Such turbulent thoughts. MacBeth surely slept better than he. When he is come upon by you, he has eaten. That is clearly evident. He is as darkly colored as a man from the south of France would have been, caught in the Arsuf sun...as he had been when Ian intervened and claimed Fate.
     The girl who bore the scotch but last night is....lying down in the quarters. Feeling a touch...under the weather. From the cold that's been going about. She does not remember the sighs she gave, or the lips that pulled life from her. William stands by the Hall's hearth, a scotch in his hand, thoughts upon his expression, eyes to the fire.

     Donal had only given a gentle greeting, warmed smile upon his face. Yes, the early evening's scotch has been tasted generously. Not quickly, just a soothing few drinks to begin the night. An early riser Donal has always been, perhaps due to his closeness to his environment, that strangeness of attachment to his mortal life that so evidently clings to him. He of all has changed so little in seven centuries.
     Barefoot, he sits upon a large chair that's placed a little back from the fire--a bit timid of raging flame he is--a comfortable pair of pants on and a large shirt that's partially unbuttoned. No plans he appears to have, save rest, warmth, a drink, a visit with a very old friend. Goods are packed and the 4X4 ready--he himself will drive.
     After his greeting, there had been a quiet smile to himself--a decision was made--the right one. Dunross will understand, he hopes, still a bit concerned about your last words to him. Perhaps he was confused, Donal finally decided, misunderstanding your description of Dunross' feelings. Certainly he has never known the Ventrue to be a warm, caring being, generally disinterested and ruthless, save a few things. But ruthless to not let you remain living and healthy, when a vow could not be maintained? That was odd.
     But it rolled off, knowing you know better, that it didn't make a lot of sense, and that, well, everything would be Fine in the end. Of that, he is sure. Always sure. Watching you at the fire, he contemplates upon the one there, how changed he has become in the last century. Strange changes--granted in the wide gulf of centuries, you can spot temporary ones, the little fluctuations in attitude, temperament, but these changes have been deeper. Recognition. A positive, he has generally thought, until he talked to one who was so unsure. Nothing wrong with unsure, but hopeless unsurity? That was discomforting. Time. Time is what you need, he thought, to let things pass through...let change pass through and to reach the other side. Then, you would see, it was all Fine.
     "So," Donal whispers, "...ye look th' color of summer, Will." A compliment to say the least. Almost attractive, even.

     Dunross will have to understand. He made the choice, did he not, to put himself in that ...box of sleep he's now in. Leaving William and his vows to ...sort themselves out. Whether the vows will stand or William will stand at the end? Well, one vow falls of necessity. It is uncertain whether the celibacy will remain intact by the end. It would be cruel to take him thus to this darkness, then damn him for grasping some light. Some blood. Maybe eventually some release -- but...as of now, William Plantagenet is on the soldier's diet. All scotch and sustenance. How many Infidels at Arsuf learned the dire consequences of the celibacy of the saddle? If one could recount it, one might almost pity Liam, Earl Clyde.
     As you speak, William half-turns, half-lit by the fire. It is a quiet look. Reflective. Thoughtful. Meditative. Withdrawn...but not in the same manner as before. The blood has helped. But the quiet is merely an overlay upon the intensity damn near surging beneath. Waiting...for some focus. There is a smile, quiet but warm, held in his gaze...indigo and with the help of the fire, most brilliant. Resplendent again.
     "When was the last time you saw summer this far from the sun?" comes the ease of his voice. More quiet than smooth. He pauses, finishing off his scotch. "I thank you, Donal." For the compliment. He doesn't seem to know nor care if he's attractive. It seems to be an afterthought, if thought at all. "I had a bit of...sunshine when I woke..." She was a lovely little creature too...

     "Aye...like I said..." Donal mumbles, clinking ice against the glass as he turns it to his lips, "...y' look th' color of summer." He knew what he said. Foot up in the chair, his chin is near his knee when the glass is tipped, other leg dangling at the floor. He swallows, glass rested upon kneecap. "I'm ignorin' y' words on bein' far from th' sun. Be grateful..." A smile and he finishes the drink off. Cubes clink and he reaches for the bottle, "An' sunshine she is..." Donal notes idly, focusing on the drink more than his words. So that's where she was. It'd crossed his mind, but quickly fluttered away. He had to settle on something else last morning...this evening.

     And she is the reason he's not freezing cold at the moment. The Norman runs toward the hot, when blood is churning with nowhere to go. When he spends it, he feels the chill when it is gone. But even so, the castle breathes the coming winter. "Aye, grateful. I know it can..." meaning will, "...get colder yet." He steps away from the fire, his stride as idle as your tone, as if he were still 'on tour' of the place. Out of sorts. More...between the worlds in a way. Trying to find purpose -- not for this trip, but for the ...greater part of his life. Where shall he go, now that things are utterly different. The glass is held out, since you've got the bottle. And he looks at you a while. "She is. Should I have picked another flower, Donal Wallach?" A brow lifts.

     "Nay," Donal smiles thinly, eyes upon the easing fluid in his glass. Bottle is tipped backhanded to your glass afterwards, letting it pour, considering in the process. "There's enuf in th' garden," he sighs, lifting the neck from your direction, not spilling a precious drop. He grins, bottle put on table, and picks up his drink. Definitely not an issue, though he is curious as to the extent Lord William would go...well, that's not correct. He knows how far he would go. Question is, did he? Today, he is not one to ask, though his look up to you gives his thoughts. The fire lights his reddish-brown beard and hair, giving a flame to it. "Ye think I'd be th' jealous sort, eh?" Or you'd like? He smiles at the teasing, lifting his glass high to you before taking a drink.

     William never drank so much scotch in all his years until Ian passed into his silent way. Perhaps he is ...possessed...to make up the difference? He quirks a half-smile to that. Both brows shoot up at your question -- genuine surprise. Though, he did think of it. And as he can see the questions on your face, you can see that to be sure.
     Glass is touched to glass, some silent toast made, and then he takes a seat in the chair beside you. "I can imagine Cawdor has ...very spacious grounds, aye." He's not talking about the perimeter of the palace keep. There is a slightly embarrassed smile hovering in his eyes. He appears for all of that...the four-and-twenty year old Duke that Ian fell in love with and took as his own. The other eight centuries have been swept away. "I'd never take you for a jealous man, Donal. Unless I'd stolen a horse. Now...that...would have been a crime..." He settles in the chair then, with a sigh. Sitting still is difficult. You can feel the intensity that would roar forth. Let that be your answer to the...extent of it.

     Donal chuckles, "Aye, truth spoke..." he grins, adjusting in the seat, bringing other foot up underneath himself. Glass rests precariously on the bent knee, his eyes looking directly at the scotch. Shaking the glass, the cube shift...a man who has ice in his scotch. Acquired taste, even if Ian would say it ruins the entire distillation. Licking his lips, the drink is lifted, another taste taken. A low noise is made, exhale, and drink replaced upon knee. He could bring up last evening's talk, but why do so? He himself is a proponent of moving on...and never one to bash a ranting into someone else. He's said his peace. Soon enough, it will be time to leave. And on that thought, he glances at his watch.

     There was neither sound nor sight of the Lady of Navarre once she left last night to "freshen up." A woman used to keeping her own council, perhaps, falling back into familiar old habits. But as the twilight rays of evening fad into darkness, her form appears at the entrance to the Great Hall of the castle.
     She is dressed similarly to the way she had been the night before. Jeans and boots. A large deep mauve sweater engulfs her, falling nearly down to her knees and rolled up at the sleeves. Obviously a few sizes too big for her, but she is wearing it anyway. For warmth and comfort, but also for the complete way the thick cotton surrounds her, separating her from the outside world.
     Deep brown eyes slip slowly around the room. She doesn't say anything, perhaps trying to get a feel for the mood, an idea of the way things have been going.

     "Lexie..." Donal quips, taking a drink. He looks not in her
direction--keen ears give it away. The slightly pointed ones under his red hair. Name said for William's information more than anything else. He smiles faintly, giving attention to the glass again, enjoying the comfort and warmth of returned friends. That, has always been more important to him than anything else.

     The Duke of Normandy is sitting near his old friend. And he has ... not spent the night wasting away...at least this early evening. He is as dark as he was when he was taken -- the complexion of the southern French Aquitaine touched with the residue of the Arsuf sun. He has eaten again. And when he turns at Donal's greetings to see Alexandra, she will be able to note the quiet reserve of him, but also the smile that is hovering in the vampire's indigo eyes. Thoughtful. His expression more this than anything else. And there is a quiet intensity around him, a hum to the air that surrounds him -- from all of his energy...stirred with blood. Intensity that wishes to surge, and has nowhere to go. Yet. "Evening, Alexandra..."

     She does not pass much further into the Great Hall then the entrance where she originally gave pause. Her eyes slip from William....to Donal. And then back. The hue upon William's face is noted, the look in his indigo. Ah, things might be returning somewhat to normal? Perhaps there is something, then, to say for this dark and cold place. "Evening William...Donal."
     The words fall softly from her lips, caught up by the stone walls of the chamber and brought to the ears of those they were intended. Yes, perhaps things are returning to normal, for the cold reserve of Alexandra seems to be back in full force, even the soft browns and hues of gold that the amulet around her neck have given her can't completely hide it. "Has there been any word from Nasr?"

     "Nay," comes Donal's annoyed voice. "An' ifn he don't show soon, we'll be leavin' him here." Leaning forward, he reaches for the bottle again. "Wit th' Childe." Why in the world would Nasr bring her on a trip such as this, heavy with baggage, secrets, personal information, and unknowns...he'll never know.

     And he'll tell him about it again when he sees him. Indigo rests on Alexandra as she enters. She has been the focus for his attention for the past few days, now. And has been through the darkness with him. That is remembered, recalled in his gaze. It softens. The smile held in his gaze softens with it, fading. Though sorrow does not replace it. Longing is there in its stead. Until his embarrassment again makes him turn away. He is like a young man fresh from his first woman, nervous that every glance he gives to them all appears to be the same, heated expression. William focuses on the scotch in his hands. "A childe?" he asks quietly. William does not recall Nazari, or any discussion of her. He was...not himself then. Not nearly half so much as he is now.
     "We go tonight. He will be here." William pauses. "Have a little faith, Donal. If you do Right, Right will happen." Ah! To be able to preach back! William smiles into his scotch.

     There's flat silence, and a slow turn to William. Smacking his lips, Donal looks suddenly like an old father, unimpressed with the whippersnapper's glib commentary. "Ach, I see ye be findin' yer humor." That's good. Even if it's his own words thrown at him. Drink is taken, and Donal looks sullenly ahead, albeit with a small smirk.

     "No, we wont." Alexandra says, a slight tilt of her head as her eyes turn to Donal. Yes, said in that tone of voice that would indicate a presence of command...the type that falls from the lips of Queens and Kings. An extra day in this place...perhaps two...and what would the difference be?
     "I have no desire to strike out north looking for the Earl without another Knight at my side." And another woman would be good company as well...but Alexandra does not remember conversation of Nazari either. She was not ... herself ... either ... when plans were being made. Been with William through his struggle in darkness...indeed. But also through her own. And now...this trip...her resolve has returned.
     The embarrassed look upon William is not noticed. If she did catch that...and the look he gave her...there is no sign.

     Now there's a grumble. "An' th' longer we're here, the easier 'tis for him t' know that we're comin'." He doesn't look at Alexandra, eyes upon the fire. Knowing better. "I'd rather one less...than t'wait two nights." Shaking his head, he picks up his drink, adding, "B'side...it's Will's fight." Not yours. Not his. Accompanying is one thing but it's not as if they're all going to
confront the Earl together. At least not in his mind.

     William inclines his head. The queen has arrived, but the king is already here. "We go tonight," William says quietly. There is no argument to his voice. No stubbornness. Just quiet knowing. He looks to Alexandra. Still...with that softened look of something more of affection than she had known from him before. But still...with that understanding and respect for her station.
     "I don't know much about Clyde, but the lowest sort of dog can catch a scent, Alexandra. This may be my only chance. I don't want to lose it by waiting in the stocks." He pauses, glancing to Donal. "But...I am going to try to follow my old friend's advice...and yours," he adds quietly, evenly, turning back to Alexandra. "I'm going to try to...have a little faith
that Nasr will be here."
     He pauses. A shift in topic. "Did you rest well?" He thought of coming to...see her himself, but he did not. How embarrassing would it have been for he and Donal to be at the same door? He clears his throat a bit and takes a swallow of his refreshed scotch. "Would you like something to drink?" Donal offers nothing more...word given by his ostensible leader. The drink is enjoyed again, assent to William's course of action--as he sees fit. He sighs and glances around, suddenly wondering upon a third glass.

     Oh, but in Alexandra's mind, she has been involved in this fight since she fought for the right to embrace the young Chancellor and lost. And this...this she would have wanted to part of...had William asked her to come. And now that she has....there are reasons for her insistence. There must be, for her to have followed William's every request since arriving at his door step, and now so obviously disagree. Or perhaps...that in and of itself is part of it.
     "If you both wish to head out tonight to find the Earl without Nasr, enjoy. I will stay here and wait for either you to return or for Nasr to arrive." And that, as far as she is concerned, is the end of it as well. Still, she stands there, at the entrance to the hall, and still no move is made to actually enter it. The night, dear William, was not spent with Donal or anyone else. And it does not seem that she intends to stay in the Hall for much longer. "I rested well, qui William. And no, I am not thirsty this eve."

     There is silence from Donal for a moment, brown eyes lit by the fireplace. A sigh, then he says, "Yer now angry, Lexie?" This he does not understand, drink taken once more.

     "I am not angry about anything, Donal. If you wish to go, that is fine with me." And it is true, one would be hard pressed to see any anger in her voice or her eyes. Hard pressed to see any emotion gracing the face of Alexandra this eve.

     William lowers his gaze. "Nasr will be here. There is...no point in debating it. None of us have missed a battle yet," a look tossed to Donal. "And I can't imagine the moor would sleep through one now. Childe or no." He looks to Alexandra. Is that a plea in his gaze that makes it so bright. He was told to have faith. He was told to...believe that it'll all work out. If he does this...and it does not work out...there will be nothing to grasp. He doesn't fall into this tonight. He is stubborn -- god bless Henry for that heredity -- and will use it for this purpose. To hold himself up, if naught else.
     She is cold again, but he knows there is warmth there. He did not always know that before. Or perhaps...he did not know it at all. William looks up again, his eyes upon her. Waiting to hear if she is angry or no. But then ...she proves herself not so. But so cold...William rises from his chair, setting down his drink. Slow the stride that takes him to her, but he covers ground quickly enough. "I am glad you are not angry, Alexandra...but ..." Where are you?

     Perhaps, to the old Gangrel, this would not be a familiar sight. Maybe it is that William and Donal each new two different women. There was the Childe Alexandra...the girl....and the Lady of Navarre. It is into the guise of the former that she has now returned, secure in it. Her eyes follow the passage of the Norman towards her...bringing a slight tilt to her head to look up at the tower of a man before her. Was she before? When? For six hundred years she has drifted in and out of the lives of Ian and William such as this, and never before has even such
a question been raised. At what point had she been angry, and had she stopped caring? It would be hard pressed for her to answer that. So the question is returned to him. "But what?"

     Quietly Donal sits, his bit said. He focuses on his drink, allowing you two to converse.

     He shakes his head, slightly. His gaze is searching. But searching more than just for a mood. He knows she has been shaken. But in his way, has he changed at all? Always wanting to know a reason why. Why.
     But William takes a breath, his gaze seeming to understand something. His answer to her question, given in a gentle touch. Upon her arm. And then the dark prince draws away. Do not come out of the darkness for me, it would say, but only if you wish to lay it down. To ask her how she feels ... what makes her so quiet.... would this be any different than Ian slicing his wrists and forcing his childe to be the Elder that he is? It is not his right. It is not right.
     "Come and join us, Alexandra. We could use the ...sunshine of a woman's presence. You know how sullen Donal gets around Norman men. It reminds him of too many losses." William...trying humor. Finally. His voice is quiet and even...not yet holding the quip he was wont to have before.

     There's a snort from the seat, Donal looking up and over with a grin. Okay, that worked. He chuckles and glances at Alexandra. "We can get wine fer ye, ifn ye like, Lexie." A glance at William, "He can do that..." his hand flickers. Whatever it is you do to get people to come. "Y'know..."

     William sighs, "Ventrue parlor tricks. That's what it's come to..." For a moment, perhaps, there is a look to her brown eyes, as if she would answer the question not posed. One of her age...does not lay down darkness. It is always there, a constant companion. But there, she glances over to Donal. The moment passes. And maybe for the best, for there are some questions that no doubt the Norman would not want an honest answer to. And so she remains there, silent for a bit. It is as if the offer of wine and the joke that accompanied it slipped over her head. As if she hadn't heard it. But eventually her soft voice answers with, "No, thank you Donal. I can help myself. I thought I might take a walk around the old castle. If Nasr arrives, or you get ready to leave, you can let me know."

     He's never made claim that he understood Ventrue. Certainly Dunross was not a friend. Rival more so. William...well he was always different. The Baron, Lexie, London...they have always been beyond him. And really, Donal Wallach has never tried to know Ventrue. Always seemed like a waste of good Spirit. A nod is given Alexandra, in response to the wine, but when she discusses a walk, he looks over to
her, a bit surprised. It is a chilly evening, only getting more so.
Well. He won't make comment about kith and kin. "Aye, we'll get ye when 'tis time." That's his job. Orchestrating servants. Toting bags. Supporting William's endeavor. Not bad work, if you can get it.

     And that is why William did not ask. He ...is beginning to understand it. He does not like it. He has lived eight centuries fighting, whoring, painting, warring to live in what light he could claim. He was...always a child of the sun. The residue of summers held within his skin. Born on Midsummer's Day. The sun king.
     It is...wrenching to be pulled along. How does Donal escape it? He looks at him, but his...Ventrue parlor trick is held in check. He doesn't understand Ventrue either. He doesn't understand the clans. William turns as Alexandra speaks, and looks upon her for a long moment. "It's cold. Do you want my coat?" The knight just can't help himself.

     There is a shake of her head with the offer from William. "No, I brought my own, merci." Her eyes drift...around the room once more. A slight nod of her head is offered to the Gangrel. "I won't go far." And then...back to William the brown gaze travels once more.
     What she understands of the Ventrue...that she knows so well...is that while they are not known for the warm companionship the Gangrel have for each other when they meet, the fiery passion that bonds the Brujah together, or anything of that nature...while they busy their time with the art of war and politics...their personal dealings rest on a more...subtle nature.
     It has always been, up till now, subtle ways Alexandra would show her love for Ian and William. And there was a subtle message sent to her in the note Ian left. Oh, she can understand the whys and hows of what he did. Better then William, for sure. But it was that message that would cause her, were it not for William's assistance, just to let him sleep on his own time. There is a slight turn, her gaze now moving over to the hall way back to where she spent the night. A step to leave before she offers, "I'll see you both shortly."

     "Aye," Donal offers, standing now from his seat, barefeet upon stone floor. He watches Alexandra, giving her a smile. "Be watchin' for th' animals..." he notes, '...some are in their winner moods." Winter. Sleeping. Packing, planning, storing. He stretches, hands upon his waist as he takes a deep backbend...then exhales loudly. Much better. Baggy denim pants and the plaid shirt hang from him, covering his stocky build.

     William takes a breath, the sound most subtle. And he but nods to her words, to her wish. She and Ian are....far more subtle than he ever was. Even the court of Eleanor was not as...intricate as those two in their machinations, their desires, their intentions.
     William read the note. He doesn't understand Why This Has Happened. No. He does not. He would hand it to Donal if he thought Donal would understand it. Donal would perhaps even less than he. William only knows his indiscretions sent Ian into a silent darkness from which William may never resurrect him. The darkness is only kept at bay. It is never far.
     "Oui, Alexandra," flows both the French and that accent from him. Different from last night's more British, angry clip. "We will be here. Listen for the sounds of Donal reprimanding Nasr in the distance...follow it...you shall find us." This attempt at humor missed in the tone of his voice, but so softly spoken perhaps the two of you can get it even so. William finishes his scotch, returning to it. Seeking another.

     There is but a brief nod of her head. A slight brush of her hair from her face, tucked behind ears. And then, with quiet footsteps, Alexandra departs away from the Great Hall, leaving the Knights to their talk and their scotch.

     Donal chuckles faintly, his mood improving. He reaches over for the bottle to pour his friend another. A glance is given to Alexandra, but long does it not stay. Cheering quickly, he pats Will heartily upon the back, gaining his attention. More drink, more visit.

     William groans a bit at the pat, playing it up. "Take it easy, Donal ...I'm an old Ventrue. You know we turn to dust at the first sign of a good mood." The scotch is loosening his tongue again. He takes a seat, almost heavily. It is not for lack of energy. He's strung tighter than a Welsh bow at the moment. Perhaps that's the reason for his sigh. He sips at the refill. "So...what was her name?" Getting back to the women. He's in a mood.

     "Which?" he asks brightly, refilling your glass. The bottle's had it. He tips it to himself, peering into it before tossing it to the side. And the crash resounds. Loudly. A snort and he plops back into his seat, knee up, leg folded under. He looks at you, expectantly...even as servants come running into the room, frantic. One with a new bottle in hand. Ah, call for a new drink, it was.

     William pauses at the crashing of the glass, his train of thought interrupted. He watches the new servant scamper in. A dark brow is lifted as he finds the thread of thought again. "The one with the scotch last night. Red head." His voice is quiet, words halting..pausing upon themselves...accent thickening. The girl. The one whose blood he tasted this morning. Some romantic. Didn't even ask her name. Well...the days of The Lover are over. She was fair and he was hungry. And that was that.

     "Ah..." Donal nods, smiling a little. "Caitlin. Caitlin..." he frowns, trying to recall her last name. "Hmm..." he takes a sip, "Clan escapes me..." A shrug. Not that it matters. Wickedly grinning, he leans his head in your direction, "What'd ye think?"

     "If you do it right, you don't think at all," he counters quietly. But that grin, he can't look at it. He is ...very like a man after his first woman. Utterly into it, but not able to talk about it in that way...in the slightest. "She was...." And then it just hangs there.
Caitlin. A common enough name. Red-headed...like he prefers his women to be. Though, in truth, so long as they are women... William clears his throat and takes a drink. He liked her. She was warm. "Nice," he settles on nice.

     Flicker of a brow. "Nice?" Donal asks. "Is that all ye can commup wit?" He winces long and hard, turning to the flame and shaking his head. "She's more than nice..." Donal corrects, "...soft...warm...aye an' she sighs like th' wake of an angel passin'." His brows wiggle. "An' she stays still." Gruffly put. Drink followed behind it.

     Quickly cleaning glass, the two servants depart as rapidly, certainly not hearing the conversation. New bottle of McReedy's is left to its own devices.

     "Please...a little mercy," William has a wince of his own for different reasons. No, it did not get very far. Far enough that his color was high. Not far enough for the rest of it. So you have your answer full and complete. The wince ends in his glass, ended in his swallow of scotch. He'll need about twenty more where Caitlin came from, to get in the swing of it. But with her blood a bit of a flush can't be hidden. He doesn't mention her by name again. And he won't find her again before he leaves. "Very warm," he counters and then he's done. "So...am I ready now, y'think? We are near the dawn of it...and it is either now...or it is never, Donal..." Meaning the coming "battle".

     The smirk is hidden as quickly as it comes up. So, William Plantagenet avoided the rest of the dinner plate. Intriguing. His own swallow is gulped quickly and he points a finger at you, "Aye...y' gettin' there." He smiles to feel that you have improved since you first spoke, since you arrived. Gaze settles once more upon the fire, and he grins to think of Caitlin. Now that he's been reminded...and he shifts in his seat before reaching for the new bottle. "Tell me," he asks, "..d' ye think yer ready? Yesserday, no. Today?" he shrugs. What's the difference and how do you feel? And are you going to be using Caitlin later? If not...

     If he lives through it, he may find her again. If she's in the mind to part with another pint. Or two. She was patient, he'll have to give her that. And he was...clumsy and uncomfortable. He looks into his scotch again. Clumsy as a boy, William. He pauses more in those thoughts for the moment, than thoughts on the evening ahead. There's a brief show of a frown -- you might know why, you might not.
     And so it takes him a time. Or two. Held in the firelight. Dark and strong, resplendent and he doesn't know it. The frown eases from him. "I ...am better than I was yesterday. I do not have time to wait to see what tomorrow will be like. Today finds me...stronger." He settles back in his chair, elbows on the arms of it...glass held in steepled fingers. William glances to you. He is still uncertain. You can read it.
     "I am ready because I have to be." The typical William answer. It is what pulled him through, wounded, through many a campaign. He has his focus: one battle at a time. Not on the greater success of it all. But upon a ...possible success he can taste. Earl Clyde. "I will get it done, Donal. And then we will see."

     Now that's an answer. Ready for it's required. Donal nods eagerly, a deep rise and fall of his head. "Aye, stronger ye are, Will. That, I can feel." In tune, he is, if anything. Woods, castle, universe....all are the same to him. Where he resides, where he feels comfortable. All is home. "A step here..." he smiles, "...a vict'ry there. An' they build." He grins and looks over at you, "Was how we did Alhambra, hmm?" Urk, what a campaign. Years of painful unpleasantness and plenty of losses. Yet the victories were astounding. He beams to think of it, brown eyes back upon the fire. It was painful. It was good. And the Twelve deserved it. And so it Came.

     Alhambra. There is a moment of eye-closing to that. For William...most Immortal struggles have not compared to those he fought beside his brother. Spain. The Holy Land. In some ways, he has tried to capture the sweet kiss of victory he knew with a mouthful of his own mortal blood ever since his resurrection in Arsuf. No blow has ever equalled that one. But Alhambra was a struggle, one of the greatest. It was what they call A Moment. The modern era has been short of those
moments.
     As you talk of Alhambra, it snaps him from his reverie. "Glorious," the first words out of his lips, in a reverent hush. As if he were talking about his dead mother. Years it took and when they held it in bloody hands, it was like sweet fruit brought to the lips. Pleasure in its ending...Pain in its ending. Good and painful. "This may be..." he whispers, "...my second Alhambra, Donal. I....deserve this." And the scotch is finished. Another poured.

     "Aye," he agrees again, lifting his drink your direction. Taking a long taste of it. Ahhh, he exhales, lips curving. And it's not that he knows what has happened between you and Dunross. And not that he cares about the details. But a way of living...a way of approaching victory, defeat, setback, loss, achievement and accomplishment. That was gone from your voice. Understanding of how The Universe works. He glances over again, "I'm sorry if I was crossin' wit meh words t' Lexie." No remorse, just an apology if he offended. "Tweren't meh intent t' upset her, ifn I did." Can never tell with Ventrue.

     "No, I do not think your words had anything to do with it." William says after joining you in the glass toasting. "You know how complex she is, aye? You could get lost in the layers of it, if you stopped to think on it. No."
     "Alexandra...has much in this...maybe more than I. Ian...is an...old friend of hers. They have always been ...very close." She loves him. She loves William. "And ...you saw me last night, aye? You saw how I was." He pauses. "That was the best I had been in four days, Donal. She had to...see the rest of it. She was worried, perhaps I wore her out." There's a wry smile at that. "I have a habit of doing that to women." Though usually not in that way.

     Donal laughs for a moment, watching you. He nods, "Aye, y'do, William. Or so I've heard 'em lament." He grins to the hearth, sighing now to think upon her. "She's...a beauty." Glass is examined. And she'd never have him or even look at him. Or any other, from what he's heard. A Ventrue female. He never forgave the Baron for bringing her to Edinburgh, to London. Another sigh and his humor has evaporated. Into his glass.

     "Lament?" Bah, he says to that. Oh, that got a rise out of him. But it's a humorous bristle from the old Lion of England. And his lips curve in a smirk. He settles back, eyes to the fire again. "I ...must not have been paying much attention to you, Donal. I never knew you...cared for her so." He pauses. "She is a lovely woman. Beneath all the layers there's a heart there. I've seen it a time or two. I wish...she and the others would show it more. It is hard enough to live without the sun," and he does miss it, child of the sun that he was, "that it would be nice to see...a few more smiles from the Sisters of the Night."
     He looks to you. You've gone glum. William lays a hand against your back. He'd lay an arm across your shoulder, but now that you know he fancies a boy... "You alright, Donal Wallach?"

     "Oh?" he blinks and nods at you. Whatever it was, it didn't last long. "Aye," he frowns, grinning at the same time. That I am. An exhale, less of a sigh, and he smiles, "She's just lov'ly, tis all. An' I quit thinkin' about what ye say on her...about five minnits after I met her." He laughs, honestly. "Jes' hadn't seen 'er in a while, is all."

     "Ah," comes William's voice. He doesn't sound too convinced that it is merely that. But settling back in his chair, and lordly sprawling his legs out, he gives a glance to the rest of the room. "I don't remember what I said on her. I always thought her lovely and tough as the wolf who mothered Romulus. So...is Marta going to come see me before I ride into the Valley of the Shadow of Death?" His voice is quiet, even, but the tone isn't overly heavy. Not quite humorous...but at least he's trying.

     Donal chuckles low, rattling in his chest. "Nay..." he sighs, shifting and reaching for the bottle, "...she's in Killikrankie, near th' Pass." Beautiful area. The heart of Wallach's roaming area, north of Edinburgh a couple of hours. "With a youngun' there...mebbe teachin' her stuff she needna know." He chuckles, pouring once more. And soon, this bottle will pass the way of the other.

     William holds the glass out, to take a portion of the pouring scotch. "Well...she'd just light into me anyhow. Perhaps it's a blessing in disguise." William smiles a little at that. It is, however, a prelude to other thoughts. Thoughts he has to drink to. And because of.
     There is a darkness so subtle that passes over his features. A quiet reserve. Thought. Too much thought. A look rather like the lament you had for Alexandra, but deeper...perhaps. Perhaps not. "How long has she put up with you now, Donal?" He looks to you. If he asks about your life, it may distract him from thinking of his. Or perhaps talking of your companion shall do the opposite. Maybe he should talk about his own. So he doesn't miss him so much...

     "Marta?" he asks, wrist turned over, bottle gulping out its contents, "...oh...off an' on...since..." he frowns, "...ach since th' War." He shrugs, "She knows where I'm found, I know where she is." Nothing much more than that. Unsure if he really wants any more than that.

     William chuckles softly, "I suppose that is a good thing. At least I know where Ian is..." He laughs instead of what else he could do, tears of crimson gathered at his eyes from it. He shakes his head and whispers: "Forgive me." But not to you. To his love upstairs. Sleeping.
     He sighs and finishes the scotch in a swallow. "God help me," he murmurs, "I'm actually developing a taste for this..." The glass is held up, and regarded. How the glass gleams. How the scotch lays upon it like drops of gold. Bewitched by it...or the thoughts of the one it reminds him of. "I won't be looking for Caitlin again," he says rather softly, rather suddenly. "She is a lovely one, and she was sweet to be sure. Like brandy. But...my heart is a dark place. I don't want to ...swallow her whole in order to fill it."
     And you have seen him do so, most likely. You've seen him go through women like he was walking through a field of flowers, each one falling for him, plucked, held to the lips and then discarded. Or killed when he was too needy. And her blood was thin. "I have a ...need for the thicker draught I know is waiting for me." It is like going from heady Irish ale, thick and red, dark with life...to the pale American beer that is only distinguishable from horse piss because it's served cool. "She won't remember me." There, you have the whole of it.

     He watches you for a long moment, listening. And his filled glass is emptied upon the completion of your thoughts. "As ye say..." he only acknowledges, not knowing what to say. He normally leaves his fields in tact, happy to walk across over and over again. But yes, you have a penchant for cutting a wide swath and leaving a substantial wake of emptied meadow. Quietly, he asks, "I dinna know..." he frowns, now getting too personal, "...that ye...were of that ilk." About as formal as one gets. "Preferrin'..." his hand waves. You know.

     "Lads..." he says, matter-of-factly, and the smile is on him then. He is quiet for a moment, looking at you...unwavering. "He has made me understand that Love is not a body, male or female. I've...had thousands and thousands of women...aye? How many of those women did I love. None of them. I love him. I'd love him if he were a woman." He makes a damn fine woman at that. William gets lost in momentary reverie. He looks through you, you can see the eyes darken a touch. And then consciousness returns, and violet flickers. "So," he says with a sigh, "...does that make any sense?" Settling back, he rests his head on the back of the chair.

     There's a soft 'ah' from Donal, the rise and fall of his head, but eyes show clear lack of understanding. Dunross...like a woman? Love?Arsuf? Shaking his head to clear, he shrugs, "Well, y'love. An' that's what's import'nt, laddie." Another filling of his glass. He thinks about you liking women...but being with a man that you say you love....but that you'd love him if he were a woman. That suggests...that...you prefer women. Though you're with a man. Another shrug, then, "I ne'er...well..." he shifts to look at you. "Dunross, tho?" Of all men. People.

     William chuckles then again. There's a thought in him that you're doing this on purpose, to keep him laughing. To help him fight the shadows of Elder that threaten to consume him. He shakes his head slightly with a sigh. "Aye, Dunross." William inclines his head. "I know you find the whole matter rather...hard to grasp. First, William with a man, which I'll warrant you is shocking enough. But then Ian Dunross, Lord Strathfayr himself. A Ventrue in the middle of the Gangrel mecca." His laughter has calmed, but the residue of it is
the light found in his eyes.
     "Donal, despite the bravado and the banter that flies between you both...aye, I love him. He's a worthy man for it. And I don't love lightly, this you know. If you've nothing else to understand it by, measure by my heart. You know it." He takes a swallow of scotch again. His gaze moves to the fire. "I can list out the things of him that made it so...after eight centuries with him."
     "I had to let Catherine go...you know..." And he's done it. He hasn't been seen in Wales, the anniversary of her death has come and gone. The miracles of St. Catherine of Gwynedd have ended. You remember her don't you? Hair of flame, eyes of sunny-brown, so small compared to the mountain of Henry she married. "And ...I did... she'll have my love forever," he murmurs, "but it was time for my grief to end." He looks to you again, crimson held around the blue of them. "...the year has...been difficult." To say the least.

     Donal nods slowly, listening. Unbelieving of most of it, not doubting parts of it. Certainly that of Catherine. A woman after his own heart. True Breath of the Isle, for certain. He smiles at you when he looks up from his glass, "An' ye lov'd twice. Aren't ye th' lucky one?" Lucky one of any, luckiest of the Kind few. No such has gripped his heart...his penchant for mortals making him keep an arm's length, but certainly there were those whom he prized above others. And he let them go. No plans to make them live the life he must. Most of them passed on, knowing what their love was, but content to keep it quiet.
     If he could be jealous, he would, but he can only see wishes, a few laments of his own, but mostly understanding. How the heart aches for another who can know you as no other? Forever? Yet even as he says it, he shudders. Forever is too long. Centuries maybe. Wouldn't you get bored? Okay, maybe a century. Soon, he finds himself right where he started. With Marta. The Now. Ah well. There's a sigh for the thoughts, and he quietly says, "I guess then, ifn ye care for 'im...then mebbe somethin's there with Dunross." And it wasn't that hard to say, just he'd rather not have heard his own voice say it. To make you, William Plantagenet, love him. A man. The most Undead of Undead...even among the Ventrue.
     But he has to shake his head again, "I dunno, Will. I mean..." he turns towards you, "...it's diff'rent." Being with a man. Not the same. Doesn't feel the same. Doesn't...he sighs...bring that...his brow raises...that voracious appetite to...fuck their brains out and make yourself feel better. That thought makes him sink. Then smirk. And you can see the flashes across his face.

     He can translate your looks by now and he colors a bit at it. "I have been lucky. Blessed..." He nods to that, and he shifts a bit. Thoughts of Ian...surely...needing.He glances up out of his reverie, a snap of attention...as if waking. William smiles a bit, a
quirk curling of his lips.

     Another acknowledging nod, and Donal drinks deeply of his glass, in contemplation. Certainly the thought has crossed his mind in eight centuries, but nothing he ever really wanted to act upon. To think of acting upon it, simply made the feeling disappear. A non-feeling, really, in the end of all things. And he just chalked it up to denying himself too long. Easily remedied. A slip-glance of his eyes in your direction, and certainly he wonders what that must look like...he's seen you with others before, but never thoughts of you with a man. That was left to others. Your brother. Edward. Robert. Leisure it was seen to be at one point, gratuitous indulgence, but times seem to have changed upon the issue. No matter. He smiles at you, kindly thoughts that you were loved and someone loved you. "Well, a faithful man ye can be, Will. An' I bet Dunross knows it." He chuckles, "An' ye can go back t' yer marr'd life o' celibate when his eyes ope again." He grins and drinks to it.

     "I don't know if Dunross knows it," William remarks. "He's never seen me do it it now, has he?" He does desire Ian, and he's as tight as a drawn bow for it. Though to anyone else's eyes it could just be a tightness due to stress...or recently eating full and well. "I was trying to prove it...again." And he glances up the stairs -- indicating Ian's sleeping form. Perhaps William failed. Perhaps that is why Ian is sleeping. He knows not what you will take out of that. But he looks to you again. The comfort of old friends. Familiarity. It has done much for his mood. It has changed nothing in the difficulty of ....his state.
     "It's why I...seemed to say so many foolish things last night. And it is why...I do not ...truly know how sweet and warm your Caitlin is, Donal. As torturous as it was to maintain the mystery." He lifts his glass, another toast. "I don't....know how long the vow of that can stand...if he does not wake." William sighs. Heavily. He doesn't even want to think of it. He's twisting on the pike of Need as it is.
     He stares into his scotch. Then lifts a gaze to you again, half sprawled in his chair. Like a visiting king. Quiet reserve has settled upon him again. "Do sheep count?" And he seems to ask it in all seriousness, though you can see the glimmer of the grin in his gaze...that does not quite make it to his lips. It hovers there...like a promise....

     "Naaaay," he says drawn out. "They doon't." He chuckles at the thought, but clearly sympathetic with the situation. He'd just die...if he couldn't. But, that is another issue, none to do with Eating. He smirks at you and shrugs, "Weeel, I dunno wot t' tell ye about that part, Will." His drink is quickly finished and he instantly pours another, then offering the bottle to you. "Y' look better, tis true. An' ifn ye did so...without th' other..." He shrugs. That's the battle. You won. Feeding...and being faithful. Well, that's it in his book.

     "It only makes it more agonizing," comes his whisper. "There is no end to the hunger...it only...feeds the other. I am...merely more alert to it ...full, than I am when half starving," as you first saw him. "I feel sorry for the city that contains me if he does not wake, I can tell you this." And the words come out upon an accent...very thick. The 'this' spoken nearly in a hiss of sound. As if to indicate the internal, twisting wince he is living in. "So...while starving was not good...let me say, I do not know which is less preferable."
     He sighs again, reaching for the bottle. Alcohol doesn't help either, but at least it numbs after a while. Scotch at least does not inflame as brandy does. He nods to words of him looking better. "I don't like looking as pale as a Greek statue, but...this is not much better." The scotch is knocked back. "And I know you don't know what to tell me...there's nothing to say." And he glowers. Oh the frown. Unhappy, that. "It is the one ...malady that there is no cure for....that ...immortal blood cannot heal like a cut or make immune."

     "Sheep's outside," Donal murmurs absently, setting bottle down. There. That's his advice. Then he looks to you and chuckles, hoping you got the joke. Small that it is. The glass is turned up at his lips and summarily drained. He's approaching a break. Glass is put down and he lifts his arms above his head, stretching. "Goddess," he groans loudly, then dropping arms and exhaling. "All this talk..." he glances around, "...yer givin' me thoughts, Will." Where is that girl?

     Oh, your joke...and he took it as such...only brought a snort from him. The Norman is now stewing in his own juices. So, William sinks into the only embrace he'll be having for a while -- the chair. Glowering a bit, and reaching to pour another scotch. Small consolation.
     "Well, you have at least half an hour," he points out. All bark...and unfortunately he can't bite. William nurses his...tenth? ...scotch.

     "Half an hour?" Donal asks, rising from his seat. "Bah..." he pshaws at William, "Twenny, tops." Another stretch and he twists to see William. "Do somethin' constructive..." he smiles, winking at him. "Mah socks need darnin'..." With that he begins to head out of the room, quite happy with life.

Posted by rowan at June 08, 1998 01:09 AM