Encourage me. Encourage me in the oldest sense of the word. Strengthen my heart and resolve to do what I have to do, Valan. What we've said we wished. Even now, as you slacken, my eyes fill with tears and my body sinks. I know what that means; how you feel in my arms.

     He'd prepared himself rather nicely. A bath, a meal. A walk around the outer gardens. You know his habits, when he rests, when he rises. Edward dressed in blue and black, his favorite colors. Slacks are dark linen, and his shirt, the finest of shimmering indigo silk. He took his time tonight, thinking that this is the beginning of forever.

     It is chaotic. It is beautiful. And in everyone of them you can see the man you love.
     Valan looks to you then exhales. Ah... home...

     I have narrowly escaped being a midnight snack...

     Yes, it is a woman singing. But the sound is not that of just any woman singing...
     ...it is the voice of an angel. A dark angel.

     That look. Priceless. And with you, he doesn't have to be so... civilized. So civil. It is ... pure Plantagenet. "I can put the bullet back in, Meurelle... pussy or no..."

     When my flesh parts to your mouth, you will see them etched there. The glimpses of things that have yet to be, yet to happen. I am staring at my first view of the ocean and seeing the stars as for the first time. And you are there with me, Eduard. One night, we will have drinks with your friends, and our lips will move with an escapade...

     As the last tendrils envelope his face, Edward scoots snow over the ember. "Okay..." he smirks, "...I think...you'll like this..." his brow furrows, look lingering at you. Edward bites his bottom lip and pushes goggles back over his eyes. Follow me.

     "Yeah, but..." Edward goes on, "...what if I waited...and something happened to him??" his voice nervous and animated. "What the fuck then? Spend an eternity wishing I'd had done it...and he'd still be alive? They're so fuckin' fragile Will. Anything'll kill them."

     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.

     "Moving to London to be...with this Man," said not as the word seems. More encompassing. "It is a grand, great, frightening, dangerous, marvelous, and loving life you stand ready to embark on, Valan Montague," Ian says softly. "I wish you nothing but joy, peace, success, and luck."

     A lift and a touch of his gloved hand against his partner's cheek as he leans in. A kiss that, though it is brief and for public consumption, is also without shame. A kiss, love, and see my smile? "Handsome, without compare, beautiful. I like this..." Distraction is spreading. William touches his hand to Ian's indigo. You wear my colors. As easily as you wear me .

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

     Et vous, Eduard. The last words to leave my lips and they did so ... with so little thought. Distracted. Non. Confused. As if the heart and mind rose up together in concert and in unison spoke. Why now? I should not feel this way. My brother and my friend making... honest outreach. Non, it is ... not important -- the past, that is. And what did... or in this case, did not ...happen. He is happy. I am happy. Oui, it is enough.

     You miss the look, and it's a pity because it's truly priceless. No one shocks Plantagenet. With nonchalance he smiles and seems to know. Unaffected, even by the most orgiastic visions. But, you've mentioned Dunross... not only by name... rather than the more common epithets of him or even the more common... simply leaving him out altogether... some four or five times.

     How can it be true, Valan ...
     "And so... it is true..." I did not dream it or in some sort of plum brandy haze hear something that was not there.

     Your senses are sharp. You must hear the intake of a breath. Hear the sparkling of a fire drawn in. The smell of a pipe. The thump of a samoyed's tail. "It is a good night for a smoke," comes the even, deep voice of Georg the Swiss. It rumbles in his chest as he inhales at his pipe again. "What better way to spend the unending night," as it was once called, "... than smoking on a mountain ... Come... pull up a dog, Meurelle..."

     "Vicomte," Edward chuckles, "...I...never became Comte," he whispers, voice lowering. A reason why. "My...brother did..." voice is softest, almost as if his lips move without sound.
     "...six hundred years ago."

     Only then does Edward's face come upright to see you. There you go. I said it . "I do love you. And I want you to stay with me, for a long time." For longer than you perhaps can. How do I make this happen without ruining you and what I find so perfect about you?

     "It would do good for her... for her to wait, Edward," Girault murmurs. "Patience... is a virtue. It is the only one I practice..."
     "You... should spend time with your Montague..." he adds in a murmur. Girault smiles to you. Before she interferes. Before you present him to her. This, Girault does not say. "It ... would be... time better spent?"

     "Oh, God!" he calls, an open, aching lament. "What in the fucking hell," English now, "...is he doing here...." Edward's head rolls in disgust, hands coming up to cover his eyes. What is with the last two nights ...

     "I will come to your Firenze," Maria laments, "...you must be the only friend Maria has," she sobs.

     The skiis slide upon the snow and ice, and the mortal upon the edge of the world. This is what knowing Life and Death is. It is beautiful. To be so close to the sky. Upon a spire-point of earth. This is one of the few acts where a mortal may stand, throw his arms wide and hug God. And to say: Here I am... Here I am, one of your small children...

     "Si, it sounds so. Hmph. You must be a handsome boy for my Eduardo to look at you," almost accusingly, "...well, that is enough, Valan Montague, where is my Eduardo? Get him, please." You can almost hear her fingers snapping...

     Such stories begin this way. No fable should be without its chateau and a winter landscape. And so it begins...

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

     But then the grin erupts with laughter behind. "Alright, dammit... stop... now that you found me, Edwina... mind cutting back on the quakin? Sit like a gentlemen... are all of you Brits heathens to a man?"

     Is this the way that you like it?
     Is this what you had in mind,
     when you called above to the angels
     for the six hundred and sixty sixth time...

     The kiss begins softly, Edward's eyes closing. Upon the white linen, his fingers touch your hand, seeking them out among the remains of your meal. It is gentle, but pulling as the chair wills him back to its cushions. There. Edward's eyes open, wondering what shall you think of it. I am falling in love with you, it said. I want you beside me. Stay...a while. He breathes then, brow furrowing a little as his own thoughts resound in his brain. I hear it...can 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.

     He had other plans for Palmer's tonight, until he got your call. A fighter by the name of Yang Ping was to meet for a bit of martial arts. But plans change. Ping had been there regardless, but after finding another opponent and then watching others, he gave a wave and departed. Another time. Instead, Edward mustered himself together to face his cousin instead. While he was glad to see you, there was something else behind his expression.

     "Ah well... it could have been a worse ending. She could have done worse than William Plantagenet giving her Last Rites, Davydd Llewelyn staking her breast and Edward Meurelle of Blois landing the striking blow..."

     "Do you like...that I cannot help but stare at you?" Do you like tempting and teasing me? You shouldn't, young man. Edward's face holds no anger or threat, but instead curiosity. What happens to moths? Should he not fear me...why do you not fear me, Valan, with what you have seen and felt...

     Ah, sweet Saturday night. Jazz night. One can relive the hey-day of Grand Paris in the 20s, when American musical refugees crowded cabarets. We adopted them, we French. Ah, how we do love refugees. I stopped you in the car with a kiss. I could not stand it. One more, before we must head indoors and act with that casual cool of Men Who Look At Other Men while in the presence of those ... not in The Know.

     I find that I could do this for a hundred years. If I had a hundred more. I will never look at the world in the same way. I will smoke cigarettes with a difference. Remember something with every sip of brandy. And smile inanely at passing crowds. Yes, I know something you do not. I know there is something else besides Television and discussions on the weather. I know there is something between the folds of cigarette smoke that you are missing. This is what my smile will say. The children will say, Valan Montague... he is mad. And I will laugh and agree with them. What are you to do once you have tasted meaning in this life?

     He has learned what longing is. And sometimes, he thinks of you, cousin William. Brother William. Newfound admiration is there, and in the moment, even he, Edward of Blois, thinks fondly upon one Ian Dunross.

     To your right, Edward. There... shadows and the dim light of the bar play against a tall, lean figure. He is shorter than William ... shorter than you. Perhaps six even? And he carries himself ...confident. Approaching, but in a meandering fashion. He is not making a direct approach to you. Rather, he has turned, navigating around a table nearby. A survey around him... as if looking for someone. Looking at you.

     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?