"I think," Ian says softly, turning this face to you, "...there is a problem."

     "...All of this, it was built for you. For us. And we will invest in these things that make sense in a new age. For us. For me. So...that is what we are celebrating, oui? The start of a new day. The culmination of all my work, here and now. And the start of ... something new."

     "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."

     "Layers and layers deep. I fall in, he falls in..." Valan's voice trails off. "We fall in."

I know you'll miss me
I know you'll miss me
I know you'll miss me blind...

     "Hmm...what is interesting..." What could be more interesting than you in my arms? William is watching his hands move against you from over your shoulder. You sparkle in the water, and like an elusive dream you ripple beneath his touch.

     William exhales slightly. "I know...we have been more open since returning from America. And I have needed that. And I appreciate how difficult it is for you." He adjusts your towel around your shoulder. "There's a part of me that ... wants to take the Directorate by storm one night. You and I... secret marriage... not so secret anymore."

     But this December, where water was expected (and by one particular visitor, actually anticipated) there is instead snow. And not just a dusting of snow. Several inches of snow hide the stones of the Piazza San Marco and icicles hang from the open mouths of St. Mark's golden lions.

     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."

     "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..."

     There is a new story in the images that sail at you. A man with a face of terrible beauty when angered pours himself a drink in the back of a limousine. The bulletproof glass installed as a modification to the old limousine holds up to the throwing of a glass as his temper erupts. His scotch-stained hands go to his head as he sits forward.

     "Mind my delicate skin," William drawls, preparing to step out after you. "I bruise easily."

     "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.

     "You are really improving. Perhaps we should take a trip to Tokyo some time. You can study the masters of Eastern Art, and I can have tea waiting for you." William smiles to think of it. "I can be your samurai, waiting. You? The emperor, of course."

     His hand comes out to take the scotch as it is handed to him. Neat, as it should be tasted. Unpolluted. "At least the first year, I still remembered how to use a telephone," he nods to you with a smile. Yes, it is three years. Tempus Fugit.

     "...Does brotherhood end... does love end... when it is needed most? Or does it in such trial confirm its rightness?" William takes a breath, then his undecided look returns. "Am I a fool for caring, Ian..."

     "...Hell, half the time I expect they're going to stop me at the door and question me like some impostor. But I seem to be the only one asking the questions."

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

     William looks at you and Ciardan for a time and he shakes his head. I'm not busy. Not now. "It is hard when friends leave us," William offers quietly to the air. The wind will carry his words to you.

     "I think that I am bored," Ian laments, filling the air. His eyes look up above, gazing there. A careless rest, filled with his usual thinking. "Well," Ian exhales, somewhere deprecating his inaccuracy, "...I find myself, not really looking to do much of anything. Very odd," he says to himself. In truth, he's probably talking to himself more generally.

     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.

     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."

     "It's not for me," he murmurs, grinning at the French plate on the Italian sports car. "No one would call me El Hefe. What's that mean, anyway?" Ian blinks in rapid succession.

     "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."

     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...

     Davydd follows the path made by stags long before him, by the passing of the breeze knowing the depth of the wood and the location of the brooks that cut within it. You have only to listen.

      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.

     "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.

     ...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.

     Ian nods, then looks in the mirror again. Hand lifts to adjust his collar, but then he sighs, lowering his hands. It'd be the fifth time he's made corrections.

     "I have a job for you. I need you to drop whatever it is you are doing for this. It is something that must happen immediately... if it is to succeed..."

      "We embrace him," William murmurs. "We solve a multitude of wrongs, of problems, we halt a multitude of suffering. For everyone..."

     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."

     Davydd pauses in the public sitting room downstairs. A glance in reveals no one. Frown yet in place, he heads to the sofa and table, looking for something to write on perhaps. He checks his pants pockets for anything handy, finding only a tenner.

     William exhales, leaning to put the glass aside on the nightstand. Gathered there are Edward's things. The Browning. Cell phone. Silver case of gak. There is a glass, brandy snifter, quarter-filled with blood (his own). A bit of fresh...

     "Shite," A large hand hits the steering wheel and the phone is tossed into the empty passenger's side seat. "Why am I the only one making sense," and now I am talking to myself? Hockley. South? South... somewhere...

     As garden parties go, it went rather well. There was a string quartet set up on the paved stone area in front of the chapel, allowing for those who wanted to get in a waltz to do so at their leisure. But, in general, the gathering was more low key.

     It is the look of a man who knows he has been wrong. You've seen the look enough to know it for what it is. But for the first time in... well... this time it isn't about some wrong or other done to you. It is about a Prince (and a duke) knowing that he has acted in a very deplorable way.

     He is fairly certain that the fountain was never meant to be used in that fashion.

     "I am not interested in chandeliers, I am not interested in business. I am interested in you. That is what I asked about and that is what I am interested in."

     You may think that I am not paying attention to him. I am, really. You might not believe it, but it's when we are like this, that he has my full attention and I often have the best epiphanies. What is more important than now?

     "I know what has happened to your Darius, and who was responsible."

     "Why," William begins, "... are you here then. At all?" He leans his head on his hand, fingers propped up against his temple. Maybe he has a headache? It is a thoughtful pose, perhaps. And indigo eyes do focus on you. Peer at you. You are a strange creature.

     There is the delicate rise of vanilla in the air, with a hint behind it of something more exotic, Eastern. Ceylon Vanilla, it is called, and distilled by the hands of only one woman in Europe, Constanz deWitt.

     The most elaborate and the most exclusive of Carnivale events awaits you all, each of you traveling there. You may see it around the bend of the Canal...

     "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.

     "Alright news," Ian nods, smirking for the close interruption. "I am much like Midas," Ian observes, "...though saddled with the electrons of this age." He sets the PDA down near his leg. "How is young Montague?"

     Your spouse wanders on the parapets tonight, blue and scented smoke trailing his slow stride. It is a way of connecting, disconnecting and imprinting. It is a lord's walk, a prince's walk on the walls, walking among the tower. Below the lights of the ville twinkle and the lights on the Vienne and the bridge that crosses over it.

     "I need you, William. Too much now. Before, it was wanted you too much. Now...it's something else. I can see it."

     "You can move to Europe, if you like. Stay here. Stay in Strathfayr. Stay in Switzerland. I don't care. Just...do something. Choose. If you like it here, stay. Who cares about the rest." Whatever that is.

     The house was likewise full, the downstairs hall became the second gathering place. Staff and vintners and guests alike converged. There was finally a moment, sometime around one in the morning, when he could find you and suggest to you that you should both slip away for a few minutes...

     An old-fashioned Bacchanal. With attendance by Athens, no less. Under the watchful eyes of Athens, Gaul gives its own tribute to the vine and wine god. Yes, with all the furor of a truly Gallic happening...

     The ville itself is full of its inhabitants and those of the smaller, neighboring villages. There is music, laughter, even a little tango in the cobblestone streets nearest the castle walls. Every restaurant is packed -- Orangerie, Trente Ans, Dame Lombarde's -- and the air smells of wine, bread, cheese, and the incense of burning grape leaves.

     Not so far away, Ian floats beneath the water, on the floor of the warm bath. He lets himself sink, like a stone, his back against the stone and concrete. Angelic he looks, with his white-blonde hair scurrying around him, and the hue of warm water casting blueness on his skin. His arms are extended, as if he's drowned, oddly enough.

     "You talk too much," Ian whispers and smiles softly. A slight pull of his lips. He sighs then, expecting some response will come.

     Your homme, not your lord. Your man, your husband, if that word may even come close to describing the relationship. He will be in his boots in the sandy mud.

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

     For the past few years, I've looked at restoration from a purely selfish angle. The paintings, my hands, my work, my life...

     I clasp my hands behind my back as I walk in silence, the Caravaggio in the vault, resting for the night. But all around me, amours, is the evidence of restoration.

      "I think it is self-fulfilling prophecy," Ian begins in medias res, "...that We," the vampire sort, "...are doomed to destroy any chance of contentment in our damnation. What little fire there is, we snuff. I - I will admit - am very good at such. And I've learned to realize it. I did not expect it to see it today."

     "Rimarrete stasera con me?" Marco asks you, he grins it, the devil, against your ear.

     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.

     Time has a face. It is not his, it is not yours, it isn't even Villon's. Sky and stars, the firmament face of Life and Time, is witness to the epochs and eras, the sole survivor of every revolution, from evolution to humanity's petty skirmishes.

     You and I have memorized the earth. We have been here before. Safir has been here before. The trees were different, older then. These, these have been planted after the ravages of tall ships and navies emptied the forests of France and Europe. I remember the oak and beech stands, the thickness that could, and did, hide armies.

     I plan for the inevitable... hoping to subvert it. No different from Prince Theseus...

     "I have to submit to domination. To have the knowledge of my working on it stripped..." Whatever it is, it is huge.

     "Penance done," Ian whispers, his tongue leading his mouth to yours once more.

     At least...did you enjoy it...Your Majesty? Somewhere in all of that, Ian felt the king find his crown.

     You can teach an Old Plantagenet new tricks. Perhaps you thought he might never understand. He might never get it. That all of that information was wasted. That those heated conversations in Seattle and later in New Port were just exercises in releasing consonants and vowels to the atmosphere.

     "Ragazzi bei, entrambi voi...li avro bisogno ancora, presto. E quello che cosa desiderate?" Ian stirs at the lingering touches across his skin, smiling in comfort.

     Ganymede striding to the shallows, water lowering from chest to waist to hips.

     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.

     I should not have been surprised, perhaps. This is an extraordinary event. A revelation, a gathering, an exclusive. A social remembering, as we see who is not with us.

     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.

     Girault must steal a look, still it comes with the air of Platonic, See I Am Only Looking, William -- I Have Eyes. There is nothing outwardly lascivious about it. Are you beautiful? Yes, one of the world's most beautiful.

      "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.

     "I guess we call a Toreador we trust." A pause. "The list is short. Girault..." He pauses again, corners of his mouth upturning. "It is a short list indeed when Il Gatto di Firenze floats to the top of it."

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

     The Cymri's mouth purses in thought. Magic. "I believe it came from her... her trauma. The breakdown upon the sudden end of the Bond. What it must feel like with the Line suddenly goes... slack."

     The last hour or so was rather uneventful, as most of it she spent as a ruby, as red as the one she wears on her finger. Time passed and she was returned to her normal state, but she remained still and unconscious. Her small body instinctively curled into the fetal position and then stayed there.

     William opens his eyes. Slowly. You have stopped? Indigo eyes are a shock of violet and blue -- after so much opium, absinthe, tainted blood -- the colors have separated into separate flames, each roiling, color wavering to create the wave-lengths of Indigo.

      "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.

     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!"

     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.

     The amber hue owed to the lights of Chenonceau, lit as they are every night. But this night, they burn for new residents. And the lights echo across the quick moving waters of the Cher, ripples highlighted.

     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.

     Was he not the one desired? Last year ... not far off in time from this, just after Yule I think. You were longing, bored. Even as you are now. And he arrived like golden fucking dawn, with all his Goodness. And you wanted it.

     He clears his throat, and his hands unlace and find his pockets. He looks at the floor. "I have... met someone... recently. Very recent. I do not know what I am doing, Ian. He is... mortal... and a magician... and he is moving to Poitiers..."

     Alire lifts his gaze from the crinillation at hand to the wood and the wild earth. A clear night...

     He has been quiet since Ibiza. Barcelona. Venezia. Content to practice his hand at watercoloring, still his favorite. There were a few sudden phonecalls, he suddenly rising and heading within quarters upon loud, flat steps.

     "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...

     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.

     It was deliberate. We stayed inside because we feared going out. No, that wasn't it. We stayed in because we were tired of going out. No...
     We were tired of my going out...

     "No, no, I don't know..." then a spin, "...okay, yeah, I was prepared to knock you on your ass. But not in a bad way..."

     God, though I am a grievous sinner, spare me from that fate...

     Have I won? After a thousand years? I think so, but it is hard to tell. We have such a long way to go.

     There are some rooms that, when you and he are not here, are simply not used -- or have the residue of tourism. He lights the candles. He opens the windows. Life will be breathed into it again. Chinon resuscitated...

     "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.

     "Stop me... sometime while we are here... tell me No. It will be good for me." He chuckles quietly, half-turning from the glass, and the things it holds to ... others equally nice.

     "It has been too many years since I have been on the Mediterranean... and with you, with art, with male models and the promise of adventure..." Sensuous, his mouth holds the smile that follows with a scandalous curl.

     And books from Paris now join those of Chinon. Books delivered lately from Scotland now join French bretheren. And the lights in the library remain on all night.

     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.

     Happy are we, that have learned to love and be loved, teach and be taught, to depend and be depended upon. Happy are we that have learned...that nothing else matters.

     "The Council did not use you, signora. What do we have to gain by suffering?" Girault settles upon the chair. Yes... the We was intentional.

     When I should want to rant and rave, you still me. When I wish to thunder and storm, you steal the wind and with the slightest touch dissolve the lightning.

     "'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..."

     Do you know I shall show you every room of this castle when I proclaim it jointly yours? Do you know that I shall scrawl it out for all to witness? When I present it to you, no man after shall doubt it... but that it should be so. Vicomte du Poitou...

     "I'm scared, Will," he gets out, despite the aching tear that threatens to rend him into two. What does it mean...to me? Will I become...ah...there you are Liam. What is a young man who serves another...but a whore?

     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 .

     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.

     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.

     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.

     "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..."

     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?

     ...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.

          She looks up, her golden-white hair cascading around her body. Aphrodite's daughter...she is nothing of Eve. "Will? You...alright?" You are indeed...confused. She peers at you, and then smirks, "Wow, forgotten already?"

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

     "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..."

     There's a warm look of affection as he feels what crosses your heart about Navarre. It is understandable. It is...regrettable. But once where he worried on such, he does not now. Her acts reflect not on him or you, or your love. She will suffer the consequences of what she did.

     "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.

     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..."

     That...is the sound of a motorbike. And it is not veering. Soon, a light can be seen in distant wheat, more than likely someone driving through it. The tops of silver-gold bend, yielding to something's approach.

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

     "I have brought you things asked for and things not... warm clothes and clean... hello, beauties," he takes time for the horses as he moves toward the bank, quieting his voice.

     The look says it all: Lie, me? But the grin confirms it. "It is warmer than the Pacific...oui? Get in, she will not bite..." The river that is. He makes no such promises regarding himself.

     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 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.

     "I was telling Will," he smiles, "...that you might be too busy, being Seneschal and all, to come visit an old pair like us."

     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.

     The smile is sudden. And it is explosive in indigo eyes. Fiery. Igniting. Immediately. "Hello, ami..." And William nearly chuckles. But just...seeing you. He is stopped. Standing. Still...

     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.

     "And what exactly..." comes the voice at the other end, relaxed and teasing, "...was I supposed to think of that small piece of footage you sent me? Oh, I'm sorry, it was not footage..." Ian purrs, rather amused at it all.

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

     There will be no sadness for it, just an ultimate realization that his completion comes from one source only. The body has enjoyed the rides, the spirit is lifted and soaring, but it flies homeward, seeking the comfort and bed of its True Heart.

     "You are the only one who sees them... You are the only one... who has ever been so close to me. That you know me... so well. That to touch my skin, is to feel your own. No... one knows my secrets, but you."

     "Have you thought how you will encourage the mantle of power transfer and solidify your constituency around you?"

     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...

     And it is as if Cadiz knows you shall soon be leaving... that it makes itself as brilliant, if not more splendid, that the first evening. Incense is lit. Corridors are rimmed with beeswax candles. And the young men of the house are attentive to your every care. And somewhere you hear a song is stirring.

     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?"

     "Welcome..." the sleepy young man whispers, "...home." A kiss at your cheek, "My love..."

     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.

     How you alone know the songs that no one else remembers, a language that he only speaks, save you, recall a time that was everything to him...but is now only books and perverted recollections of fae, myth, and lies that once used to anger him, but now only make him wish for home.