...William smiles, and his mouth makes much of it. Such a thing damns him, and he does not mind it, for that has ever been a given with him. Even in valorous hours. "Mmmm," he groans softly in reply. His thumbs press into the sole of your foot again, rubbing up and down from the heel to the ball of the foot as his fingers rub circles upon the top of your foot. "I shall worry about the afterlife when I am standing in it. Until then, in this extension of life that is neither life nor unlife...I am with you..." He bends, his lips brushing your foot warmly for an instant, "...and that is all that is important." His hands wander, their massaging way working up the calf and toward the thigh.

     Ian shifts, stretching before wrapping his other leg around you, hips pushing forward. His head falls back onto the couch behind and he closes his eyes. Hand remains curled around his glass, both resting comfortably at the floor, and if you listen close, you can hear the unmistakable sound...of a purr. Toes and feet crinkle and wiggle as you work on them, legs encircling you, keeping you so close to him.

     William smiles to himself. That smile hidden in the draping of dark hair, and the play of light upon his skin...golden, amber...paints over him, illuminating the bridge of his nose as he shifts, turning his head toward you...even as his hands, strong, work upon your legs. Fingers press against your skin. Fingers follow and sink into the muscles of calves...of thighs. He twists and reaches...his fingers trailing toward the insides of the thighs that envelope him. His lips trail warmth against your chest as he leans in...then against your leg as he bends. A kiss. Soft and brief against the skin. His hands work slow...methodical...meticulous...as they would upon a canvas, trailing creation in paint. With that same passion, he creates this upon your flesh. There are no words...that the ear is meant to hear. What needs to be conveyed...is conveyed by touch alone. Along your legs...slowly...he splayed fingers drag...fingernails alternatively pulling...then soothed by softer fingertips.

     Curved legs act as a corral...but no such silly thoughts would Ian have. To hold, to capture William of Normandy? He long knows that such was always impossible. So, he rests. When you face him, he smiles, veritable radiance from the hearth that illuminates his hair and the now softened grey eyes. They watch you, his head tilts to rest at his shoulder, and he takes note of your work, your hands, the way you mold and caress his muscles to quiet relaxation. A master at work. And he wonders at your eyes, the hair....free hand lifts tentatively to push the strands of darkness away to see the indigo gaze better....your skin, your nose, those lips....all he watches, loving awe upon his face.

     Uncovered, the dark veil pushed aside like an unwanted curtain to the day, the eyes look to you--the second dark veil of his lashes likewise lifting--and indigo is the hue you are faced with. Both blue and violet show up within them separately. And the light from the fire catches the upward quirk of lips forming a smile--at your own study. There is between you but few sounds...the fire--the constant reminder of heat and passion...the sound of blood being moved through your magical heart--the constant reminder of life...and the soft sigh of sound...his fingers against your skin...a constant reminder of the odd, but nevertheless constant devotion. William's gaze tends back to your legs. It is no different, this artistry ...over what other works his hands create. They were rough once, with the marks of rough use...swords and battles. But softened now, retrained, for other matters. Yet, he wields a paintbrush as a sword, his marks as precise as a duelist. His touch upon you no less...precise to the muscle that most needs his touch. In small circles his fingers work your flesh...from foot again...to calf...to thigh. And then William shifts...
     Without moving your surrounding legs overmuch--though some movement is required--William turns about, scooting mostly, so that he may face you. Your legs surround him yet, readjusted to capture him. And his...do the same to you. And from this newfound position, very nearly the whole of you may be similarly worked upon. Your sides are next...and then your stomach. His gaze still is downward tending...watching his hands. And from his lips, whispered words. A quiet song. "A bhuachaille bhain mas aill leat labhairt air thus," your own Scots Gaelic, and an old song, as most gaelic songs are, "gura leat'sa gun dail mo lamh ma thig thu le muirn..." Fair-haired lad...if you say the word...yours is my right hand, right away...

     You do spoil him. Any other would have seen Ian's face sadden at the music in his own tongue, his expression of light fading to stare seriously at your own. Not such. It is that of fascination. How you touch his very soul, when he least expects it. How you bring tears to his eyes, when he wants nothing but rage. 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.

     How is it that when you sing, he is instantly transported to the heathered fields and low tufts of grass he walked day in and day out...eventually night in and night out...mostly alone? His hands leave your hair, the glass, to quickly fold over yours, holding them at his thighs. "Say it again," he hoarsely whispers, desperate to hear the song, the words, the feel, to you say them once more. "Again, please, like you do..." he asks, eyes brimming.

     Like he does. With the persistent pull of French upon the gaelic, that lends more lyricism to the language than it possessed of its own. William holds your gaze as you hold his hands upon your thighs. It makes one wonder who he was before he was William, if such things can be...to have the gift of utterance that he does. He keeps his gaze fastened to yours, blue to grey--deep oceanic to thick sea fog. "A ghuachaille bhain mas aill leat labhairt air thus...gura leat-sa gun dail mo lamh mo thig thu le muirn." His voice is slightly louder, stronger than before--no longer a whisper...but a murmur. Smooth, deep but without mourning--even though it is gaelic that pours from his lips and throat. "Gur truagh mar a ta nach do tharladh mis' agus thu. Ann an eilein gun traigh gun ramh gun choite gun stioir. Ma theid thu air sail," William pauses a moment, and in that moment, his fingers curl against your skin and his gaze falls to rest upon your chest, "a ghraidh, biodh gini ad' phoc is ol ma dheaoch-slaint gach ait an suidh thu mun bhord." Indigo eyes lift again to you, and mouth forms the words fluently, after 800 years of practice. "Bhith sinte ri m' thaobh, a ghaoil, nan digeadh tu ann..."
     Fair haired lad, if you say the word yours is my right hand, right away, if you come with affection. Isn't it a pity that you and I did not meet on an island without ebb tide, without oar, without coracle, without rudder? If you go to the sea, love, have a coin in your pocket and drink my health in every place you sit without me. But how I wish you would come to me and stretch out by my side....

     William's voice fades at the last word sung. The song goes on...there are many verses...but the others are forgotten...or perhaps it is the closing of his throat in his own emotion that strains the song to an early end. Even so, his voice hums on the air for moments after his lips have closed and breath has become ...merely breath. Spoil you? William knows no other way, being rotten himself...

     Strong hand comes to rest at your cheek, ever so tenderly. Upon his too-too mortal cheeks, red tears fall and the draw of his lips is one of loving adoration. Leaning in, he kisses you softly, the lips so recently pulling at the darkest spaces within him, those few places left within that recall the youth in his mortality for whom the moors were everything. Ian sighs there and kisses again, his mouth parting in the faintest suggestion, and as he kisses, he moves to make the song so.
     Eyes transfixed upon yours, he begins the disentanglement, reaching behind for one of the pillows upon the couch and tossing it behind you to the floor. His legs extend and he pushes yours open to allow himself to kneel and lie you back upon the pillow. With care, he waits until you are settled before lying next to you in front of the hearth, by your side....

     Even as gaelic binds your heart in knots, and in the singing of it feel it tighten to wring tears from your eyes, so too does gaelic and french for him. Gaelic, he can barely bear to hear. French makes him dissolve. As does your kiss. Your lips find him most pliant. The soft kiss returned softly. The light pull, the tugging, replied to with loving care. A hand lifts from your thigh to brush against your cheek. To capture a falling tear and hold it in his palm. And William closes his eyes at your sigh.

     They open as bodies begin to disentangle, and as you shift him lay him back. He turns his gaze from you, only to make sure his head hits pillow instead of floor...but return quickly enough as he settles. Legs open, he sprawls. Until you lie beside him...in front of the hearth...by his side. And on his side he turns. The feast of gazes will not be so easily ended...nor half so soon.

     William did not have the moors. But he had the shore, the wild rock coastline and the sea. Often he would ride the white mount of his to the seashore and remain upon the cliffside staring. The sea. Motion, constant motion and unending. Just as he is. William's free hand reaches for you, his other tucked beneath the pillow. And tender is the touch landed on your cheek, to steal another ruby tear.

     The flames' glow lap at the bodies next to each other, illuminate light the same, but upon each...finds different timbres. One of blues and violets, one of yellows and browns. "I cannot bear when you sing so," Ian whispers, another tear falling from his face. He sighs once more, this one tired, and his hand comes to hold your waist. "I have been thinking...perhaps we should go home for a while?"

     The eyes are alight, as if struck by flames, at the suggestion. "I have been wanting to, Ian...for a while." He nods. "For a long while." He leans in then, his lips parting, brushing against you, catching the next tear. "I should remember," he murmurs there, "but I look at you and the words come, and I forget what they do." England. It makes the eyes tear, his turn red at the notion but do not turn loose their liquid. Britain. Scotland. And finally France. "When may we leave?"

     Dunross smiles, "Two nights. We must make arrangements and pack..." His hand moves your waist in a wave, forward and back against him, "...timing is everything. I can have a plane pick us up here and take us to New York. From there, we take the Concorde to Paris...

     William nods and a smile pulls at his lips likewise. "Good." And he closes his eyes and the smile grows, "I have been longing to return. I will have to call ahead to make certain Chinon is ready to receive. It should be. You going to call ahead to the Island of the Mighty, or shall I?" He lifts his head a bit, and the smile turns to a grin. Of course, getting him out of the airport in New York alone will be a treat. He gets stuck at the knickknack shops, the poor easily distracted cad.

     Ian grins, "One place at a time. If we want to spend time at Chinon, then I will call the Island when we are ready to depart. No need to get them to prepare the troops to rebuff our advance." With a bit more pep, his legs tangle with yours and he pulls you flush with himself. Home. He hasn't been there in...what is it now, 40 years maybe? His smile broadens, "How long shall we stay?"

     William grins a bit, "Hmmm...I do not know. You know me. I cannot put limits on myself and lose track of time...at least a month. We cannot see what we must see in less than this." He pauses for a moment. "Longer likely ...or at least," he grins more fully, "I shall not be so eager to leave. And what of you? How long may you be gone?" He gives you a look...as if to gauge your answer before you speak it. To prepare for disappointment?

     Ian rests back a little, in thought. "As long as we need, angel," he whispers, closing his eyes. That odd tiredness that seemed apparent a few nights ago...it is here, in stark brilliance. His hand wipes at his face and his legs tighten around yours. "A month or two? I should go see Gerald anyway." Ah work.

     William smirks, even as his eyes drift close. His voice turns languid...so thick with French, he sounds as if he had been home already. "A pleasure trip, my dear...a pleasure trip." A gentle chiding. "Mmmm...reminds me though...need to check the vaults...take a tour of the Louvre..." Ah...work...

     William presses to you, his form enveloping your own, seeking your warmth, finding your strength and held in the fire's glow. "As long as we need then...love..." He grins then. "Shall we take the car?"

     Ian laughs, "Take the car." A blonde brow lifts and he smirks, "No, I want a BMW 8-series anyway. We'll buy one there." Rolling on his side again, he faces you, a tired smile, "And, yes, pleasure. Me and you and home, hmm?"

     William wrinkles his nose a bit. BMW 8-Series. "I have two words for you. Lamborghini Diablo." He chuckles, and the sound lingers a while. "Does that come in a convertible?" His weary voice cuts in and out...like the murmur of one lost in dreams. And then the smile. Curving rakish. "Mmm...you and me...pleasure...oui. Home. In our Scotland. In our Chinon."

     "Aye," he groans, "I can bypass London though. Chinon and Skye would settle well with me." A grey eye flicks open to you, "It is not so bad, William. You will love Skye. I promise."

     William chuckles quietly against your neck as he bends his head...his lips brushing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. "I trust you. As for London...I can live happy and long without another visit anytime soon, Ian." His voice is a deep embrace and his arms are strong around you. One blue eye opens, peeking at you. "We will have plenty of stores for the trip, yes?"

     "There will be plenty," Ian smiles, "If we time this right, we can leave here mid-afternoon, as long as we are organized before. We will arrive in New York in the late evening, then fly civilized to Paris..." he frowns, "...well, with the usual risks. Even if we take the late night out of New York and we are in seats, we..." he thinks, "...non we will arrive long before daybreak. We will need to remain in Paris that day, I suspect, love, before going onto Chinon."

     William nods, his eyes drifting closed. "There are worse ways to spend a day." He breaks out into a broad grin, "In Orkney for example." And his words are turned to quiet and languid laughter, even before he is half finished speaking them. "Hmm...oui...sounds good...I miss Chinon. I have not visited for as long as I would have liked since San Francisco..."

     "And I miss fair Europa in her entirety," Ian says, holding onto you now. Ian turns his head upon the pillow and smiles, "William...will you sing again?"

     William smiles, opening an eye to an indigo crack. "Hmmm...for you?" His lips quirk more so. He nods, "Oui, amours...come here..." Come here: a beckoning sound upon a smooth tone. He slips one arm around, beneath you...the other lying across you. And he motions for you to lie your head against his chest. The light of the fire plays across the defined muscles as he moves. "French this time?" he chuckles.

     Blond hair nods slowly as he squirms to place himself upon your chest. He closes his eyes and is completely willing to submit to the pampering...something has triggered the need for it. A shiver...the flesh is cold...and he holds onto you, sighing at your heart.

     William takes a breath and sighs. His lips brush to your forehead, brush a kiss to the gold it finds. His fingers play against your skin, massaging lightly again. The song itself is languid, pulling...not just due to the language, ancient French, but its own meter and rhythm natural is slow, like a lover's sighing. And his rich voice lends the sound of desire to the words of it. "Be sai la noih, can me despolh," he sings, flawless and fluent, in the tongue native, "el lei qu'eu no dormirai re. Lo dormir pert, car eu lo'm tolh...per vos do me sove. Que lai on om a so tezor, vol om ades tener so cor. S'eu no vos vei, amours, don plus me cal, negus vezers mo bel pesar no val..."
     I know each night, though I undress, sleep is the latest thing that I shall find. I lose my nights to sleeplessness holding you ever in my mind. Find where a man his treasure hides, that's where you'll find his heart besides. While I can't see you and dwell here in dearth...I love your thought more than all sights on earth.
     William sighs upon the fall of the last word, his lips trailing over your skin...your neck...even as his fingers skim over your back...

     He needs you, Ian does, he always has. Look how he rests there, hiding himself in your arms, in your words, words that are so old. They are not new rhyme that tumble from you or put to pen, but ancient lines, spoke by one who heard them spoken by their one who crafted them, you who understand what they mean and how it soothes to hear them said once more...

     His hand slithers around to your lower back, accompanied by his leg that wraps there. And he breathes shallowly...trying to hear you instead. He would sleep there, if he is let, comforted by the only being that can give him rest...

     An eye to you...an eye to the fire. He will watch until you take your rest. The living sword at your back--yours alone to wield--the shield before you--yours along to take shelter in. As it has ever been. Why should his voice prove less so? The soothing hand it lays upon you is tangible, his song. William smiles. Yes, an old song from his mother's own court, sung once by Ventadorn, his mother's troubadour lover. As oft as he was rebuked, he was accepted. How odd love can be.
     William looks to you in his arms, his head tipping back to regard the whole of you. And a hand lifts, brushing back your golden hair. In tender motions, the back of his hand lightly stroking the side of your face. "Be la volgra sola trobar," he sings, his baritone a high register for that range...smooth and coiling about the syllables of song. "que dormis, o'n fezes semblan, per qu'elh embles un doutz baizar..."
     I wish I could find him alone asleep, or seeming thus to be, a sweet kiss then I'd steal from him...
     And his lips brush against the line of your jaw, pulling now and again upon the lobe of your ear. Ever moved to either tears or passion is he by that ancient tongue. And to hold you. And to sing of love. He cannot help the languid flirtation. Again he smiles, and again his words leave him in lyrical sounds, "Tota noih me vir'e'm lansa desobre l'esponda...Plus trac pena d'amor de Tristan l'amador, que'n sofri manhta dolor per Izeut la blonda..."
     All night I toss and turn on the edge of the bed. I bear more pain from love than Tristan the lover who suffered so much for Iseult the Fair. William opens his eyes and gives you a wink....and his chuckle ends the song.

     The boy in your arms only smiles, too weary to form a response, too clinging suddenly to want to leave the perfect curl around your form. Feet shuffle outside the hallway...morning perhaps arriving as she does. Hard to tell in this corridor, in this room, for it is so cut off from her wandering fingers as to remain dim and cool regardless of outside activities.
     The deep sleeper finds his way there, in the only place he could ever call truly and utterly safe. Unlike the last two nights, where nature forced his hand, this morning's rest is willed...as it were, asked for, so wanted. The feeling that now, finally now, can he lie, unafraid, unfettered, unconcerned.
     That is what he has lost for thirty years in being without you. True freedom.

     He remains awake for a while yet, his gaze tending toward the flames again. But he moves not, no matter how much he would have preferred to have a blanket. William smiles, his eyes drifting closed. You and the fire are enough for his warmth. And the sounds of morning and of servants stirring are tuned out. He follows your heartbeat as is slows. He is lulled by you, as much as you by him, to sleep. Fingers curl and his body tangles a moment longer before truly settling. And for the first time since his arrival...holding you thus and after this night...San Francisco is in the Past. For the first time since his return, he is truly yours...and truly back. One foot no longer on sea and one on shore...but both firmly planted at your side. His hands lightly massage your flesh until Dawn calls him, beckoning sleep...

Posted by rowan at November 29, 1997 09:36 AM