The folded towel is set upon the rock beside him and he looks out to the surf. Lastly to you. "It has been good to ... put my head back on my shoulders. To replace the noise with the sea. I needed this."

     The silence is reassuring. Out here, there is nothing but me and It. We can both forget our crammed souls, the ocean and I. It can forget the fish swimming under its skin. I can put aside these thoughts that have been swimming in my mind.

     "There is no plan, because you do not need one. This is not your situation to handle, Gui. It is someone else's, if he chooses to do anything about it. And," Ian nods, "...you must be prepared that he cannot fix it either..."

     The more peaceful on the exterior, the more tumultuous the internal. The more hectic, war-crazy the exterior, the more peaceful he is within. That is your man there...in all his paradox...

      Only one horse? What do you suppose such young men do out in the woods needing only one horse? And with an extravagant amount of hounds. Clearly, they are sleeping together.

There are but three events that have meaning, and when I think of them, I am moved. All three of them are in this house.

     "I was giving praise to your hips," he admits, turning his head on the pillow again. "Singing out their praises as I was grabbing them," he clarifies. "And your thighs. And of course the nice, tight grip...as always..."

     "I hear that I am somewhat delightful," in the tasting, let alone the knowing, "...hopefully I will suffice," Ian stands, sauntering towards the keep's antechamber, but looking over his shoulder to make sure the guest of honor follows.

     "It's your birthday, god damn it," William smiles, tugging down the scarf to show it. "And I care even if you don't. Come in," he whispers, hand gives you a gentle tug, mouth is cool and warm both -- seeking to warm itself in a kiss, and then he stands aside.

     "I don't know, Marta. I don't know what it is." Davydd stares forward, actually thinking of it. "Maybe... it's just that she came. She was ...brave enough," he suddenly thinks, "... to show up unannounced on my borrowed doorstep. She found me, she reached out. She's ... brave," he notes again. "And frightened."

     Ian grins even brighter. "A true traveler," he chimes, delighted with the prospect and serendipity of it all. "And you have ended up in our little part of the universe."

     Hands lowered, Valmiki stumbles, tripping over his own feet, and winces. Oh, this will hurt, when he hits the ground... except the ground isn't where it ought to be, and instead, his forehead catches against a door, producing a hollow clonk, paired by a muttered oath. "Vishnu's balls!"

     She leans her head back and chuckles, finally murmuring aloud, "When I find him, I'm going to duct-tape him down so he can't wander again. Or maybe I'll chain him up and just never let him leave."

     For me, amours, the ride was sufficient, the quiet time with you, it was enough. So simple. So much meaning.

     Where's he going? Everest? No, just outside to check the weather. Ah, winter in the highlands. And it's only the first day!

     Last night, a package arrived. A couple of glossy magazines with Yours Truly on both the cover and the center spread. And those words in type. You could hear them whispered at your ear as you read them, flecked with Occitan.

     Your vagabond sister: Victoria. Vagabond because since she left the 'new world', she's not yet settled. Never staying in one place for too long, almost stubbornly refusing to stop and relax, Tori continued to travel over the last year or so, seeming to be searching for something.

     "In its Beginning. Finding its way, knowing itself," William continues. I could watch it all night. Intrigued. Fascinated. Awed. It is not often, non, that one is able to be a spectator to Love and to a story without being immersed as a character in it. And the view from within is ... never the same as the view from without...

     I know that is why Ian and William are here. So removed from all of that noise. The press and the push of it. And I think they are wise men. And I think that this is a lesson of them that most men miss.

     The laughter begins again, a mist between the tinkles. A man's gentle amusement, a girl's trippling chuckle. Between the spates of giggles, a rustle and gentle purr.

     What a great old place is this. A hand of Montague strays over his coat as he draws away from the chair and takes a seat near a bookcase. His eyes stray over the titles there. His thoughts stray some six hours southbound. I wonder, mon ami, where you are in your task now. A hand reaches up and fingers toy with the garnets strung at his throat.

     "I feel like the Caravaggio must feel, oui?" just a moment of French, when he speaks of something utterly Him. And maybe the Boy with the Basket of Fruit is behind it. But... there is not one thing, not one inspiration, but for all of them altogether.

     "I did not think it was going to bother me, and I do not know why it did. Maybe... it was just not my night," a small smile, a slight roll of his eyes. Indigo, finding humor at himself when the gaze is directed inward.

     ...There was a cream colored rose waiting next to your pillow. Maybe that was a hint that you'd find him here. Or maybe... after all of this time... you don't need hints anymore. You ...simply know. Simply understand. Simply find him, no matter where he might be.

     "I want to apologize," Davydd's voice, quick in its intonation of your Gaelic with his Welsh phrasing, lingers upon that word. Yes... you heard it. "I... owe you an apology, and... I want to make good on it..."

     "Oh!" Marta's finger lifts, "That's it...in yer time, men dinna love men," she's quivering with the sarcasm, "...that's it. That ne'er happen'd! So, yeah, lads," those accusing eyes, "...childer ne'er been with sires before, men ne'er touch'd men before, Will's oft daft an' confus'd..."

     "Put it this way. We..." both of you as hunters, "...just won't tell each other all about it in dirty detail." He laughs and steps out of the closet. "How about that? Don't ask...don't tell?" As a policy. And he chuckles, shoving gloves into a large side pocket.

     You can feel what has been stirred. Worry, for the first time, that he might lose you to another. The energy was so strong. I want Tavish gone. For a while.

     "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.

     Ah, but in the battles of Fraser and Ross, he shall never be called a laggard, yes? Though, he's already a few shots down. And a few articles of clothing litter the floor. Shoes and socks gone. The platinum watch -- a fairly recent decoration, one of his birthday gifts thank you -- also lies aside. The first casualty to your dead aim, sir.

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

     Comforting like a pair of old but familiar shoes -- is that how the saying goes? It is a strange saying, is it not? For is a friend like a pair of old shoes... or should be? But perhaps it is that feeling of... being worn in. Familiar. Known. What's better than a pair of old slippers, formed perfectly to the feet? Or a visit from an old and dear friend...

     "What do you think?" querying you. "I think the trip was... hmm...lovely but I'm doubting it was very restful..."

     The other? The experience rests in the replay of one's own helplessness. A hunter whose connection rests in self-identification and sympathy, and thus, each hunt is a hope to restore something tarnished to himself. Perhaps, this time, the one hunted will have another ending...and perhaps ease of heart will come.

     Ice-blue eyes flicker back and forth at the scenery passing by, taking in every tree, every hill, every blade of grass, it seems. To a Toreador who's never set foot in Scotland in her life until now, the passing countryside is a living, breathing portfolio of artwork.

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

     His hand is yet gloved and shakes yours. A firm grip. "You are in Spain... but never when I am there... Is William afraid I will sweep you off your feet and convince you to live in Florence with me?"

     "Yes, we did, it was...unusual," Ian confesses, watching the pilot. An affinity...if his heart was not already taken by another former pilot and commander. "It was nice...being home again."

     "Why should I have ever thought I could hold Starlight," he whispers, this time to himself.

     William is quiet for a time, holding his cup in both hands...his elbows resting on the arms of the chair that holds him. His head rests back against the chair's own backing, and with a smile lingering he looks to you. Studies you. Beautiful.

     The thought causes Ian to cringe and blush simultaneously....he always did like the Fraser brood. But he's known to be a traitor when it comes to his bed.

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

     "It was merely time. And I firmly believe in leaving a city better than I found it. And I wish to leave... when such is so apparent." It is how he is known. When he has led a city for Camarilla causes, it has been for similar reasons, with similar results.

     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...