When dawn came...what did she find? Fires were already lit--a thousand false suns, in the figure of vaulting welsh arrows. Fires were already lit, in the hooves and hearts of the men who were sacking the city of Arsuf. Burning it was by the mid of day. Burning, but not taken. When midday came, the dust of the desert clung to the blood of the fallen, hugged to the earth with the heaviness of mortality...weighted down by ferocity and savagery. As only the human race is capable of. The Welsh forces--archers and infantrymen--and the French cavalry charged beneath the banners of Normandy. Beneath Aquitaine and England, those under Richard's command moved upon his word--upon his lead. France. Spain. Italy. Kings and knights, princes and priests descended--each upon their own task. Not on one side of Arsuf, but all around the walled fortification. Infidels spilled over the walls. Arrows killed men on both sides. Pikes. Lances. Swords. All in the mid of the day.
     But the falling of night did not see an end to the struggle. Having fallen back to gather themselves again for another charge upon a weakened flank, the men of Normandy, of Aquitaine, of England and those men of Wales, were moving shadows. The only light were the fires burning on the fortress, the flaming arrows shot overhead like comets. The moon hid her face, and the stars all cowered. By this night time she was falling. By dawn she would fall...
     But now...upon a pause, over the cries of fallen, of wounded, over the sounds of battles yet being fought in the distance, came Richard's voice. Richard, dirtied with the day's business, sits not in his tent cloistered as most kings are in such a fray, but bloodied and acquiring another horse. When William comes upon him in a gallop. William. The unstoppable lord. Madness of this is burning in his gaze. The lust that comes with blood. The lust that comes from killing. The lust that is the echo of adrenaline. Covered in blood. His white stallion turned to crimson and gold--blood and dust. Even Richard blanches. "How much of that is yours, Christ William." Richard pauses to shout out a command, red-faced and seemingly furious. "God damn it, a horse with four legs if you can manage it, Edward...Will, the flank?" From shouting to no-nonsense command.
     "One more," William says, voice lifted--he has a war going on in his ears yet, they are ringing. "One more is all it shall need..."

     Night's servitor returns to his devotional early on...even while the sun has dipped low, her rays still gleaming off the western plains. The evening winds have stirred up, al-zehyr, the mixed tongue of warmongers call it, and into her dust, Lord Strathfayr once more heads. Braving the tiniest shards that beat and wear down edifices, Strathfayr walks, clothing streaming behind him as he heads among the throng and out of the village nearby. Nothing different this evening, the silver-eyed one quiet as he walks the local paths, those who know the stories of the Near-Alive, as it so translates, take their requisite step back, giving him a wide berth. Few are those, however, and the one in off-white walks into a building and down a set of stairs, where he is greeted by two servants who open a small door for him and reveal a dark corridor. This will lead him to a set of underground tunnels, under the city gates and out to the barrens alone...to see what the day...and Prince William...have wrought.

     Those tunnels under the city shall serve as mines and later filled with fire, war and death. Some already were. The Crusades...spared little or nothing on its track eastward. If the city was in ruins, what did it matter to God? So long as the Infidels did not live. Philip and the men of France were approaching one side. William...your William...shall take the other. Between the two, Arsuf shall be squeezed. And bled dry.
     Richard's eyes scanned city and brother in turn. Worried for one more than the other. "Try to not get yourself killed, Will, you're my only heir." He nods. "In the space of ten then. I shall wheel round there," a kingly hand gestures to the city gates. "When you knock through...they won't be able to plug all the holes. It'll pour hell like the devil's own sieve." William is already wheeling his own mount about. A shock of white in the tail. Like the last sign of Innocence. "Brother!" Richard calls after. But William is gone...a train of men following behind him. The light of the fires catches off of his sword. Ah, were there not stories of seraphim...of cherubim closest to god....yes, with swords of burning flame. Richard seems to recall this as he swings himself up. He takes his own sword, raises his own voice, and turns upon his own portion of the battle.

     "To me!" The call of William's war-rough voice calls men to him. They fan out behind him. Trailing, flanking. And with the focus of intent charge toward the weak link in Arsuf's mighty chain that their day's campaigning had made. Meeting Turks, meeting Infidel halfway. A bloody conflagration. Fires burned, men cried. And at the head of them, William. Covered in blood both his and not. Sword flamed and flashing even as he swings it. Arrows miss him. Swords miss him. Pikes miss him. And the push of Normandy breaks through the first resistance, heading for the broken walls of the fortress city of Arsuf.

     Strathfayr's walk is not too long...he settles some eighth-mile from Arsuf herself, walking a raised ridgeway. It is enough to let him see the city, enough to let him see the motions of the parties involved, his stake in this having been secondary to the forced sleep of Death. Now he has time and ability to attend to it--attend to William. Beyond here, beaten dirt begins to yield to greened land, touched by the trickle of springs that push forth...even Arsuf had her beauty and resources. Soon, there will be nothing of that left. The Englishman pulls his breezing cloaks behind him, content to stand erect and watch the death of the town, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see trails of refugees already fleeing the city, their dust trails upon the horizon. He turns back.
     There. Grey eyes need little time to find that which is so familiar to it. The sword and steed of the Prince Plantagenet. Now shall Lord Strathfayr crouch, elbows upon knees, to watch the Angel of Death charge in his dark duty, passing over none...shall it be said that the Jews in Egypt had been shown more mercy than the men of Arsuf? His jaw sets tightly and grey eyes loom about the scene, as if willing it to play out as he wants ... as William must have it. If hand could wave across the chessboard, Strathfayr would do it, insuring his Champion's victory. But that is not here. The Prince Plantagenet must earn it himself, earn it for the being that watches over him...needs him.

     As dust and blood fly, Strathfayr's mind wanders. To last evening. How much he already wants to breeze upon the evening's dust-bearing winds and extend himself to the Prince. No, no, that would be distracting. The point, Strathfayr, the point. There is time for that...later. Soon enough, when he is alone again, when we are both alone again. And in such thoughts, Lord Strathfayr's eyes close.

     His shouts ring loud. Can you, future father...future lover ... future companion--can you hear them. Urging, pressing, driving men forward, just as their comrades fall. Can you hear his grunts of effort as he battles upon Baruch--even as Baruch himself battles with hoof and jaw as he was trained? You closed your eyes, future sire. And while you did, your William found himself surrounded. Even as his men, urged on by his own valor as much as by his commands, shoved their way into the city Arsuf was breached at last. At last, here comes the dying hour and the dead. Twisting in his saddle, his own horse shifting, shoving with every motion, William fights off his crowd of assailants. One falls...and another...and another...
     As France and England drove forward to strike at the heart after William's charge...disarmed the city walls, William fought his way out of his surrounding of Infidels. You closed your eyes, future sire. What did you miss? The lunge of the white stallion, the cutting down of Infidels at your angel's blade. Head turns to glance to his flank as he wheels bout to join his men. Head turned about, he did not see the Infidel at his other side.
     Arms spread wide at the contact, his weapon dislodging. Body burned by the penetration of a pike, and his cry rang out. Blood poured from his mouth, poured from his back. But William did not stop. Could not stop. Would not stop until he were dead. His sword fell from his hand and William veered toward the source of his agony, grabbing a pike from a passing charge of Turk. It was enough for him to get out of the knot of war... You had your eyes closed. Did you see his horse lead him away, even fighting as he was?

     "William!" is the thought, the snap back to the moment. Despite the whip of sand and blood and death, there is one scent that pierces through, that calls him forth as no other. The blood of William Plantagenet. Childhood afforded the first familiarity, soft smells of water and perfume that eventually led to horses, brandy...and women. Yet under it all was always him.
     And now the streaming tendrils of that sweet aroma are steady, rushing at him, carried upon a stiff breeze. Closed eyes flash, scanning the field just below, looking for the faithful stallion and its rider. And Lord Strathfayr's feet carry him. Before the Prince can be sighted, he has left the confines of the ridge to speed towards the battle itself, passing the rear lines of boys and infirm, a blur at the fringes, curving about to head into the fray of foot-soldiers and confused mounts.
     "Oh, William..." screams through his mind, a constant litany beginning---where is he...how did I...oh...oh...please...please...--hysteria flushing the calm mind. Leather-tied feet race headlong, the Lord trying hard to regain himself, steady...steady...steady Ian, he is here, he is here....you will find him...find...find...find it. No time to think--a pike with saracen colors swings at him, point whizzing. Acute ears find it, and grey eyes flash silver as shaft is caught mid-swing. The wielder seems surprised that his victim is so alert, ears picking up with the eye did not...snap His thought will remain unfinished. Pike in hand, Strathfayr has reached out and snapped his neck, grey eyes still absently searching, looking, finding...calling it.
     "Baruch..."

     The white beast lunges forward, even as his master's weight presses against his neck. William lies slumped, his blood coloring his mount's mane. He does not hear the battle anymore. So distant. It is like the sound...when one is first waking...distant sounds of business taking place. When he was a boy, he would wake to the sounds of the kitchen staff. The giggling of the girls--sweet girls, he had them all. Sweet girls. The chiding of the old cooks. The battle now was like that. Voices, just a swirl of voices saying nothing...
     The white beast gallops forgotten away from the sounds of war... back and past the fray. Back to the camps that last night held safety. But his gaits, war trained, are smooth. This dressage would one day become a sport, a dance. But in this time it served a purpose: quickness, stealth and gentle passage for a wounded sire. Baruch changes his lead, turning to the call. Ears are pricked forward, then one forward and one back. One listening for the call. The other heeding the master on his back.
     William lifts, eyes glassy and mouth bloody. There is froth there. He is drowning...a lung filling with blood, his breaths are visible at his lips. Sitting is a struggle. His hands grasp the reins until they are white with the strain of it, to turn Baruch back to the burn and blood of conflict. But Baruch heeds a stronger call. Survival...and ... You. William sits unsteady, but he is fighting. Fighting to live where but yesterday he called for his death...

     Time and voices pass like so many dreams. Dust swirls become the clouds of remembrance, lifting and bringing quiet memories to the fore, ones that perhaps were tucked away for such moments as these. Final moments. Perhaps you do not feel it, Prince Plantagenet, the strong pull of the reigns dangling within your fingers, the jerk of the steed between your legs, the shift of the saddle, the weight behind you. Even then there is a sigh. A sigh of Night. Familiar it is, but ever so much closer than before. Noise rages...bodies and weapons bump into your leg and side, the horse weaving, unsteady, somewhere. Someone is there, covering you, not someone...Darkness. Light. Someone grunts, a loud crack with snapping bone. Arabic, French, English...language is but a river, a torrent of sound in which nothing is distinguished.
     But that begins to die...speed...wind. Breeze. Dimming rays. Clashing arms are a symphony, a rising backdrop of which you have no part. It is behind...something is behind, holding. And into the early evening you are taken, away from the field of Arsuf...it--this day--is yours, Prince William. Remember that.

     The time of death and of the dying. William's eyes close. That breeze. So odd for comfort to come now. Is this death at last? His fingers tremble with the strain, unsteady. The reins slip from them. The world rushes behind him, and the Night enfolds him in its grasp. Or is it the embrace of Death Itself? Come...oh come... his blood cries for the release....
     Even as his body struggled valiantly for survival. Such visions before the eyes, in the spinning of the violent world about him. Baruch weaves, the earth moves with him. William's fingers clutch as much as they may to the white stallion's neck and long mane. The horse shifts, picking up the pace a bit---an extended trot that does not jostle--as William's weight settles more against his neck. As his master's finger stroke at his hide. The loose seating makes the stallion nervous. He can feel William slipping, and slipping away. His own breaths are quickened, this beast's. He moves in the darkness, further and further from the conflict.
     What shall report of this battle say? What shall be sung or said of William Plantagenet? That he fought until his ending? That like a ghost he disappeared in the fray never to be seen again? Will they speak of his valiance? His boldness? Of the attack before dawn that surprised the saracen out of napping? Of the rally at the wall. Of him being surrounded. Of victory? The battle is already as distant as Yesterday. William's eyes close and he coughs. Blood.

     The curtains are closed on the play behind. Wherever the horse walks, you know now it is by some hand, by some force. Led away is he, to soft breezes. Only then does the pressure around you loosen, motion behind, the shift of the horse again. Weight is lost...and so quickly is Time also. There is a moment of nothingness, when there is only the sound of whipping wind...that smell...olive...grass...the strong cedars? No, that is elseplace, not the field of Arsuf.
     A grip returns and you are pulled from mount. How painful it must be, fingers...yes, those are fingers...wrapping in your clothing, encouraging and helping you down, holding you. The Hospitallers...they have come, yes? There is the neighing of the horse...steady it is, not agitated at all. Soft murmurs, like a burbling brook...too much like a burbling brook...lift above the soft din of evening breeze. Belt is loosened as you seem to be on your toes, suspended, and then movement and sinking. A slow slide and lay upon softness. No rays bother sensitive eyes with their sharp light, somewhere there is a playing war march--beats and timbre intermittent. And at your chest, the clothes are opened, freedom from their tightness, their tugging at the open wound.

     Such a stream. Such a stream of the most profane words in the Norman vocabulary follows the removal of the clothes. William's body moves on its own, instinctual. He smells of his sweat, of sand and dust. Of blood. So much blood. His...others'. He has more than one wound, though most of the others are superficial...glancing of swords that missed him for the most part. But the Saracen's pike had so penetrated his lung. The wound made in his back...visible at his chest. It ran him through. His eyes squeeze shut and there are tears--not of sorrow...but of the intense pain.
     The soft nickering of Baruch, as if inquiring upon the health of his fallen lord. The battle is a lifetime away. Arsuf will be won by the dawn. By the dawn, Richard will be scouring over the fallen dead ... searching for his brother...his brother's horse. Any sign of life or death. The king of England, it will be said, cried for the loss of his brother that day...
     But the realization of Another's Presence finally dawns upon him. It makes him tremble slightly. His glassy bright gaze lifts, scanning ... searching madly. Bright, glistening indigo. Unfocused in his pain. "Who are you?" comes the clipping French. "Leave me...leave me...leave me..." These words begin at a murmur, end in a growl. Leave me to die. William's legs shift. They would kick if he had the strength. But his few words taxed him mightily. Coughing racks him, blood is sputtered, turning his lips crimson. The rest of him is....ashen white.

     "I cannot..." comes in a Gallic-Norman mix, fingers nimbly quick. Soon enough is the main wound exposed...and the fingers pause. It is then indigo eyes will find what they seek. Above you is a figure, backlit by lights of pinpricked stars. Fingers grasp at his own mask, tugging it away to show eyes of grey. Unwrapping and circling, each layer of the turban is removed...he has a few quiet moments, the knowing of Death is as familiar as the hairs upon his golden head. Upon his shoulders the unwound material rests and Ian Dunross looks down upon you for a moment, his face in loving gaze. "How..." he whispers, "...can I leave thee, Prince William?"

     Another stream of curses, and then his words are lost. William's body is a fit of coughs. Of convulsions. Death is not far. But you know Death...hmm? You know when he comes...how he goes. His eyes plead. No more pain. No more sorrow. Leave me to die. Leave me to die. Every breath of William's comes with the liquid gurgling of blood. His legs kick slightly, heels digging into the earth. Fighting Death, even as he calls for it. He goes not gently. He clings on. Valiant William. Fighting the inevitable. Courageous William. He does not shed a tear. He battles. He wars.
     Baruch feels it as well as you. His pinkish nose is near to his lord. Heated equine breath pours upon him. He snorts, backing up...panicking at the smell of Death so near. William blinks hard, straining to keep his eyes open, and on you. So golden. His lips move but his voice cannot sound. So golden. Has he been saved at last? For you are so angelic...pristine above him. William's lips part for a liquid, gurgling sigh and his body begins to slacken. It alternates between slack rest and tense quivering. Tensing and relaxing. As Death approaches. As Life fights.

     The body above you leans into a near recline, next to you. Canvas and dust rest bestride red, blue, and white, native dress against finery. And an arm slithers at the nape of your neck, your head cradled in the crook of the angel's arm. As evening draws toward Night, dusk greets her with a whisper kiss, a silver gleam, a sparkle at above. Fingers touch your brow, feather sweep, and draw down your cheek in a tender caress. The grey eyes turn to look down your struggling form, bending over you, then lips are at yours--a first taste. It is enough to make then angel whine. His eyes close and he shudders, swallowing hard. How perfect it is. Upon the air your name is whispered, and a lingering gaze once more.
     The cedars and soft grass cannot tell what happened then. Nor can the brook. Arms cradling you tug, roll you into the angel's heaving chest. A child embraced to be reborn. There is nothing nearer, nothing closer. Cheek at your own is cold, grey, yet it nuzzles as a mother's, as a lover's.
     "Leannan..." is the word he chooses, "Love.." the word dying as same lips part at the soft throat so near, the barest cut of the skin. Arms wrap tighter, hoping you will see, you will know, that the one you are with is not as so much taking you to him...as hoping you will take him to you.

     He cannot fight the kiss. Nor would he. His gaze has gone dark with death. Your lips...Catherine's lips. Are they not the same? Love...love you speak. It reaches in. And the heart of this warrior...this bard in chainmail...responds with fight. Fumbling is the kiss that is attempted as your lips meet his own. William's eyes squeeze shut and he groans. His body is on fire. His heart unquiet. His lung filled....he coughs, choking. No...drowning. Blood pours from his mouth, frothing with the next shallow breath. And as your arms go around him, wrapping tight, his body does its best to press to you. Clinging. Clinging to you as he does onto Life itself.
     Does William know? Does a portion of his soul know you? Know who and what you are? His body is pliant to Fate. To Life. To Death. He writhes...pain searing him. Claiming him. William groans. His body is open to you...unresisting...waiting. As his skin is cut, he makes a strangled cry in his throat. No...no. The smell of fear and death are thick. But brief. There is the perfume of survival around him. Thick and heady. Needy. Need to live.

     He has waited too long for this. Every sweet taste of you is long overdue. Ian whimpers under the staggering weight of emotion, blood imbibed becomes blood cried. Silver lined with red opens to see the brook ahead, one more nuzzle of comfort given, a quiet request for understanding. Once more are you heaved against him, the soft growl belying the drain of Life from your form. Years race by...the face, the whisper, the walk, the nightly devotionals, the ambient fear that someone was there. Can you see him in his own mind, in your own blood? It tells the story, more than Ian ever could.
     The grove resounds in still quiet, night chill now alighting upon the air. Cooler the desert turns. In the middle of the small oasis a mile or less from Arsuf, Ian Dunross holds William Plantagenet to his chest, rocking him gently in cadence with the dying pulses of the Prince's heart. Slow, slower, he moves, draughts of blood thickening to stillness, emptiness. Then, he rises a little, silver eyes to watch the ending upon your face.

     Bliss. What is this sweet dying? Heaven. His expression lights with it. Suddenly, like Realization. Heaven. That would make you an angel to this Catholic man. Years race by, the visions of a life cut short by valor. Joy. Childhood. Adulthood. The Night that often held him...that he was compelled to walk through and in. It was alive. Alive. And the night holds him now. You. The narcotic of death slowly moves over him, and his body stops its wrangling...its writhing...its fighting. He does not understand. Can divinity be understood? William falls slack.
     The grove resounds in the still quiet. The night chill is nothing compared to the death chill of his own skin. The shudder that the following shiver causes wracks his form...makes it buck up against you. Oh, the strength you feel there. William's eyes are open. Glassy. Like gems. Lifeless. Such a sheen of rich blue to your gaze. His bloody lips are parted...full and inviting. But pale and wan. Haunting this vision in your arms.

     Silver watches indigo as the arm around your waist releases. A quick cut across his own wrist causes Ian to grunt softly, eyes never leaving you. A strong wind whips up in the oasis, a spray of brook douses you both, an anointing. Cradling you lower, the wrist is offered at your lips, blood offered for blood, essence for essence. His gaze warms like his body cannot--a talent learned later--and your life stains his lips, cheeks and chin. A gasp, and his brow arches in rapt attention, dribbling wrist upturned upon your mouth.

     Lips parted in a last sigh to god catch the blood from an angel's torn wrist. Your blood soon coats his lips, from lips to tongue unlife revives. His flesh jumps, a spasm of reanimation, at the taste.
     The taste! Electric. From the last tendrils of life (and the first strings of dying), he is reborn. The liquid, more powerful than wine, fills his mouth and he swallows. His tongue peeks out, starkly pink against the white pale of his face. William groans softly, like the squeeze of the Final Breath from his lungs. And then greed. Hunger. The blood lust. In your blood...he tastes fire and power. In your blood, he sees decadence and love. Adoration. Like the brush of his lips against you.
     He pulls then. His mouth coaxes. No.....begs. His mouth begs it of you. More. More. Even as his mouth clamps upon your wrist, feeds of your blood. He hasn't eaten all day. Nor did he drink. He spend the day in the desert, sweating. Dehydrated. William is ravenous. His soft lips squeeze, pull, plead. Who are you? Are you god? Is this heaven? Have I died?

     Ian smiles faintly, letting the sensations play upon him. Unfamiliar it all is, the passing of the Gift, the Embrace. But is it so welcome! Years of waiting, of aching, for now and for this. As you take from him, Ian's eyes lift above the thin canopy of olive and cedar breezing roughly as winds move across the sea and upon the plain. Damp they are, the brook only adding to the sweet smell of clean water that fills the air. Blonde strands of hair fight against the tousling, striking his upturned chin. Oh, all of you above who hate me, let this be real. I have not asked for so much, just...him. Stars shine upon the kin silver of Ian's eyes, perhaps twinkling their assent and giving intercession to those higher who hold sway.
     Prayer given, he looks down to you again, watching the switch of Life to Unlife. Soon, the body will give final yield, body reformed, letting go of the mortal coil that ties you to here. Adjusting a bit, he waits for it and in the meantime satiates your eager hunger---that does make him smile, even if he is silent to your own quiet questions. And blood...there seems no end to it.

     Salt. The sea of life. Blood. In a constant river in his mouth, down his throat. Oh, what were those stories...those his mother, so fond of talking, told him as a boy. Of knights in armor, with crosses on their shields....of beautiful golden haired maidens, with skin as white as snow and eyes as grey as mist. Of a grail filled with Christ's own Blood. Drink deep, the way to Heaven.
     As there is no end to blood, there is no end to William's hunger. Ravenous. With a full charge into the force of it, the taste of it, the heat of it, he throws himself. As much as he had done against the men of fallen Arsuf. Drink deep, the way to Heaven...
     Can you hear the pounding of his heart? The quickening of his breaths? The rapid charge of thoughts? Like horses, lunging through his mind. William's lips can take no more, his throat can swallow no more. His stomach is roiling with the blood. With the power of it. He gasps. Pain. But such as he has never felt. Not even the wound from the pike was so intense. No...there is no pain like that of Birth...or Death. And this is both, though he knows it not. It is both. His skin is the swarthy olive cast it shall remain forever...and also fair complected--like those of Aquitaine, like those of Spain. Lips, bloodstained, part for a groan and his body twists on its own. The power burns him from within...as mortality falls at the feet, prostate to immortal gods.
     And then he is still. For breaths...for the space of ten full breaths there is nothing but the stillness of death. And then... blue eyes erupt with violet fire. Indigo swirling blue-violet as never before in mortal days and nights. So vivid to your vampire eyes. And your handsome treasure leaves handsomeness behind. He transforms to Beauty like a statue carved for you. The embodiment of art and passion. Toreadors shall be envious at the sight of him. Life. Birth. William takes a breath.

     The minutes seemed like eternities...and so they were. The eternity that Caine himself passed to his Childer: Ventrue, Troile...the others. Eternity within eternity is each vampire existence, the circlet transferred, unbroken, to each passing generation. Weaker they say the chain becomes as one is further from the Father, perhaps one night, the Gift will be passed...and there will be nothing. That must be a dream...or an eternity from now that none can imagine.
     Next to you, Ian had begun sinking. As Death leaves him, so does Unlife...and he was unwilling to have you hunger. His own paleness is alabaster, coursing veins trying to swirl the remainder of his fading energies and muster strength. This is the time many would-be Sires cease to exist, struck down by the Hunger or the Hand of their own Childe. But, it is nothing more than a child that rests against you, his eyes fluttering as he drags his draining wrist down you and to his mouth to swipe the wound closed. Heavy is he against you, his nose at your cheek, his cradling now a shared recline upon the soft grass. Blonde strands tickle your face, living feathers now with the force of preternatural touch. One arm around, one arm across, and the one in white tenderly licks his own lips, tasting you once more.

     In 700 years ... or so... there shall be a poet who shall sing of the body electric. Did he know? Such power. The rush of it is more than the entire cavalry of England. Baruch himself is not so fast. Intensity. It makes William gasp. "Stars," comes his first immortal word, as in his fallen state...the sky's face is the first he sees. With stars of such color. He can see the fire of them. His eyes widen. His body is trembling...immortal power overtaking once mortal veins. He has tasted from the cup of immortality. As in the tales of Tir Na Nog. "Strathfayr," your name falls languid from his French lips.
     His blood before was boiling....from the adrenaline of battle, the fire of sorrow, the sword of purpose. In his hand. He had cut the fields of Arsuf wide, burnt it with his passion, his anger. And as the blood races its way through him, replacing those mortal flames with immortal ones...such feelings only increase. He did not die? He still feels--he still hears, and thinks, and smells of the things around him, he still sees...sees and hears and feels so much. And the visions. Of the blonde one he knew not...but knows now.
     William's eyes narrow, burst with color glinting as they do, and wildly they shift to you. Comforted by those images somehow, and yet confused. He cannot move as he did--as if the command of his body has left him. Ah, but it is only that he moves so quickly...his mind has not yet caught up with his form....nor his form, caught up with his reeling thoughts. "Strathfayr," he says again, voice less distant...more urgent. He looks at you. What is this? Who are you? What have you done? Where am I?....What am I? A thousand questions race against his expression. His seraphic....beautiful expression.

     At the moment, Strathfayr seems unable to answer the questions. His face is downcast at your ear, where he softly nuzzles his head...clearing his own thoughts. "I...love you..." comes in his own tongue, rolling like the hills of your visions. The hand at your stomach now begins to massage softly, despite the metal semi-discarded under it. Olive and cedar mingle with a spice perfume, so lovingly applied by those who take care of him, wafting gently in the night air.
     He swallows, relearning his form. His body reacts to your touch ... as if the blood within him sought to return to its master. And the day's events...and the day's excitement...and this fullness of life that is not life and death that does not come... his stomach is tight beneath your touch. And he fills out the leather and metal he is in. More so as his body stiffens. A hand trembles as he lifts it. It presses gingerly to the right side of his chest. Where the fatal wound was struck. But...it is not there. The wound is not there.
     William gasps again, and rapid Occitan leaves his lips. "Gone ... healed ...or dead. It was a fatal blow..." His words trail off into silence, then burst from him again, softly but in a roll of ceaseless French, clipped with energy, excitement...panic. "I do not understand that.....do you speak Latin?" His eyes are wide. His eyes are bright. "Who are you? What has happened ... the battle....I cannot hear it. I do not know who won. I must know. Richard..." His voice chokes at that and his body begins to obey him. William starts to roll...writhing against the earth to do so.

     That gets his attention. Ian struggles to lift a bit, his face at the periphery of your vision. The hand stills at your stomach, asking for patience. Patience in this? "Latin..." he murmurs, frowning, trying to conjure up those words, few words he knows. "A...little..." he asks in broken vulgate, unsure if he has answered properly. Then, "You...are better..." he murmurs, trying to rest on his extended arm to see you more confidently.

     Ah, gods. The phrase leaves his lips in French. In English. In Saracen. His body holds to the earth. The blood in his body--yours until so recently, reacts to your touch again. "What is happening..." he murmurs. "What is happening?" He cannot hear the battle. But he can hear his heart loudly. "Thirsty..." he sighs. And in so doing his newly formed fangs distend, slicing at his lips. Blood! He sighs. So many thoughts...he can grab onto them only fleetingly. But all questions take leave of him. Hunger is all. Hunger. Need so powerful. He could close a tavern with such need.
     His gaze burns up at burning stars. So this is the face of heaven. He an angel, darkly held beneath darker skies. Lips part, bloodied. And his body gives weigh. It takes a while for such surrender. The youngest Plantagenet is as his brothers, his father, his mother. Surrender is not in his vocabulary. And does not come easy. But this...this, is rapture. William's head turns to the side and his sighs. All wounds are gone. All blemishes of war are stripped away...

     "William..." the name spoken with a Norman clip...that he has learned. A kiss is placed at your ear, blood upon his lips, then a kiss placed at your mouth. The hand begins to stir once more, even as the stars seem to swirl overhead. Clarity shall not come from him at the moment--he too hungers as you do. William is murmured upon sensitive skin: second, third and fourth kiss placed in eager succession. Below, the hand moves again, testing the gird and mail, dipping lower. Where there was stillness, now vampiric ears can hear motion. Shifting grass, slipping cloaks, fingers rattling links of chain, rising breeze...all a solemn cacophony that overwhelms.

     Sensations. All experience for him, all touch and taste, all sound...are so intense. The kiss....sears him to his soul. The kisses come with the promise of the heat of blood. And his lips open to receive. Both strong and weak. He is both hard and pliant. Hard to your touch. Pliant to your will. Beneath the metal is a body formed by such wars as today. By the grasping of a horse between now powerful thighs. The body tapered for agility, trained by the weapon's wielded in his hands. Chest and arms made strong by the lance, the spear, the weight of metal. As your vampiric fingers make short work of his attire and yours alike...this is what is a feast for your eyes.
     William's eyes are closed, his lips parted yet, receiving the kisses your mouth leaves there. Flooded by the sound of grass ... wind ... cloaks ...clothing... Overwhelming. Norman French leaves his lips, dripping languidly in the intoxication of experience. Speaking of a golden angel....as if he were dying. As if he had died. The golden angel....? You

     Ian's mouth closes over your lips, now drinking deeply from the cut made. His fingers nimbly begin to loosen the breeches, content for now to leave the chain mail above half-disassembled. A flood of foreign words tumble between tastes, all soft, pleading...suppliant. Despite language barriers, it is you Lord William who is being placated, entreated. The sing-song of his voice rides upon the spray of the nearby brook, his body moves and squirms. Soon cloth falls to reveal pale shoulders, muscle apparent, but nothing of the form that is yours, soldierly.
     Upon your lips, the shared nectar evolves. The heated blood of war mingles with the urgent taste of passion. Of heather and outdoors, of water and sunshine. Malt...and brandy. A refined taste it is...sharp and pungent, clear and bright...distilled to perfection. Hands push at the chain mail, sending it away, and legs twine now between your own.

     Of fire...of passion....of war...of burgundy and brandy. Of the heat of the Aquitaine summers. Of the richness of Norman beds. Shared nectar, and in it shared heaven. William returns the kiss. Did you dream of this? Heated, his mouth pulls...the embrace is sweet. So sweet. But burning. So burning. It strikes at his soul. At the inmost part of him. As your fingers fumble against him, his breath quickens. Anticipation? Does he know where this is leading? Or are they only sensations upon sensations? As your fingers deftly remove the breeches...the chainmail...his flesh has risen large. Muscles already defined are sculpted in this immortality...in this need. His hands at last respond.
     Strong arms....arms that were the end of so many lives this day, that have enfolded countless women...now surround you. And fingers curl against you tightly, digging in against you...clinging. For his universe is shifting. His mouth moves fervently against your own, pulling...needing. That sweet brandyfire. Ravenous, his kiss becomes engulfing. His blood. Your blood. Blood is what binds you? Or is it more? Do you see aught in him? Of days and nights spent in luxurious beds...

     Groaning weakly, Ian's lips slip lower, blonde hair slithering at your abandoned mouth. So is your neck adored, the chiseled chest, a long trail achingly drawn down sternum. It is the proving of a lifetime, the one moment years of dreaming have imagined, years of nights spent in wistful practice. To show you, when the time came, to prove his undying love.
The arching cover of upper abdomen is defined by a tongue warmed by a shared feast...those stains are upon you as well, marking in the liquid that binds all. Muscles feel its warmth too, slick from the stream that still dribbles from Ian's lip. You are draped in canvas that slowly lowers down the stranger's form as he lowers too, his hands peeking from cuffs that are but loosely bunched folds, pushing the breeches downward. Him, his mouth, his hands, his clothing, your clothing, all falling away to be replaced only by the cover Night offers. Can you hear him whisper your name, hear him speak broken Gallo-Norman words of love, please, adorations?

     In this realm of new sensations he finds himself in, where all things are intense, all things stoke fire in the blood. One touch is as a thousand touches. A whisper...glances upon him with invisible fingers. Orgiastic. And his body responds to this. Clumsy yet are his hands that shall get used to their newfound speed..in time. His fingers fumble in your hair, tangling there gently. Can you hear him whisper your name? Hear him speak the only word of gaelic he knows.... Yes....
     William groans, and his body moves on its own. Writhing, twisting, his hips lifting even as his murmurs drip like blood from his lips. His muscles...so defined...ripple, tightening in an ever-flexed state beneath the glancing of your lips...the touch of that heated stream from you. Need. Physical...emotional...mental...spiritual. His hunger is a crowd, and it presses in around you. And the pleasure of conjoining bodies. Such as follows any knight's victories. His hips curl forward for want of more. More. His hunger would erupt upon the air if but a single flame touched it. William is ...ignited. His body moves as you guide it, for the removal of his things.

     Guards and leggings are sent to your knees or aside by hands that are devoid of monitoring. Somewhere above has Ian remained, his mouth continuing to linger at hip. There was no sound at the revelatory moment, save the wind through the trees, a silent devotion, a momentary stare and forgetfulness of task--certainly he knew what he should find, but...no, he shook his head, rising to his own knees to let his tunic fall to the ground and setting himself above.
     Hands leave the material beneath, it done for now. He looks up for a moment, aware of his surroundings now that his view is different, but it is not a long look. White clouds stream behind him, the bright moon unhampered in her gleaming. She lights up her cousin's hair, his form, lending radiance to where none is needed...the shine about him is honest radiance.
     Lowering, a wind floating to Earth, Ian leans forward, between the legs he'd been attending, and with head turned askance, returns along his path, now upward. Behind bent knee is the first kiss lighted, spot easily discovered as his arms part and slide under the thighs strengthened by Baruch nearby. Yellow strands drape along sun-drenched skin for the moment while lips and teeth pull at the skin. His sigh whistles upon the air and he takes a deep breath, smelling you and the grass at his cheek.

Posted by rowan at December 01, 1997 08:10 PM