... You are staring... uncertain... wary and wise...

     Stolen moments. You and he shall have to become master thieves, plucking moments in spontaneous silence.

     "Seventy-five years," William repeats. "Non non non, we will have to remedy this." He does not grin as he says it, though there is nothing in his expression or energy to say he is upset. It is merely something to be rectified.

     "...It is as though you are trapped in marble, and I am here with the chisel and hammer," he grins again, "... trying to find you. Yes? Just as Michelangelo said. The body is in the marble. I am only trying to free it."

     "...I know what it is to suffer and to search for meaning. You want to know who you are... you wish to know why what happened to you happened. A reason, an understanding. Don't give up,"

     It was good that they removed themselves. The energy was stifling between them, despite their good intentions. What they needed, what they always need to clear the air, was a battle.

     "You are in my blood," he groans, "... like Caravaggio's disease. You burn there, and I find no rest from my want, amice."

     "... You call the shadows to you, pluck them like strings, and play a tune -- whatever is to your liking. Will you one night cloak yourself thusly and become invisible to all?" He smiles a little, quizzically. Not confused by your gifts but so curious.

     Davydd barks a laugh again, "Me? Nervous about kissing the bride at the altar as she announces she's taking me as well? Nah. Besides, it's my ruddy house," he wears a look of mock-indignance. "To hell with what they think. They don't like it, they can leave. Just means more food for me."

     "When the time has come for me to empty myself of all of my tales, I swear to you, good gentlemen, that your stories shall not remain untold."

     And apple trees would come and go. When the first ones died, their children took over. It's a copse within the garden now. Covered with blossoms in the spring, apples in the autumn, pink leaves turned to brown in the winter. No stone to mark her spot but a plaque engraved with a Welsh poem. The title? To Penelope...

     Penelope sits there, shocked for a moment, then whirls on you, teeth bared in a moment's unrestrained savagery. "You - you - you!" She scrabbles to find something which she might throw at you, leaping from her chair. "I loathe you!"

     She is lost. Rapt in it, visions of long-ago poetry and the skill to summon forth such visions. Perhaps that is why as the hours creep closer to twilight and the sun bit by bit disappears, Penelope fails entirely to notice the horse below's loosening of its reins from the branch, and then its gradual wandering away.

     "You must be the sphinx," he says, a lilt not from England or Scotland. "For I have seen men come and go and none of them successful in moving you. Do you have questions that must be answered, or a riddle that must be solved?"

     "Do you think we've thrown a wheel?", Helen peers out the window at the blackness nervously, then looks back to her sisters. "What could be the matter?"

"They say all sorts of things." Penelope closed her book with a snap, rolling her eyes with a put-upon sigh. She glared at the other two girls, shaking her head. "No doubt he is six feet if he is an inch and most virile and charming and debonair. Are you two such twitterpated little creatures? Haven't you heard the song? This is just some highwayman looking to earn a dishonest coin - he's likely never done an honest day's toil in his life! He's doubtless toothless and hairy and old and covered in filth. If I should meet him, I should soon give him a piece of my mind!"

     Davydd both chuckles and sobs to hear that. Turning his head to his friend, he gives a vipered grin, his eyes creasing in the corners. "Now that's the William I know and love," comes the croak of his voice. "On my ass to the end of time."

     "They can teach the apes of India to type Shakespeare," William waxes on as he smiles, his head tilting back to see you, "and I can pour a scotch. The wonders of modern science." He winks and he waits for the other evening salutation -- a kiss. "For ill or fair," he says quietly.

     Blood rolls from his eyes, in his tears that come, the grunting sobs of a man in desperate pain, the grief pulled from his soul through his eyes and his throat.

     He leans forward, he blinks his eyes. Those old ways of knowing his mind, particularly revealed when he is quiet. Elbows on his thighs, Alire puts his head in his hands, his flaxen hair displaced. "How is that not failure, that silence?"

     From the moment I brought him into the material realm, my hands guiding him from the safety of his mother's womb to a wild world, I have loved him. He is my best work, my best mark upon the earth, the best thing I have ever made or accomplished.

     You are better than any tenor than I can recall, comes the Latin in your head, said with the lulling tone of a practiced priest. Native tongue, they say, but few can confirm such Truth.

     Habits. Old habits that have become impulses, impulses that became compulsions, compulsions that, in some cases, became illnesses. And still we ride to Fontevraud...

     "...It is time for Avalon to return to those who need it most. This body is theirs, I give it to them. With it my soul. With it, my being. For this land and I are indivisible. I am Avalon..."

     "Hindsight is clear-sighted," Davydd exhales, cigarette crushed and the fire is out. "And all the things I have done, there's not a single one I'd repeat but one, and that was lodging the king's sword in Mithras' chest."

     Davydd ap Owain moves within the white void. What has he to fear? If the floor falls away, he will become a bird. If it rains water, he'll become a fish. If it turns to fire. Well, if it turns to fire he's fucked, but at least it will be quick.

     It is a plate of crow, son, that's what's on the plate, the fork's in your hands, and you're the one eating it, Llywelyn.

     It is the first time he's discussed it. Perhaps it is the safety of this cove, the liberating waves. "Which is the lie and which is the truth?" Giancarlo shrugs. "Is this truth?"

     This was once the great hall. We had our Christmases here, our battles here, he would stand at the fire there and not eat his dinner and never see me.

     The luito speaks. I listen. Through its strings, it reminds me of songs that I have sung. Things I have done, all the good things. All the righteous things.

     You know, it isn't you, amours. I do not need to impress you. I am not trying to impress you. It is worse even than this. I want a ghost to be proud of me. And it is something I shall never feel. A validation I am doomed never to receive.

     "...Whether it wears the veneer of art or the cloak of insurance or shipping conglomerates. It's the same game. And you know ... how I play, oui? I ... do not have a business such as I do, and control such as I have it, because I am good-looking and lucky."

     "Well," he exhales, pausing to remove the jacket after a moment later, losing nothing by the shedding of a layer. "I think it is a meaningless challenge."

     "...I've learned a lot about my own choices recently. They haven't been the best. The trick is not to repeat them. There's only the potential of forever. Forever... really only exists if you're God. And I'm many things, but I'm not God."

Once upon a time, in a far-off kingdom (isn't that how all the best fairy tales are supposed to begin?) there lived a lord and his lady.

     A man in his early thirties, Etienne glances up at the sun, stopping near the zoologist and crouching low. He pulls a handkerchief from an inside pocket and offers it.

     ...Where once there were oak trees, holly trees sprout suddenly upon the earth both wide and tall. Branches spring with taloned, evergreen leaves, and the forms of living dragons surround the roots and trunks, etched even into the skin of the trees. Same as he.

It's not What you thought When you first began it

     This is a William you haven't seen in a while. Not since he retired in fact. It has been a brutal two nights. For everyone. "Well... I'm not angry," he murmurs. "I don't know what I am..." he says suddenly. "...Afraid, I guess. Worried."

     "I don't talk about it all that often. People," Audi explains, "are afraid of death - they don't like talking about it. I don't think they need to be afraid of me. But you're not afraid of me. So why not talk about it?"

     Davydd's voice drifts slightly as he stares openly, feeling the rush and want, the magic, the need that you inspire and the apples that will forever taste of you, your skin, your mouth, your thighs. "... I like the idea of you dripping in the jewels I stole... "

     His words are sing-song power, and here that power is everywhere. As the myths say: the land is the king, the king is the land. Red-blushed and golden apples grow, dip delicately from blossom and fruit-heavy branches as you sail by.

     Either she's just randomly telling people, or she seems to think that at least you'll maybe have some clue or sympathy or something as to what's going on. Being nearly as strange as the rest of the people she's met around here if nothing else, "I think he might be even more daft than me."

     He remembers the look on her face when her little summoning of a demon actually worked, so many centuries ago. And again when she was first sent to kill her first man. Good times -- good times.

     The dog's come into sight, two rolling cannonballs of fur and tongues and ears and wide grins, and just two moments behind them is a man reminiscent of Davydd, where he not a bit more golden-haired and an inch shorter and a bit broader. If Davydd's a welsh mountain, then Kelly Morgan's a boulder...

     "I am surprised," he whispers, "...that you have not stolen all of my secrets from me yet, Constanz," he confessing something there. "The time will come, when you will want something from me," he grins, "..and you will ask...when I am in no position to decline." Like almost now.

Ceylon Vanilla
...for the Love of His Excellency, 1661

     "As for the curse - at its heart, what it means is you can't go out during the day. That's fine, I never was much of a one for a tan myself - how is it, really, any different from finding out you're a vegan, or allergic to penicillin? It's magic, not science - but it's you."

Davydd smiles and his mouth lands on your skin, a brush against your forehead and he murmurs there: "Dw i'n ti caru," he says there.

     Another swallow is hurriedly downed, and Cesare looks into the glass of white. "We...haven't talked much about it of late. Those memories," he says softly. "I...don't know sometimes," he admits nervously, "...what they all mean."

     "Very well, then I consider our pact sealed." But he sighs slightly, "You know, you really take all the fun out of having a soul bond sometimes. You know that?"

     Faith has seldom failed him, though gods and priests and popes have come and gone...

     "The past must be examined," Sabine remarks, and a gradual progression to lead to the present and future. Under the circumstances - only the Celtic Cross will do."

     "'Ello luv!" comes that high pitch voice, almost lecherous in it's intent. Perched atop your easel in a feat of balance that should be impossible, is a small old man that could not be more than four feet tall, and most likely a few full inches less than that.

     And so by noon the first half of the running of the state had been done and William Plantagenet unstoppable. When one sought to find him in one place, he had already left. Mercurial as Henry.

     It is the summer of the 1187th year of Our Lord, and in His mercy, He has seen fit to provide a bounteous year thus far, even by Poitiven standards.

Guillaume: [Nods.] There is no fairytale in this, Montague. The only happy ending is the one walking here with you. I got to live, you see. Though, incidental to my own story, at times, my fate and destiny not my own, I am the only one with the happy ending...

     "Richard Avedon," is all he says, leaning back against a desk. Miranda forgot to mention that yes, jeans are the standout, the man does wear a long-sleeved shirt and a dark blue sportcoat.
     "Come on now," Richard smirks, turning his profile to the side. Make a guess.

... [The two gentlemen are seated swiftly at a table outside, on the roof, overlooking the brilliance of the South Bank. Menus and waiters appear, glasses are filled, all without a word. They depart as silently.]

     Enter VALAN MONTAGUE, the Hip, Young Man About Town. Waiting on the Tower Bridge is the Duke of Normandy, GUILLAUME d'ANGEVIN, clothed in a dark suit with an equally dark overcoat.

     The image is alive. Flowers bloom in the subtle turns of the colours, glowing as a translucent layer over the surface. The castle glows, imbued with life and magic.

As his fingers brush its surface, it sings to his mind. Flashing images assault him. Jumbled, out of sequence snap-shots of violence and war. Faces unfamiliar scream in pain as this sword cuts them down. And then the swordsman enters his mind. Standing tall, proud. Arrogance upon his features, and something more. Something terrible.

     "That's all there was, was the ending," he snorts. "And then I have to see her while waiting on Sandrine to close the shop. A city of millions. What's that line: of all the gin joints in all the world, she has to walk into mine." He smirks. Then he frowns, "Bah, to hell with her and Mortimer."

     The Welsh country side is always such a contrast. Lush green country side surrendering to dreary grey skies at the horizon. It is against this somber backdrop that a crumbling old castle rises up from the emerald green hills.

     And the colorful cherub drifts downward, solitary, to one of the grottos in this great maze of glass and gardens, the best of what would become Venetian palazzi and their hidden, grotto gardens millennia later...

     Abbey, hospital, college, tomb and prison -- it moved through its ages like a man or woman, with glorious beginnings, difficult adolescence, opulant maturity and aged ruination.

     The snakebite (or Black and Tan) arrives and Davydd hails its entrance. "Gods be praised! A drink! In a pub! Who'd have thought of such a thing."

     I love you...
     I don't want to forget...
     I don't want to forget this...

     "I call this...making up for lost time," Ian explains. His fingers slide into yours and he stands, pulling to bring you with him.

     It's been a while now since he stepped onto the scene here. When he first came in, his English was atrocious, his blood was new, but he was good, very good. Good with epee. Better with saber. Edward Meurelle's childe...

     Julian closes his eyes. I am unprepared for this. Not this. Not you too.

     "Y' do me best if you sing well of us here, an' th' man from over th' sea." He is rather serious about this, and moves around the flames to go.

     Dearest Emily. Herein is a goddess from the sands of dead Aegyptus. She spread her wings, in centuries past, to protect her King. Let her now wrap you in her aegis of feathers.

     There is a glance back past the foyer's reach and into the living room, but then he turns with you and heads out the front door. Behind, two sets of bags sitting with the ghosts of bags past all around them. But this time, their destination is the same...

     It was 1942 and it had been two months since I had seen him. Him. That would be Ian Dunross.

     "They say," Ian grins, "...that two RAF officers lived here once. During The War." His own coat is set aside, he also in a rather modern look with priestly tab collars. Ian grins, bending arms to remove his pearl and diamond cufflinks that are as dated as this townhouse.

     It's like a breeze, when change comes. The doors fly open, the windows lift, and a wind barrels through that takes the stale, stolid air away. When it's a hurricane, all you can do is hold on. Ian just held on for a few years, not knowing what would happen when the winds died.

     Her dark hair pulled back, slicked back in a bun, she wears a white shirt silken and loose over black leather trousers, high black boots cover her calves and up to her knees. And a prized black bull, one of your beauties no less, is bowed before her. Standing, she faces him, he faces her. Her silk cape is lowered, her right hand extended. There are no swords, no whips. They are not needed.

      "Will..." he whispers, question forming in the sing-song of your name, "...I...have a question. Well, several," Ian grins, looking up to see you.

     A bigger concern was how I would make the week's journey and avoid the sun. That it was autumn was only partially consoling; for though the sun may wane early, it made for rocky Channel waters and more treacherous seas.

     "I know... what it is to lose. I understand this loss," he says. "I have been where you are now, three times..."

This prison place tastes damp, the smell of stone ? cold and unforgiving ? and the faint scent of anger and frustration. This world is so empty for the nose and lips. Through countless short eternities these two lovers grow bored. They complain, to the others, that the fingers and eyes have worlds to explore while they have nothing. The ears, though, envy them their empty world, and thus the two are silent.

He tried to take a step, begin walking again, but he couldn't. His legs held fast to the ground. In some forgotten corner of his mind, church bells began to toll. Each great sounding was louder than the last, and pulled the paralysis farther up his body. The last bell was like a year's thunder, and he was no more.

     I did not even know how much I cared until I was slain. Now I am staring at you, Anaia, watching you from below our castle window, reflected in the umber light of the fire. I am so cold. So tired, my countess.

      "What is that like?" he asks. "Being in love with your favorite subject? To love a canvas and the person?" A not so simple question, though simply asked.

     Arms go wide, green eyes -- Cymru green -- go wide as well. And so too the smile. A triad reaction, how fitting. "Mad Peter!" he exclaims, the whiskey, brandy, scotch and mead -- yes, mead -- getting the best of him for a moment. "Boyos, look there... my old soothsayer, messenger of The Lady...go greet a friend..."

     He's a small man, topping five feet only by perhaps four inches, and his storm-grey eyes crinkle as he regards the Norman. "It has been a few years, hasn't it, lord."

     "I'm sure that's what it is," he adds, laughing a little. You're on a roll, Plantagenet, and nothing will stop you. Not some aged Ventrue Secret Master. Or Gehenna for that matter.

     "Melodrama, at your age," he murmurs, shrugging his jacket into place, smirking. "As if anyone should pity you." As if you pity yourself. William gets the joke.

     I am heading into the Caliph's Land. Or to quote the Unnamed Poet of the tome at my feet, that sun-kissed land, rich in dark-eyed girls, and water that springs silver from the golden ground. I have never been to this part of Espana. Only the vineyards of Castile, the exclusive villas of Madrid, the discos of Barcelona.

     Restoration is a strange process. Often, it is so subtle as to go largely unnoticed. But with the passing several nights, from last year to the next in a single sunrise and sunset, it lies everywhere, obvious.

     You and he walk the chessboard gallery, two knights, no kings in sight. But as you so adroitly put it: Fuck 'em. Who needs 'em. Hands slide into his pockets as he watches the tiles moving slowly by.

     Edward smiles again at the photographs. "It's good to be reminded sometimes..." he whispers softly. "Good on ya, lads," he grins at the trio again, giving the men a nod of confidence.

     "So...we're straight, I think. As straight as two hopelessly crooked things can be," he rumbles, then laughs.

      "Our Lady stands, and so do we. If nothing else, I should think that victory would please."

      "Of course it matters," Alire continues. "And you are correct. You are not going to hurt yourself or him. I will not allow it," and the command that comes through is not a Templar's command, certainly not one that Alire would normally assume, but it is a vampire's mantle. That of a prince.

     "M..maybe...maybe...I am not the type of person you need," she whispers, not sure what to say. Maybe I am not like others. Maybe I have failed. Maybe there is something wrong with me.

     Alire looks to you for a long moment. No... you are my Giancarlo and not my Giancarlo. You are my Michele and not my Michele. You, like me now, are some ...creature in between. "Dreams?"

     "I knew," his French comes, "...you would not forget me, Alire. You would not leave me. I asked God to help me, to help us, and my wish came true." Michele smiles weakly, the tears sliding down his face. "Say that we will be together always. Promise me, my Alire..."

     "I have dealt with the Past," he says it defiantly, though how can that be true if he is still so affected by it. "I have had my anger. I have had my sorrow. I do not want it anymore... again... I am ... not haunted. Have I not ... put those things to rest?"

     Truth is the sharpest implement of all. It cuts the deepest and the surest. But without it, what are we? Who are we...

     "We light candles to remember." Samuel's expression remains unchanged, that almost kindly smile still focused on his guests, but there is, for a moment, a light that has died behind the shrewd gaze.

     "A very long time ago," Samuel comments, voice quiet, gaze intent. "Hundreds of years - a passage out of history, one might say." He moves forward, footsteps suddenly quick, and holds a hand out over the figure of the boy, hovering between him and the knights. "Shall I change it?" An odd thing to ask...

     Perhaps prayers will be resumed. Perhaps he's just stalling...

But what I most associate with Spain is Edward. It will always be recalled
as the place where I met the only man I have ever envied. You must tell him
this -- and take a picture of the look you get. I have enclosed enough
envelopes and instructions for any replies you might wish to send...

     My universe. My carefully crafted universe, the architecture of nearly a thousand years is crumbling at my feet. All I can seem to do is stare. Evenly. Blankly. I do not know what to do now. Maybe none of it matters at all. None of the secrets. The mysteries. I am unravelled.

     There is something... a sound... like wind in the leaves. Perhaps the hissing of a serpent. Laughter? "Joy and sadness..." The consonants linger. "Well, musician, if you can bring true pleasure to Misfortune Himself, then I will grant you the wish of one secret's revelation..."

     "Babi is the quite busy semi-deity," comes a perturbed voice... from the heretofore still statue, "...who can't be seen without an appointment. Do... you have an appointment?" And the airy voice of an Eternal Bureaucrat settles its emphasis on the two intruders. Eyes open and a stony eyebrow lifts angular. And skeptical.

     Then a knock on the door. Perfect to the ticking of the clock. The man is out there, waiting. A small slip of paper in his hand on which is written this address. And a name.

     To be a whelp like that. Richard's years have seen too much. Lost too much. And he's not even King of England yet -- bastard Henry. But there's a smile to see the one whose inherited his title. The one his mother told him to give up...for something more. "Will, you are a work," he calls out, swinging down from his own mount.

     "Tybed, Davydd, ai ti gwneud a gorfoledd cystal fel tristwch er myn hon enaid." The voice is ancient, ageless, trickling out of her from years ago, and oh so familiar, and not just because it's a recognizable voice, of I've heard this before. The words are familiar, personal and informal. I wonder, Davydd, if you have to do with joy as well as sorrow for the sake of this soul.

     Pulling her hands away from her hair, Drancy speaks slowly, in a low tone, still leaning up out of her seat. "Way I see it, there's only one way to deal with things like this, and that's to push on through to the other side. Maybe I'm going mad, and maybe I'm not - you say it's magic. Right, then." Her hands shoot out, intent on grabbing your wrists, bare skin to bare skin. "Let's break on through."

     Davydd pauses, green eyes turned to darkness, a moment before crossing into Picadilly to head to parts southwest. Just a glance for traffic, but then it lingers. A rush of pricking skin, like a shiver up the spine. Something on the wind...

     With every muscle's motion, no matter how slight, they seem to shift. Celtic, the patterns of interlocking, eternal lines that become the interlocking forms of Celtic dragons. Cobalt. Blue royal. Deep and brilliant. Bright. Brighter than they should be...

     It is not long after the sun decides to slip out of the sky for its nightly rest that the one known to some as the Goth Diva slips out of her hotel room for a night on the town. Still staying at the hotel, as though she is still unsure as to whether or not she will make London her home once more. It has been so long.

     A hint of humor. Sakir watches the interplay of the three as an outsider would, an interested outsider.

     Wrists turn down instinctively as Sakir notes Edward's gaze. A touch of alarm on his features. "I --" He faulters for a second with the language "-- would enjoy that yes." He then slowly begins to stand, at least to make introductions, while one hand remains on his glass. "Sakir Akalay." Left hand offered to shake. "And I thank you for your offer, though I already have a drink." Strange how fast he changes from faultering over a language to seeming perfect fluency. It must have been surprise.

     Baskets of flowers hang from the awning of every cafe and shop along the historic street, so narrow only foot-traffic may traverse its length. The streets still sparkle with the rain that is still falling.

     "Your rights to Poitou actually come through my mother... and my grandmother's name was also Aenor. Eleanor's mother..." And suddenly the universe makes sense. It is right to tell this story. It is right that this becomes Truth. Known. Tasted. Swallowed.

     But you know all this. Just like you know good old Nicu. Old old Nicu. Older than Waterloo, from some old family in Romania. You felt him coming in, to be sure. How could you not? And apparently the whole tavern's full of immortal-types for he's eyeballed all the way to a chair...

     I have narrowly escaped being a midnight snack...

     "'K, um..." Edward's French comes, eyes narrowing at the woman, "...this is the part where I ask you who the hell you are and what are you doing here..." the barrel of the Browning shaking violently as Edward tosses his hand lazily in cadence with his voice, "...and whether or not I need to kill you or whatever..."

     There he pauses for a moment. And you feel a hand return to you, lightly touching your side as the Crusader's cross, the cross of the Duke of Normandy, Prince of England and France, and Eleventh Comte du Poitou is lowered over your head.

     I am standing in the exact center of the world. Between Life and Death. Between the Mundane and the Extraordinary. It is not easy.

     The craftsmanship alone make the figurine worthwile. An old boat, the curved hull made of Lebanese cypress. The fine pieces curve and are joined by the tinest of fittings, mimicing the ships of old. A ship you once travelled in, so very long ago.

     Hazel eyes lift, not to a sound but to an expectation. He is waiting for you...

     The king deserves love as much as the peasant... we are lucky, perhaps. But we have worked hard for this luck. No one else knows how much, how hard.

     Blancheflor. White Flower of Blois. In her day, it was said there was not a more beautiful woman in all of France. She was the Medieval ideal. The high-forehead, the small nose, the cherry lips, the apple breasts. Her grey eyes. After the Schism, she took the name of a Saint.

     Her skin is so pale. She moves past you but her eyes are caught by something else. A feeling? Copper hair glistens and the bob flips with the turn of her head. Just as a yellow light passes by in a stream. She sees the back of a head familiar. A strong arm circles around her small waist, and she turns. Can you hear them, Edward?

     "A loving hand, a tender thought should all...belie...a giving heart..."

     "I love you," comes the man's voice, golden light flickering in the small room. It is not much, with hardened dirt for floors and mud stone and thatch for walls and roof. "I do," the older voice reiterates, laughter following from two. One older, one younger.

     Sudden is the thought that comes to him then. Iain. His hand stills.

     You are the bright focus in his universe. To touch you is to touch the Divine and the Desired.

     Has either of you felt so Alive? So in tune with each other and the world around that nothing else matters? So unfettered by vampiric life as to feel safe and secure?

     "Dieu, William Plantagenet," Ian rolls his eyes, still unbelieving after all of these centuries. And as you rise to seek him again, Ian's hand does come out, halting the approach.

     The fountain speaks with an audible and inaudible voice. It is ancient. Older than these walls. As your hand touches the white marble, images trickle like water...

     They do not know. Those who look at him and wonder: Why Dunross? They do not know what he knows. They have never seen it. They could never understand it.

     A surreal image it is, the young man eternally out of time's pocket. He walks forward, letting wet mush soak between his toes. There's something quiet about him, without William around, as if part of himself is missing.

     "The sun rises early in the north, my love..." A lament. "Hurry home."

     The past cannot be written again, Ian -- but the future can be conceived and born, forged and created...

     It was again, his home. And you witnessed William embrace it. He stood in the snow and then created angels as he watched the stars rise over the Northern Sky...

     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.