You can hear it above the wind...
     Even above the wind of the North Sea assailing Moray Head and the Firth down below. The Gulf Stream turned, and summer slowly coming to an end...
     The sound of a motor, powerful, precise. Such a perfect fit for the man who is driving it. Such a strange car. Such a strange man. Both too beautiful. So much so, they are creatures. Living and not living. Real and unreal...
     You can hear it slowing as it winds it's way through the small village, the sleeping village, on this early, early morning. It is six hours since you spoke, and you have felt him cresting over England like the coming of the sun.
     And the emotions. And the fear. And the confusion. And the things he did not say in London.
     You hear now the keys in the door...

     He's awake, to be sure, lying near the fireplace. Ian did remember how to get wood and start a flame to warm the place. Thank goodness he doesn't have to cook.
     As the keys turn in the lock, the rattling tumblers sound like falling blocks. He sits up, book at his lap, scotch on a table nearby. If Ian's done much this evening, it's impossible to tell.

     There is a storm on its way. You can feel it tightening the air. You can smell the sea being lifted by the air. You know it will be dropped on the coast. The skimming, collecting fingers of the wind will scatter rain and fog over your Scotland today. Though the sun will doubtless rise, it is doubtful that it will be seen...
     The long wool coat, lined on the inside with silver fox fur, accents of that fur on standing collar so reminiscent of Russian military uniforms of the previous century, and again at the cuffs of sleeves. The coat cuts a regal figure as it covers him. The keys sparkle into his pocket, shining in the light the fire provides, brilliant against black gloves. Soft leather. And the light of the fire spills against him. The cashmere sweater, the mock turtleneck, that fits closely to that broad chest and then falls loose and slack over grey wool trousers. Such a sight. I'm such a sight...
     He is gloriously ... himself. The young Duke and Comte. Holding two provinces with that bearing. Clean-shaven, were he to smile you would see the sun rise on the young Duke's face now, even as you saw it that evening, long ago, in Rouen. Even his solitude. His separateness. His... isolation. That, too, was seen in the young Duke -- as he walked the perimeter of his castle at Rouen at night, or in Chinon, or in Poitiers, or on the battlefield. Alone. That young Duke is still in this room. His passion, his humor, his strength, his bearing, his beauty, his fear -- these are all so unchanged by Time. Perhaps it is this, and not the beauty that has hardened upon him with the passing of time -- to the point it hurts those now who come in contact with it -- perhaps it is not that, but the lingering presence of all he was, unchanged by the nearly nine centuries, that makes him seem so ...unreal.
     As William moves into the living area, heads into the light of the fire, and to you, he removes his gloves, slowly. He balls uncovered hands into slow fists. Perhaps to stretch them from the long drive. Perhaps to squeeze out the emotion that you can feel as surely as you can feel the North Sea wind hitting up against the lighthouse wall.
     Paint and charcoal stain his hands. He didn't even pause to wash them.
     And there is so much to say that it freezes his tongue. You see it in the narrowing of his eyes, such indigo -- dark blue-violet -- and the look, the expression. I am who I am, and I am powerless to stop it. He looks to where you sit, the scotch, the fire, the thousand comforting details. And the long coat is shrugged off of broad shoulders.

     "Hello, stranger," Ian murmurs in Gaelic, now upright. He should stand, save that soon enough, you'll join him upon the cushions at the floor. An opposition you are -- you in your princely brilliance, he in white silk pants and little more -- but on the same path. That, Ian already knows.
     "Come here," he whispers, patting to the spot nearest him. Whatever it is, let it go. The coat, the gloves, and whatever you carry, laird, you no longer need to carry it here. "It has been a boring few nights," Ian smiles, finding something to fill the air. No need for you to dwell on whatever it might be. "Good drive?" he wonders, still sitting up, half-upon his side now. You can see the book nearby, Leveraging Intellectual Property, and the scotch aroma is not a waft, but a lingering golden aura. Without you, that has been his sustenance the last evenings.

     I am too much...
     I am too much for this world...
     A twist and the coat is off and now upon the sofa. Landing heavily. Heavy wool, full of phone and keys and a gun set on safety and a wallet with a money clip and a corporate card of indeterminable limit. He pauses as you whisper, as your hand touches the cushions and the comforts you have lain at the feet of the fireplace. Scotch and the smell of coming rain hover over you both. As he settles beside you, you can hear cashmere and wool whisper, the one against the other. "Long drive," he suddenly says, dropping easily into Gaelic. Softly. It's rolling vowels, so seemingly free of consonants, leaving his mouth, that mouth of his full and sensuous and deadly and killing with every curve. As his large form folds itself and he begins removing his shoes, toe to heel, you can smell the mixture of cologne and cinnamon. A shock of spice. A shock of something slightly sweeter.
     Indigo eyes glance at the book, at the fire, at his shoes as he tosses them, and then he turns to you as he falls back. Heavily, seeking comfort. A frown. He frowns as he looks at his hands and the remains of charcoal and paint upon them.
     He is flush against you. You feel the softness of the cashmere sweater, the wool -- both from Scottish bred sheep. It is n apposition to the tightness, to the hardness of the form it covers. Indigo flickers to you and finally rest there. "I won't be going again," William murmurs. So tight. "Not anytime soon...I'm sorry it was as long as it was, love." The Gaelic is resonant and soft. And apologetic. And weighted, still, by what he carries. You see it just beneath his expression. Just beneath the placid-seeming countenance. The seeming ease that is not ease.
     I am too much... too much for that city... maybe any city...
     William is still a moment. And then you see his mouth part, you know the tongue is shaking it off. Whatever it is. "It has happened," William whispers. "I have become... too much for the world. I saw it tonight, so clearly. In a face so unexpected..."

     "What?" Ian resettles, now that you are so near. His hand reaches for your hair, fingering the dark locks gently.
     You have not changed so much, Prince William. This I know.
     "Hmm. Maybe..." Ian smiles, a kiss at your cheek, "...maybe start back at the beginning." He sighs and rests his cheek upon his arm, letting fingers wander aimlessly.
     The first fall storm came and passed the coast while Ian was here. He did not worry on his isolation so much, though perhaps he should have. It would be a long walk to find a meal. But it was time to go home, really, of that Ian was quite aware. Months of floating upon the sea, indulging indulgently, demanded a respite, recollection at home.
     He's been glad for it. The lighthouse was a marvelous first choice. A quiet place to reaffirm hearth. Scottish ground, solid beneath his feet. A different sea to follow. Breezes and scents that are as much of himself as...well..he is. Ian walked these nights, alone, with a smile upon his face. It was a grand holiday, and it would be a wonderful winter at home.
     "So..." his whispering voice asks you, "...what happened?"

     "Do you remember... what occupied me in Cairo," he murmurs. The three paintings created on the deck of the ship, the nights crisp and clear and full of stars. He painted them quickly, as he does when he is greatly inspired. His immortal hand moving so much faster than any mortal painter's. The energy and emotion that can convey when the hand stills. He taught that lesson to himself. It was not something Leonard could teach him. Nothing Andreas could have shown him. Nothing that Michelangelo could have demonstrated.
     "I gave those paintings to Edward tonight. I ... tried to give them to Edward tonight," he finishes quietly, normal languor returning to his voice after that momentary seizure at his throat. "I know... that any artist cannot know how his work will affect those who view it. Such a thing cannot be planned. The reaction cannot be likewise created."
     Indigo eyes move from you, they focus on the paint and charcoal on his fingers as his right hand lifts to pinch briefly at the inside corners of his eyes.
     "But I saw tonight," he exhales, hand lowering, "... I saw it on his face. I saw it in his eyes. I felt it in his hand. I knew it in his anger when we stood nose-to-nose. Even in his apology. These hands...these hands cannot seem to create without creating such ache," as when you look at them, "...or sorrow or anger," as in the case of Edward, "...or paralysis," in the case of Victoria.
     "And this face... this face and this form cannot look or hold without hurting or creating some reaction opposite to anything desired. I speak truth, it is not believed. I attempt to do what is right or what is good, it is not understood. I attempt to love or show love, and instead I engender ache, anger, and torment. These hands -- what they make is too much to look at." William pauses, then whisper, "I am too much to look at. And tonight... I did not see this on the face of some... randomly passing mortal, or some childe or youthful immortal. I saw it on Edward Meurelle."

     Part of Ian seems to understand, but part does not. He is quiet a few moments, finally coming onto his elbow again, fingers still at your hair.
     "Such terrible beauty," he teases gently, grinning so you know he means it not. But there is truth in it. "Is that not what you see..." he tries to shift objects of interest, "...when you see your friend Girault? Or..." he raises a brow and smiles, dredging up an old name, "Anastasia Polinov?" A great beauty and now age. "I hear," he whispers the secret, "...that she can no longer attend functions." Brows rise. It might even be true.
     Here Ian pauses. No, he has not unraveled this, but for now, it is better that you speak than him.

     He had six hours of nothing but his own thoughts and the strangeness of the event to contemplate. Six hours of dark terrain rolling beneath him. Hills and heath unfolding, becoming mountains. And even with all of that time, he has not reached the point at which he may laugh at it, sigh or shrug it off and move on, or understand it.
     I know you are trying to get me to laugh, but not even the image of Girault in a full length mink coat can do it for me tonight, amours...
     "When I see Girault, I see terrible in all of its guises," William drawls suddenly, a wry tone cutting heavily on his voice. "I just did not ever think it would happen, that there would come a time when I could not spend an evening in the company of the living. Or my own friends, who are as unliving as I am," he murmurs. "Even around them, I am unreal. I see it in them whenever I am around," them, of course, consists of Edward and Davydd, those with whom he spends the most time. "And is this how I am going to end up? Like a monster in the movies, avoiding mirrors and human contact -- not because I fear them, but because I cannot stand to see the fear or the pain or the...agony or the ... intensity I create in them? And how am I going to be around even those that I love, of our own kind, and be the William that I am, that I have become, if even they are affected past the point of being able to look at me, or doubt what I say because it comes from this mouth, or doubt that I love, because I am too much? Or shall I never pick up a brush again for my own cause, because what I create is too much for the eyes or the heart to bear?"
     William sighs, and it carries the weight of someone approaching a thousand years. You remember how it was for you. When you understood that you could not walk where you once walked, dined where you once dined.
     "What can I do, love," comes the quiet gaelic again, "... but be myself. Living in castles. I have been... unreal all along. Even when I was mortal. You are the only one who seems to understand." The isolation of those who rule, destined by God. The isolation of those who live a thousand years. Who but you could understand. William turns his head toward you. Young Duke, old Duke. Young Comte, old Comte. Comforted, at last, by the hand in his hair.
     "I am not making any sense. Suffice to say, I presented the paintings to Edward Meurelle, and but for his love he would have wished to kill me. He looked at me... like I was a creature. I had wronged him. I was strange to him. And even though he parted our almost fight with a kiss, I could see it. He does not know what to make of Plantagenet."

     There was a light, but then as you turn and speak, it fades. Ian's brow furrows. You know what that means.
     "I thought...we were talking about you, laird..." fingers brushing, "...not the paintings?"
     Ah. Wait.
     The light does come on, reflected in mercurial eyes. A twist of his lips. "Will," he begins, looking down between you. "Maybe, you are confusing things, hmm? I cannot believe your friends see you as...some sort of creature."
     Licking his lips, Ian says softly. "Start again, hmm?" Now that you've said what happened. "You were at the gallery...and....."

     "I was in the gallery. I had the paintings hung there after hours. I had slipped one of The Abbey's cards into Edward's mail the morning before," comes the quiet explanation, once begun, now it flows in his French, lilting and lifting, the rise and fall of the tale in Medieval inflection, "...I was in one of the upstairs studios, working on a plan for a mural, and I heard him come in. I felt him come in with Valan. It was easy for me, for the rest of the gallery was closed and the lights were off, but for the one on the triptych."
     "And then there was silence. I did not think anything of it. But then I heard my name, shouted through the gallery in anger. I heard his steps upon the stairs, and came out of the studio. All I had time to do was speak his name in question, and then he was at me, and my back was to the nearest wall."
     It is so vivid. Does not everyone who lives through being backed against a wall by Edward Meurelle -- and who lives through such a thing -- have it burned into the brain? Even William...
     "He ... stared at me, nose to my nose. Furious. Raging. And he accused me with his eyes and with his presence and he told me... he would not have me in his head. And there was more he wanted to say, but... he didn't. I said I would destroy the paintings, and this kept the brewing war at bay." What an ugly scene that would have been for both of them. William and Edward battling is not what anyone in this world would wish to see. Even those who hate them.
     "I told him I understood, even though I did not understand. I did not do it to hurt him. And yet... when he looked at me... that is what I had done. And it showed. Like he did not know me. Like I was strange to him. And then he pulled away, but returned. He cupped the nape of my neck, kissed my cheek and left without another word but that he needed to go. I did not see anything after that. I went into the studio and closed the door, then called the two mortal employees working in the cafe. They were alright. And then you called me..."
     And then I came home.

     Now that is strange. Ian sighs and looks across you to the room at large. It takes a moment before he bends to put a kiss at your ear. But there he remains, his breathing shallow and light.
     "Maybe...the paintings upset him laird. Not you." Ian is not sure of this, but posits it anyway. "He saw the work...there was quiet you said...and then...he was angry?"

     A nod, simple and short. It was like that. "He was livid," William murmurs. "I have never seen him like that, not to me. I had never seen him look at me like I betrayed him. Like I was in his mind and pulled something from it and then painted it to show him what I had done. That is what it felt like. Accusation."
     A large hand, but a fine hand lifts and rubs at his eyes again. He doesn't care if the charcoal smudges. It doesn't matter. Maybe if his face was marred a little, it would help. "I know... that my work can be challenging. You can barely look at it, and you love me," he chuckles suddenly, and the smile is sharp for the narrowed eyes that accompany it. It calms quickly. "I just... I did not do it to wrong him, I do not do it to make anyone sad or furious. Yet, that is all I seem to do with it. And he should know better than to doubt my love of him, that I should want to hurt him, and yet... he does not. Obviously."

     Again, Ian is quiet. He nods at what you say, settling again at your ear. Reclining seems to come so naturally when you're together. "Sometimes, it is like that," Ian murmurs, "...your work. You are not talented, Guillaume," Ian smiles. "You...are beyond talent. You have..." he frowns, trying to find the word, "...some...innate skill, laird. It not...just talent with a brush. But sometimes, it touches people within. Inside." Does that make sense? Of course not, Dunross. Your words fail you, silly thing.
     "Here...it is like...when you sent me the first pieces you did of liquid realism. When they came to me here. The one...where it was a bird, but it wasn't. It was you, standing alone. Remember? Yes, I could...barely stand to see it at first. It made me so...sorrowful, Will. That we were so far apart then. All I had for it was tears..."

     "I am not offended that he did not like them, that does not bother me. The look he gave me... the thought that I had done it to hurt him or to reveal him to the world or whatever wrong he feels I have done... the look he gave me, as if he did not know me, that I was strange and hurtful. I have seen that look before. I see it," he whispers, "...more and more. And not just for art's sake. That night with Tavish and Lundy... I was too much. Tonight with Edward, too much. I want to be part of the world, but the world does not know what to do with me..."
     To him, this night was not about the paintings. To William, this night was just another example of something he has already seen...
     And that is why it is all muddled together. Various hues of paint combining into one mass color...
     "I understand," William whispers. A half turn toward you, your mouth brushes his ear. And he closes his eyes.

     "You understand, but you do not believe me," Ian grins, hearing something placid in your voice. "Maybe he did like them. I like the one of you now." He sighs. "I was not there, laird. I cannot say how he looked. But I know that Edward is your friend." A nod of his head. "Maybe it was the upset from the piece that you saw on him, Will."
     "I won't say," Ian goes on, "... that ... sometimes ... things do not change. When you get older." Hand waves at the addition. "I was teasing before, but...you are normal, William. I am not. Girault is not. That...is how it goes. We are ... different ... yes...even more so than others of our kind."
     Ian's sigh is slight. A considered pause. "Do you not think I know that my eyes..." he confesses, "...are not grey?" They have moved on. Solid fringes of quicksilver. "Do you remember when they were? I don't...dwell on it much anymore. I cannot hide what I am. You cannot. You are a star," Ian grins, nuzzling closer. "But your friends...will be your friends, William. Don't...think that because you are changing and they see it, maybe...that it is bad. They would not leave you because you are..." he says sweetly, "...older." And not in years, but in some evolution.
     "I love you," Ian whispers, blonde hair at your cheeks. "I will love you always. Even as we both...change. I think those...like Edward, your Davydd, the others like them," real friends, "...will too."

     He was uncertain himself. Not that you would not continue to love him, but what Age meant. This is new territory for him. New, and unfolding. It will carry him into his new Age. An era unlike the others before them. And there is some fear of the unknown. There is some fear, fear that was first truly realized when he stood face to face with Liam.
     God, though I am a grievous sinner, spare me from that fate...
     He was uncertain. You see it in the sidling glance. Flickering indigo. Will it be so? His gaze leaves you for a moment to wander around the lighthouse living room. Absorbing. Processing. "I like the quicksilver," he murmurs. "Mercury. You have eyes like Athena," he whispers. "Lightning eyes." He recalls the tales of The Iliad. He sees such sweeping epics embodied by you, your golden beauty, your eyes. Perhaps, even though he is... older... he will not be seen as a relic or too strange to be seen at all, but an embodiment of something else.
     "I believe you," he finally says. You would not lie to me. "I... am not ... normal. Normal people do not drink blood and paint The Last Supper from memory." And finally he cracks a smile, a broad smile. A vipered smile. And though his expression, the narrowing of his eyes, still shows the powerlessness against Time that he feels, he does smile.
     "I love you, too," William says softly, his voice soft and the languor pulling at the Gaelic he speaks. "Merci," he mouths. And large hands, warrior's hands though the calluses have softened, lift, heels of his hands catching moisture. And then the evidence of those tears is gone. There is a clearing breath, a great exhale, and then William is in motion. Great form, clothed in softest wool. He rolls to lie upon his side, facing you, enveloping you. "I missed you. And you're right," another snort of laughter, "nothing good ever comes out of London. What is it with that city..."

     "It is rife with the unfulfilled dreams of millions," Ian smiles, poetry easy when he's embraced. Those eyes close and he allows himself to enjoy the cashmere, the chest and arms beneath it. "When you are a little bit away from it," Ian murmurs, "...call him and...see how he feels too." Edward, that is.
     "Do you want a scotch, laird? We can share me," he glances over, "...I wasn't getting very far. Or, we can talk of our next holiday, or going to the house. Or..." Ian shrugs and grins, "...we could not talk at all."

     The cashmere is thin. A sweater for early autumn -- or late summer in the highlands. It is a layer of softness over the crusader's physique beneath. You can feel the flex and release of various muscles. Not only adjusting to the new position, but attempting to relax from the tension that had turned them to stone before.
     And the breath comes low and steady. And the beating of the blood within him, as if pumped through the old heart, is strong. The arms you feel are thick and enveloping. "Will you be disappointed," William murmurs, eyes closing, "... if I said I would like to stay at home for a while? Wait for the fog and rain to roll over Ben Nevis and into Dunsinane Wood." He tilts his head back slightly, and his mouth brushes against your forehead. "To bundle up in the old keep when the snows come. I... just want to be home for a while."
     There is a little laughter. You more feel it than hear it, the sound kept to his chest. Sighed out, rather than sounded from the throat. "Hmm... I think I should pass on the scotch. I'm weepy and moody enough without it." Neither is there a rush to cover you, or anything of lust about him now. He just wants to hold you. To hear your voice. To listen to your own pulse. To smell your skin and hair and the scotch that hovers around you, Scottish halo that it is.
     There is a pause to talk of Edward. No, he is still too close to it. There is a stubborn surge -- let him call me -- but it rises, flares and softens in moments. "Alright," he says, his first word of English in months. And it sounds like it. All wrong, but beautifully so.
     "Second thought," William murmurs, "...maybe I will take a scotch," it has been such a long night. It feels like Yule in the far north -- a night without a day. "I need something..."

     The surges and ebbs that move through you, he feels. Ian smiles at the last question, asking, "When was the last time you had dinner?" Always dinner. Never breakfast, lunch. Occasionally, it's a snack. "I haven't in..." he looks up, faux calculations quick to come, "...in perhaps three, four nights..." How about you?
     Ian laughs brightly, "I should not tease so," smile falling into a warm grin. You have had a bad night. "Here," Ian twists, retrieving his drink, "...for you."

     "I don't even remember... how pale do I look," a chuckle. And he sighs, "That is sad, so old... I cannot even keep up with my meals..." As you twist for scotch, William rolls to lie upon his back once more. Stretched out, a fashionable spread of black and grey, wool and cashmere, and now sock feet. He stretches with a groan and then sits up. Such motions. So natural. But coming with a grace beyond human. Human to inhuman. And then the cashmere is off. A roll and a pull. Black hair, shorn shorter than usual, only momentarily displaced. And the musculature that the sweater softened and concealed is revealed.
     Blatant virility. Blatant nobility. He wears them in tandem tonight. "Merci," he murmurs, twisting back to retrieve the glass. And the mouth lifts at the corners with the start of a smile. And the dark eyes soften in their look. Clouds departing a bit, it seems. When you laugh, how can I be upset or sad or withdrawn? "You are good at it," comes the roll of languid baritone, and then... the spreading of the smile. William closes his eyes and takes a healthy portion of the scotch. No... this is not what I want.
     You can see him process that as he swallows it, and as indigo eyes settle their attention on you. I want to forget about tonight. I want to forget about it. O, and the best way...
     The surest way...
     He hands the scotch back and settles back. Wool and socks are all that's left. And cashmere gone, the cross of Henry is visible again. "We will be alright here by the fire," he murmurs. "I'll stir it again before sunrise..."

     Not scotch?
     Something else then.
     The corners of Ian's lips turn up almost as you think it. "Not your cup of tea," he confirms, taking the old-fashioned back and twisting again to set it down somewhere amid pillows' edge. There's a nod on the fire, and as you settle, so does he, staring at the ceiling.
     "What if we go into fearann, and never come out again? Think anyone might notice?" Nah. Ian chuckles, hand coming to rest on his stomach. He laughs again, the energy causing him to lift and ripple faintly, a sigh following at the end. Oh well. Maybe a few people would notice.
     "We shall have a good Yule this year, Gwilym," he slipping further into native tongue. "I think it will be a harsh winter though," he murmurs, silver-grey eyes upon the beam and stone above. Both of you gilt by the the fire.
     "I am thinking a few might stay over the season this year. I don't know. I believe Dionnach and Eamonn were preparing stores and space for those who might not go back to their farms this winter..."

     No. Not scotch. Something more of Scotland. That is what I want. Something of Scotland that pre-dates Scotch...
     He rolls to lie upon his side, chest given to you again, the cushions and the coverlets you had lain out sound in the motion. You can hear it plainly. To him, they are whispers. Sighs. And his laughter comes again, quiet and warm. His mouth at your ear. Brushing as he speaks -- brushed there, even when he does not.
     "Hmmm... a full house. It has been a while, has it not, since we have been surrounded on all sides by our own. We had a few, hmm?" his voice sounds low, holding to his throat, his eyes half closing. Indigo fastens upon you between long, dark lashes. "... when we all huddled in the same, lone dry corner when all the roofs leaked that one autumn." A chuckle lingers in chest and throat, and William closes his eyes. "It will be good. A big yule, then. A long, cold season. Many nights in furs."
     His mouth dips, and it parts at your collar bone, your shoulder. Warm. Lingering. No, the scotch did not appeal to him tonight -- it is a rather hit-and-miss thing with your Gwilym. But you? In any season. At any hour.
     "I love you... and I am fortunate that you love me back. Thank you." And his mouth dips again. You feel his breath at your throat. And he lingers there, lips barely brushing. Just enough to feel your pulse. To be both comforted and tormented by it. And knightly arms coil around you.

     Despite the years, it is always the same.
     Feeling arms enveloping. There are no stronger.
     Knowing this is real and true. There is no place safer.
     Anticipating what may come. There is no better feeling.
     "You're...welcome?" Ian chirps, wrapping his arms around you. He lightly chuckles, but it falls away to feel lips brushing against his skin. Now you tempt him, and Ian's arms lift in a languorous stretch.
     "Ah...much better," he finally deflates, grinning again. But his hand caresses the nape of your neck, unable to keep from touching you.
     "Was it so long ago?" Ian whispers, eyes closing. "When the fearann leaked, and we tried so hard to keep everyone in good spirits?" When we could barely afford to give the servants a reason to stay with us. "Sometimes," he whispers in reminiscence, "I think they...felt sorry for us..."

     It does not come with the usual seduction and fire. It does not follow with the familiar burn and power. When you are rolled into his arms tonight, you will not be pummeled. You will not twist and turn with him in multitudinous variations on positions. When it comes, it will come simply. With love. With tenderness. With your name and your blood on his lips.
     It will be sweet...
     It will be long...
     It will welcome in the day...
     For the chirp and the laughter, there is a smile at your throat. The trail of his mouth pulls downward, dragging. Parting. Warming. Tasting. "Hmm," you feel the sound vibrate at your chest. "We were muddy and cold, but together. And... perhaps it was pity..." His mouth lifts to your mouth, his words forming against it, "...or perhaps it was compassion..." Lifting, William looks to you, half-smile upon his features, lingering at his mouth. Eyes searching, remembering.
     "It was a long time ago. But the stone remembers it all. On quiet nights, I think of them then, and of what they went through along with us. But those times, amours... we have been rewarded from having lived through them. It would not have been the same, this life, had it been easy in the beginning. Had it been dry and warm," his mouth spreads, the smile growing suddenly.
     And then William does not speak. You feel the warm brush of his skin. The fire his mouth leaves in its wake, as it moves against you. The weight as he, and the blanket he pulls up behind and over him cover you. "Perhaps Tavish will stay through the holidays? Hmm, but... maybe he would prefer to stay in Edinburgh if the winter will be so hard..."
     He knows you are partial to Tavish. And it doesn't bother him as it used to. Tavish, who was sent away to school, mostly selfishly. To avoid rankling William's mood and causing you to be sad in memories. But that time seems as removed now as that leaky, rainy season in the old fearann...

     He's quiet as he recalls those in the earliest years. Long gone now. They never saw the changes to the world that you have. "Maybe...they were compassionate," Ian agrees, helping with the blanket. He sighs then, whisking the past away with a smile. If I had seen then, what I can see now.
     But Ian only gives a shrug on Tavish. That too is a thing of the past. "Whoever stays, stays. Funny isn't it," Ian grins quirkily, looking askance to the hearth, "...how things stay the same?" The two of you, in Scotland, with a hearth, and people around. "Well, now...we can afford to make sure they are cared for." No one ever said they were poorly paid. "Hmph," Ian says to himself, returning to the now. How time goes.
     "Think you'll want to go home tomorrow eve, Gwilym?" The lighthouse has been a dear, but Ian is also ready to see familiar faces.

     Conversation is coming so much more easily than lust tonight, and he laughs softly at that. Marveling at it for a moment. Grinning at himself. At the easy energy between you. It has been a hard night. And though he is far more relaxed than when he first entered, it still sits on him.
     And then the smile cuts apologetic and he exhales...
     "I will be ready as soon as the sun sets," he murmurs. "I'm ready to be home... surrounded by dogs, familiar faces, and furs. If there was still time before sunrise, I'd whisk you off tonight..."
     No, it is not to happen tonight...
     That rolling before the fire that you both wanted. And the sigh is heavy at it. Even a little annoyed...
     What's the matter with me?
     "I am ready to wander through my own garden, walk through the woods, ride on the moors, hunt. All of those laird things...lose my sea legs..."

     "Laird things," Ian chuckles at the casual throwing of the title. "I think you can do laird things when you return. I hear that some of the horses may need your attention before the sun sets from the sky for weeks on end..."
     "And a few would like to know about setting up new runs for the dogs," Ian notes, not wanting to get too deeply into house business. "And Moira had her baby, they say..."

     "You know my kind," William breathes, as once again he is in motion, this time... to settle down beside you again. Flush against you. A knightly arm eases beneath you. Warmth. The scent of cinnamon, light cologne. A little paint beneath that. Beneath that charcoal. And then... that which is simply...
     Him...
     "Our restlessness must be spent, or kingdoms quake with it." That essential mouth forms a smirk, fully. His free hand, the one not beneath and around you, moves lightly, slowly against your side. Then your stomach. Always finding it. A primary point of weakness for him. "A baby in the house... it has been a while..." His breathing deepens, his voice softens. "Hmmm... we will see them all tomorrow."
     A pause...
     "I will call Edward in a few days..."

Posted by rowan at May 01, 2003 10:05 PM