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?"

     William looks to the glass of scotch in his hands. "Love is a fool's paradise," he murmurs. "And this is a fool's errand you are saying." He nods. "I do not even know if it will work. From a...strategic point of view...it may even be suicide."

     Such turbulent thoughts. MacBeth surely slept better than he.

     Can you hear the lament in it, Scot? If his heart could make sound,
it'd wail like your pipes.

     The scotch is taken, his eyes on Donal. Can the world see him so easily... grasping for hope? Grasping for a line. Grasping to stay on and in the light? Brace up. To that end, is the scotch downed. Not sipped. Downed.

     It is very complicated. So...unplanned was this all. So sudden. He was hungry when it started...he is starving now. A week ago, he was in love. Holding Ian, laughing, in his arms, in this chair. And now? Still in love...and his heart is wrung with it...until the blood in him is gone. His complexion marble today. Alabaster tomorrow.

     Dark the wine that is held in the glass. Still and slightly silvery the glass held suspended in William's hands. Elbows resting upon the arms of the chair, his glass of wine is held in a steepled grasp.

     The paint colors the fire and makes it pop unusually. Bright and multihued. Indigo burns there. It matches the eyes of the one who watches by.

     And so that is what she draws upon, as she watches you, to keep her strengths in the tasks that lie head. "There are decisions that need to be made."

     She will struggle to keep you from knowing her own feelings are not much different. For different reasons, yes. But it is pain still that she holds deep inside. When she does speak, it is both softly, her words carrying upon a breath to you. "When Ian wakes. Will it be any different?"

     It is before the start of the second night of silence. A mind confused and muddled, a soul and a heart torn and ravaged by Past and Present sorrows intertwining ... did not take much rest.

     "Oh, God...there's blood, everywhere! God, I think he slit his wrists or something...in the bedroom...and he's been there for nights and nights..."

     You are such a paradox, William. You are a knight...and a bastard. You are devoted...and you are decadent. You are loving...and you are cruel. You are trustworthy...and you are faithless. You are a prince...you are no better than a beggar. You are kind... you are savage. You are compassionate... you are cold.