an' I agree that as long as we Live, we can't eat halibut. We go fight..." he shrugs, "...um...Sabbat in Iceland. An' there's nothin' but halibut. So, I'm suppos'd t' jes' die?" He shakes his head, "I think she meant for th' oath t' be...but not under pain o' death. Why would me love want me t' die? T' keep an oath...that will mean little if I die from not eatin'? An' she'll be sad?" He laughs, "Come Will, use a little of yer noggin'." He still laughs, waving a hand, "That's if I canna eat halibut only."
     Thinks, "Yer sayin'...keep th' oath...an' not eat...an' die...so he can come back...an' see that ye kept yer oath. But yer not there? Cause yer dead?" Oh, that's rich. He falls over, almost spilling the bottle.

     William is too tired to debate it. "Well...if you were in danger of fucking the halibut because it tasted so good, maybe Marta would mind it, aye?" He cocks up a brow. Then he sighs. "I've ... I don't know how to explain it...forget it." He goes sullen. Quiet. Drunk. Aching. Lonely.

     The bottle is swigged, and then Donal asks absently, "Why'd ye be fucking halibut?"

     William sighs and chuckles upon it. "God damn it, Donal. It's your metaphor, for Christ sake." The trunk itself is rather large, and William stretches out upon it a bit. Lying back and staring at the ceiling. "I'm saying that...if I ...take a woman for a meal, I... cannot always stop myself from taking the rest of her either. Do I have to paint a picture for you?" William can paint one, no doubt...

     "Oh." He says solemnly. As if you could have just said that. The bottle is passed to you and he sucks his bottom lip, saying, "Well. While I can say that's th' best China there is..." he shrugs, "...d' ye need it t' eat? Really?" He shrugs, "I dunno, I canna mediate that fer ye. But you dyin'...seems a waste t' me. Makes no sense...like I said b'fore. Dyin'...t' keep an oath...that he can't see if'n he wakes...cause yer dead." He shrugs, coat rising and falling again. "To Eat...is...what we are. Y'think he'd be denyin' ye t' eat? Jes' t' survive so ye can be t'gether?" That doesn't make sense either.

     "No...doesn't make sense..." He sighs and his eyes close. He better be shown a room soon. He is pale and tired both. "And if I do this...and...it ends in the breaking of the other vow. What then? Tell him of it when he wakes?" So he can go right back to sleeping? William frowns then, feeling a pang of guilt.

     "He'd do that? He..." Donal frowns, looking at the box, "...he did that..himself?" A blink, then, "An' ye think he'd do it again...after ye told 'em you had t' eat...t' live?" He shakes his head again.

     William sighs, "No, you crazy Scot. I'm saying if I take a girl to bed and do more than drink..." He's on edge, drunk on good scotch and hungry. The bark is garbled gaelic. "In my mood..." He sighs, calming with a swallow. "...it is...more than a distinct possibility. I..." another sound of frustration. "...ah, never mind...I'll go find a hag somewhere..or a nun so I won't be tempted ..."

     "No..." Donal laughs, "I unnerstand. Jes'...that's all a part of
Eatin'...he'd be mad...that ye had t'Eat in th' way you only know how? Is he..." he frowns, "...he's like that? He'd rather ye not eat at all?"

     "No, he'd not want that. He'd just prefer I not make love to them while I'm doing it," he murmurs. "If I can't ...prevent such...it would not be doing Right by him. It would hurt him." William sighs, "How does Marta manage to put up with ye? Maybe she should talk to Ian when he wakes." He chuckles quietly. "I may not seem sae bad after that..."

     "I don't think he'd want ye not t' Eat," is all Donal can say. "Why'd ye think he'd be hurt...if in yer Eatin'...you...well, you ate!?" He shrugs. Apparently Eating is Eating...no matter what is involved.

     William sees it the same way. Ian doesn't. "Ah well..." He shrugs. "I don't feel much like...it." Well, he does and he doesn't. He's starving...he's...on edge and needy. And yet...bound by some thought that it would be dishonor to Ian if he took a woman...he cannot bring himself to it. "I better be getting him to the room," he murmurs. And he sits up, looking less forlorn than when he entered, but still not quite himself.

     Donal's eyes follow you. Shock. Dunross would rather William die than eat. And he looks at the box. "Will..." he whispers, "...that...is unreal. Yer sayin'...he'd rather you die, than t' eat...no matter how you eat. With...more...or not." He is very confused and surprised, eyes looking down. Why are you with someone...who would rather you die first...than to eat or touch a woman while you ate. Maybe...you shouldn't be with him.
     "I'll be gettin'...servants." Donal rises slowly, thinking still of what you claim. A glance to the box and he turns to head down the hallway.

     William sighs, looking at you for a moment. "It's not so easy as all that. And I am....not as spry with the tongue, aye? Do not blame Ian for my inability to explain it." William smiles a little, then it fades. "He doesn't want me to die. He doesn't want me to suffer. I know that," he says softly. "It was my choice to take the oath, Donal. He didn't ask for it." And with that, William looks to the box.

     Donal only nods, not sure what to think. The coat is finally removed, his form underneath in jeans and denim shirt. At the far side of the room, he bellows...and a couple of servants appear once his back is turned and he's returning towards you. A hand swings in the direction of the box, and the servants immediately attend.

     William sighs again. "Fucking scotch," he grumbles. It loosened his tongue. Too much. And there's a look of ....embarrassment suddenly. William withdraws a bit again. Standing quietly by as the servants come to get his...hidden lover.

     The servants pick the crate up carefully, understanding that fragile contents are inside. They head off down another hall and up a set of steps to the room you will reside in for the day. Donal smiles weakly, tossing coat aside and reaching for the bottle again. "So...yer goin' North t'morrow?" He takes a drink, "Alone?" He'd rather come with, of course, but you're a big boy.

     William rakes a hand through his hair...still averting his gaze. "Ah, hell... no you better come with. Plantagenets left alone in Scotland have a tendency to," a wry grin, "conquer it. Better keep an eye on me. It'd be a sad thing to end up king now." His tone is...carefully dry. Humorous...but still embarrassed that his tongue flapped so. Sweet Jesus, is his sigh.

     Donal only stares. You wish, it says. "Yer couldn't take th' cold. Frozen jewels ye dunno what t' do with." He smiles, keeping his ground. Apparently, he is not ready to call it a morning. He exhales, "Rememmer what I done said, Will..." he softly reminding, "....ye done Right by folks. Him too. Then be happy...an' acceptin'...that'll happen fer ye too. Have a little Faith...in yer doin's....an' that ye deserve reward. Ye tried ye best...an' ye ha' done Right."

     William nods a bit. He's gone quiet again. It's been a long day. Of travel...of talking. Of too much talking. "Aye," he says, and that is all. Have a little faith. It is not as easy as all that for him. But he will try it. Faith. A son of Henry relying on Faith. William's eyes are cast to the ceiling, then lastly to you. "I will remember, Donal. And try to take it to heart." He pauses a moment. "Thanks for listening to a Norman ramble...aye?" And yes he's still embarrassed for having been so...effusive. He straightens and sets his glass aside.

     The large hand waves off, denim rustling. "We got us'd t' listenin' t' yer flappin'..." Donal smiles, his face considerably redder from warmth, preaching...and a bottle and a half of scotch. The rest will succumb after you leave. "I'm glad..." he offers, "...that y'spoke. An'..." he looks up the stairs, "...I'm sorry fer what's happenin...." To you. To your joined life with Dunross. That he knows is painful, regardless of what is spoken. He shrugs boyishly, "Tis no deal, Will."

     William nods to that. As he passes by you, he puts a hand to your back. A pat -- a beat -- of his own. In reply to yours of before. "Aye," he says. As if to say: You're right, no big deal. But aye...it was a big deal. Aye, I'm sorry too. "Give Marta a flourish for me," he says quietly. And then he's up the stairs. You likely hear the sigh that follows. He'd rather be ...flourishing than standing guard over a box.

Posted by rowan at June 07, 1998 11:57 PM