Midway on our life's journey, I found myself In dark woods, the right road lost. To tell About these woods is hard -- so tangled and rough And savage that thinking of it now, I feel The Old Fear stirring; death is hardly more bitter. ~ Canto I: The Inferno ~

     Upon returning from The Inferno, the house was rather quiet. Save the car in the drive. Behind the doors, however, is a bit more. The boys are all ducks in a row, watching from a perch near the kitchen. A long two weeks it has been, but this night more than others...if such could even be possible. Ian is well-appointed, but in a pair of plain slacks, white shirt, and a leather jacket. Outdoor clothing. Walking across the heath clothing.
     He is standing at the bottom of the stairs when the door comes open, little more than a duffle bag near him. There is nothing but smiles for you as you enter, but certainly there is something else. He looks down...and the boys almost seem to follow suit. "I was hoping you would return soon," he says softly, "I don't..." he sighs, looking up, "...have too much time."

     It has been a long night. Could it get longer? William is beginning to suspect it shall be interminable. It is September, and it is therefore raining on this coastal, near-autumn night. He is once again wearing the long black leather jacket. His hair is inky black from the water that lingers on it. He sees you. He sees the boys. William's expression of quietude...of thought...lingers upon him, but shifts slightly toward Curiosity. Both raven brows lifting slightly. "Don't have too much time....?" You're going somewhere? You see him quietly take it in. William moves toward the sunken area of the living room.

     "Yeah," Ian says, watching you approach. "I...have to go, Will," he says, "...for a while." Another one of those famous moments, but nothing like the last. This is done with hope. But he averts your eyes, your gaze. "Remember when...I said some weeks ago...that something was wrong with me? I think I know what it is."

     Indigo drinks you in. No, it bears none of the anger and misunderstandings of the past separation. It has none of that. None of his weakness. None of your stubbornness. There is ...only quiet. William inclines his head a little -- but then he nods. "I will...see you when you return then," he murmurs. "And you can tell me of it then." He crosses to brandy. Yes, he has started drinking again. But, he is going to permit himself one vice to give himself some peace. So be it. As you avert his gaze, William works to keep his jaw from setting. From giving his visage that set-in-marble look.
     "I ...hope you find it," he murmurs. He looks away from you then. To the black liquid pouring from the unmarked bottle. Black? No...violet. Deep plum brandy. "Shall ...you be...gone long enough for me to have to ...concern myself with your ghoul?" Tanner.

     That was fast. Ian looks up, "Tanner will be taken care of." He gives a wry smirk and glances askance. "Easy to let me depart, hmm?" Ian shakes his head and picks up his duffle bag...disappointment mixed in the look. He shrugs and tosses bag onto his shoulder. "I..." he says softly, "...would have hoped...you would care more."

     "I am trying to be supportive of your decision, my love," William murmurs. When he looks up, you see his unwillingness for you to go. As if you needed proof of it. Pooled at his lashes. But he is trying to....hold it back. "I do not want to have you leave in guilt. Or...thinking that I think only for myself." He swallows and the bottle is set down.

     "I want..." Ian croaks, crimson already down his cheeks, "I...just wanted you to love me," he says, the line always said. Perhaps never understood. Resolve already failing. Bond demanding his acquiescence. "Oh, God, what is wrong with me." That other part of it all, obsession clinging. "I don't want to leave, Will, but I don't know...how else to help...us. You."
     "I think I am going to be sick," Ian says paling, bag slipping from his shoulder.
     "I am going to be sick," and Ian stumbles to a seat upon the steps, hands grasping at the cold floor.

     "I do love you!" The voice from his throat is taut and rough. And loud. How can you doubt it? Now, after all that has changed. Perhaps not enough has. "I love you," William repeats, and the crimson is rolling slowly over his own cheeks. Sculpted. It is like the statue of a saint in sorrow. Tears of blood. Glass and bottle is down, and William is across the room as you stumble to a seat upon the steps. "Why do you think I do not love you," he murmurs, tender of voice. A hand reaches to cradle the nape of your neck. "Shhh...now...I know you don't have to breathe, but take a deep breath and hold it...calm down...."

     "I...sorry...Will. I can't help you anymore," Ian cries, sobbing heavily, "...I...I don't know how to do...like they do here...like you want. And..." he sighs, "...and I...I see...how I am...making people angry...not...helping you." He looks up, "It is how I help...but no one listens...it is not how you people..." not the likes of him or Alex, "...do...now."
     "I said...before..." Ian tries to stop the tears, leaning against you, "...you...go from here."
     "And Tori...she will help you. And Justin. And that...other." The one whose name he cannot say. Who, if he had his way, if this was another time...would already be dead. Gabriel. "Baylah, will help you....she knows how to do things now, like you all want to do them."

     "I don't know what to do," William whispers. "And I don't know how to help you. I don't give a fuck for the rest of them." He is fierce, your lion. But quietly so. And he does care for Tori...but not nearly as much. Not in the same manner. You cannot compare. He cannot compare. "I ...don't know how to help you, Ian...you are sad, I see it. You have questions I cannot answer. And you look at me as if you do not know how much I love you, and I...am doing all I can to show it...." William looks away. There is the smell of blood. From the wound he made upon his bottom lip -- a fang piercing it. A few steadying breaths are taken. Held. Released. William looks to you. "I don't need you to help me," he whispers. "I just want you to love me...."

     "Help is love," Ian shrieks and then cries, "It is love why can't people see that..."
     Help. Like obliterating Giovanni. Like making sure you have everything your heart can ever desire. By giving in each time you ask. By standing aside when you needed a thousand women to satisfy your passion. By trying to teach. By trying to give proposals. By trying to handle things...in his own way. By being quiet when you need. By standing still and watching when all he wanted was to send the city into conflagration. And instead, it has turned inside, all of his pinned energy, angers, frustrations, disappointments. Kept to himself. Bending to your need first. Always. In all things.
     "I feel sick," Ian says again, face burning crimson. "Inside. I feel...old and I don't know how to be...like you...and the others now."
     "Alex," he whispers, eyes almost glowing, "...she...is right. I should not be here anymore..."

     He bends. Fingers splay through his black hair, he head rests in his hands. William exhales...long and lingering. "I love you. I want to help you. Tell me...tell me how I can. I want...I want to help you. And I know....you want to help me...I love you. And I love that you want to do this..." William takes in a deep breath and then sits up. "I don't want you ...to go for I know I shall miss you horribly. But...love, what I want...isn't important...it isn't...everything. What...is best for you....for you. This is...what I want. What is best for you." And think you he did nothing? There was always acquiesence on his end as well. His patience was matched for yours. His need, matched for yours. There is only age. That is all.
     "I am ...sorry." And William's face is all of Pain and Sorrow. "I am....so sorry." And how odd is this? That he would have said the same things to Josette. Who is, in many ways, your own female counterpart.

     "I don't know how to not do..." Ian says, head falling into your lap, eyes faraway, "...what...you want....what you need. I burn...for your wishes..." he sighs and closes same eyes. "And...others see it...now...here. They look at me, William ... disgusted...sometimes. I see it in their eyes. They do not understand." Have they been bonded to someone for 800 years? Obsessed? An undying, all consuming circle. Please William, he smiles. He cries, take care of it. His world falls...fix it. He is aching inside....take it from him.
     "No one...can help me..." Ian whispers, "I am so...lost. Old. And you have...future..."

     And he covers you as you fall into his lap. He is your sky. "You speak of futures...as if you shall not be there to see it..." A hand strokes over your golden hair. His hand is strong, his touch tender, but it trembles. "I don't see such looks. I have never seen such looks. But of course they do not understand. No one can. They are not us. You and I alone have this..." No, no one else has ever been able to survive such a bond...so intense. Sire and Childe split long before eight centuries. And what lovers have been known to go half so long? And you and he are both. He holds you. It is all he knows to do. To give strength for weakness. Comfort for ache. "I have a future...without you in it? Ian Dunross, you do not know me...to say such."

     He laughs sickeningly, saying, "Then...what have I...done for eight hundred years?" That's it exactly. "Don't...you...see the problem?"

     "No, I fucking don't see the problem," William sighs as he sits up.

     Ian blanches. "All...I have tried to impart....it means..." a soft, "....nothing..." he exhales, blood swallows, "...if you cannot build it...without thinking of me. My first thought..." he recalls, "...when you were hurt...was not...make sure everything is alright...I thought...of destroying everyone and everything here, William...and I still want to. I would kill the Giovanni, St. Marie, Gabriel..." he looks at you, "...and what would be left of your peace and building? Why you took the seat from Alecsandr? To see me...burn for you and burn this city...because I cannot have peace in myself?"

     He narrows his eyes. Indigo full of fire. You feel him stiffen beneath you. He has no mind for this arguing...this debate...this logic. William frowns, confused. Aching. "You acted in passion they all should have expected, but I am missing the fucking point, Ian. Should I not do this and think of you? When can I go a day without thinking of you. Goddamn it, if I didn't love you I wouldn't think of you. What the hell do you want?"

     "I want you to do..." he sits up, wiping at his face, "...that which makes you happy. You..." he says softly, "...make me happy. I want no other. I want nothing else. I want...you to be as consumed with me...as I am with you...."
     "Now say, William...where do others fit in that?" As Alexandra has said. "I would destroy all you work on...to satisfy my ache for your heart. And that...defeats all things."
     "It is not freedom," Ian says, "...it is...that which made me embrace you in the first place...when they said I could not. I was ordered...not to. And all I saw then...was you. And I took."
     "And I would burn here," Ian whispers, "...in the same way. Because I....am obsessed...with...you."

     "Why don't you ask Alexandra, Tori...why don't you ask Justin...write Josette and ask her how I was last year," he says, each word nearly forced out of him. "When you were sleeping and all I knew and loved in this world was sleeping with you. When I had to resolve myself to the fact that you might well never wake up. And the tell me you want me to be consumed."
     William stands up, crimson raining down his cheeks. "Tell me, knowing their words, that I am not consumed with you. I love you...in my way. With my heart and my soul. I don't love that woman there in the corner," and he points to her, his expression full of pain, "I don't care how much she fucking yells at me to convince me otherwise. Because that isn't love!" He moves away, he has to. William crosses the room to his brandy and downs it. William winces. And then he rakes a hand through his hair. He sighs. "I love you. What would make me happy is for you to understand that."

     "I know you love me," Ian sighs, face drying faintly. "I...maybe have wanted too much..." he keeps eyes from you a bit, "...from you. You..." he smiles, "...are my greatest project. And maybe that was wrong. I want...us to be...in love...normally. I don't want...to be as I have been now for months...sick inside, watching myself crumble each time you whisper a thought. Forcing...what you want to happen....and aching at the myself that I see...that I do not know."
     "I see you," Ian murmurs, "...speak to someone else. I want to rush over and tell them not to talk to you, William? Maeve...Josette...any others. Victoria." He knows there is something. "I...do not understand that. You know," he smiles a little, "...they say...if you let something go it will come back, hmm? Maybe if I let go..."

     William is weary. This...last fraying coming after weeks of constant wear on the heart, the soul, the mind. He can only turn to stone and remain standing. Resolute to live and somehow strong. "It has always been such for me. The ...fate of the fifth son of a king. You...are everyone's project. Or everyone's tool. Or everyone's fear." William takes a deep breath. "No one has the place in my heart that you have. But...perhaps...you cannot see that because your knuckles are white from holding so tight."
     William shrugs. It is not his logic -- it is yours. He sits heavily upon the sofa. His beautiful face marred by the trails of red upon it. If it can be marred. His expression taut. A frown curving upon sensuous lips. He raises a hand, wiping at his face. "Let go....?"

     "Kyle." Ian laughs, thinking upon that. "Oh...how I would have killed them all in the darkness seven hundred years ago..." he mumbles, "...strung them up for touching my Heart...my Life. But now..." he looks at you, "...that is it. My fingers are breaking...I hear them. My grasp of you and myself...I cannot...see...because all I want to do is cry when I see you...and beg you to never leave me. To this day." He looks over. "Let go...maybe...we will come together again...when I have torn this sickness from my own heart?"
     "I don't know how to explain...what is crawling..." he clasps at his chest, "...inside me. It...makes me do things...even when I know they are not right."

     "I ....will be here. Or nowhere," William murmurs back. His eyes downcast from you. He is quiet as you speak again. "Perhaps you...just need to go home for a while. It is already winter in Scotland..." William's voice has gone quite soft. Quite even. He will miss you. Terribly. If you need proof of that, you can look at him now.
     "I think," comes his languid voice, "sometimes when ...love is too much, it can eat at the heart. Can't it, Catherine?" William chuckles now, talking to the ghost only he can see. "Learn from my mistakes, Ian...please...dear God...do not repeat my life before my eyes. Yes..." Tears rain from his eyes again. "heal...your heart. Our love. Leave for a while. Spend time in your wilderness. Love me at a distance. And remind yourself what love is. Not...what you have made it. Learn...from me....it is time for you to learn from me."

     He sighs deeply. He can go. Only a word from you and this conversation would have been squelched. His own insanities need addressing before the dirt can be brushed away and love found underneath. It is there. He knows it. You do also. But it loves by a million vampiric demons. "I am...going home..." Ian whispers, pushing up from the cool steps. He has to learn from you for he is in the process of repeating it. Cycles, over and over again. The same ones he wanted to break last year...there is more to do...to himself. He has shown what needed addressing ...when he asked for honesty and truth last year. And now he can somewhat see what is polluting his own eyes. His Need for You. "Do...you see, William," he asks, picking up the bag, "...why I have...to sit somewhere else?"

     "I don't know how," he says, "...to make things stop. So we can be...normal."Perhaps. But perhaps there nothing .....normal about Love. Perhaps expecting it to be...normal is the sheer way to end it. William nods once. He cannot look up just now. You can see his arms tightening around himself. His gaze is forward ...on some space just ahead of his feet. "I understand." And he does. His wife in the corner there...is his constant reminder. Plucked out of the Past or his psyche or his fear and made real. But she doesn't sting him now. She is just a lesson. A phantom. A reminder.
     "Be safe and be well," he says in Gaelic. And then William falls silent.

     "You have much to do," Ian says softly, "...this is the time to do it. If you have never listened to me before, William...listen now. Make it happen. Know that I am never far from you...a whisper and I would return. I...try to help us," Ian says, "...I am not trying to hurt you or anyone. I love you..." he inhales, "...and I think of you every moment of every night that my eyes come open. But I want...us..I think...I know what I want...I want...just us...to be married. No others...involved. I want...to be able to say No...to you...and not have saying Yes to you mean that I give in to my own fears of losing you or having you be angry at me or having you hate me. I want...someone who is unafraid of his...existence...and past things. I want things...to have a place. I want...us to be able to see clearly...clearer...and not be blinded by our aches. My ache for you...now threatens to destroy all things. It is Hate for others now, William. My Love...is Hate for others. And...that means that I am not...loving. Not truly. Not to you....or myself. Ian Dunross," he says quietly, "...of centuries ago would not have let certain things happen...even if you wanted them. I would have kept my...dignity. I have lost that."

     "My life is the Camarilla's," he murmurs, as if the prince's reed is rote to him. Nothing more. "It will have it. As much as I know to do. And the future will be paved by it. For good. For ill. It is uncertain. I am...the fifth son of a king....all over again."
     William inclines his head. Half looking to you, half to the ceiling. There is pain. So much. And yet...he must stand. "I never meant to strip you of your dignity. I was only trying to drown my own ache. My own pain. My own guilt. I was wrong." He was wrong a few nights ago as well. But he will not apologize for that. Nor will he ever speak of it. You released him of those stringent vows of a year ago...and he lost himself in losing himself. For one night. In the blood of two.
     "I'm not going to talk about it again." He rises. Yes, he is crawling into himself again. A shell. Seeking shelter from pain. "When you return...." Or is it if? "...we will talk about it more. We will....see where we are. And where you want to be, and where I am able to go. And we will ...let Fate and God handle the rest. Just like everyone else must."

     "Will you..." Ian smiles, "...write to me?" And he looks to the ring upon his finger. "I will write every night and send you a letter..."

     "Yes, I will write," William murmurs. He crosses to the bottle of brandy. Pouring from it again. He cannot look at you. You see the jaw set to keep the crimson from flowing again. Attempting manly grief. "Email and letters. I will do that." He will need to do that. "You are taking some of the dogs?"

     "I...didn't know if you wanted them to stay with you," Ian looks about the room, the room he had built for you. No, this is not about any time in particular. It is about hundreds of lifetimes of slips...eating at what was left of him. "I can take them all, or leave some...perhaps you want..." he swallows, "...the younger ones?" He cocks his head, saying, "Cry, William. I shall. For me. For you. For patterns repeated and repeated. I am tired...of keeping everything inside. It is...killing me...and making what is lovely between us...something vicious to others."

     "Leave two wolfhounds for the property. And the greyhounds, my boys...." He sounded like Henry then. Sometimes it shows. But he cannot cry. Or will not. He is just now...more or less sane. He cannot loosen the grip while you are gone and there is no one to talk to him. No one but the ghost only he can see. And if he starts babbling to a Nothingness, he'll be called the Malkavian Ventrue rather than the Toreador Ventrue.
     "I have tried to break the patterns as much as I know...go for a while. See if...you can figure it out." Brandy is swallowed. He winces, and then he turns away. "Be safe. Write...to me when you get there...let me know you are okay..."

     There's a twist of his lips. He should rather see your face than your back...but he understands. A touch...is difficult. One should lead to two, shall lead to staying at home. "I will take Ciardan, Maire, and Cynbe with me," he whispers, "...the others will stay with their greyhound family." He smiles, then looks down at the band upon his finger. He shall keep it there. A reminder to make a good marriage.
     "I...will let you know...when I get home. I will be in Edinburgh first...I should spend time with Gerald and see how he is doing. And then home." The door can be heard to open. And the boys standing near the kitchen are filled with sorrow. "Make sure you all take care of each other," Ian calls in their direction. "Everyone." Including you in it.

     William does not look to the boys either. His hand halts upon the bottle. Neither does he pour. It is a moment of utter stillness and silence. As if marking the changing of an epoch. Perhaps it is. William pours another glass. And then he wanders to the veranda door. To the window beside it. He leans his head against the glass and looks out at the stars. He does not say goodbye. He cannot say that. He will listen to you leave. And then he will have to....fill the rest of his evening with something. Sound or Paint. Or brandy. Or tears. Maybe he will sit in a chair and talk to the ghost of his dead wife. His jaw is taut. His face, his body....as if made of carved stone.

     There are steps and a, "With all that I am, William Plantagenet, I love thee. There is no other for me. I am wherever you are. That I know." There are more steps and the door closes. Outside, whistles...and the car starting.
     The familiar sound of a car departing comes from outside. Gravel upon rubber. And it fades towards the gate and out.

Posted by rowan at April 01, 1999 02:07 PM