Legs akimbo...
Bodies where they have landed...
A thin layer of sheet like quieting water, rippling now only with the breeze moving through the room...
Arms lay across one another...
Milk white...
Bronzed olive...
White blond hair on a red silk pillow...
Black hair against a similar pillow of gold...
And for the first time in thirty minutes there is movement. The bending of his head brings a soft warm mouth at your neck, at your ear, in tenderness and langorous seeking. Like making love in the middle of the afternoon, a summer afternoon. It is later than midnight, and summer is retreating into autumn, sliding like the sliding of your husband's body against you and the silk. That motion is there again, felt again, in the kiss he leaves behind in his waking.
Thick arms tighten around you, cradling, clasping where the two of you lie spooning. Legs akimbo, a large thigh makes itself known between your own. He does not check to see if you are awake. His topmost arm slips away from where he had held yours crossed, to let fingers wander over the stomach he adores.
The breezes are beginning to get cooler, the weather starting to normalize. After the torrential rains, there came unprecedented heat -- nearly unprecedented. It was nothing like the heat wave of 2003, but it made the earth crack. Wine was being ruined. Irrigation had to work overtime. Now it seems that was summer's death knell. Cooler winds have prevailed and the valley has begun to turn gold and red.
Like the pillows on your bed...
You feel him again. A bend of his head, a taste of your shoulder blade, the crook of your neck. William exhales there, then lifts his head and says at your ear that you make him happy. He says it in his Occitan, in whispers of that tongue that is so edged with arabic touches, remaining Latin, that it seems flecked with fire, honey, cinnamon and all things sensual.
The bed moves as he lowers to it again, head to his golden pillow, content to lie still with you after the way you came together, a slow roll leading to ache sliding into fulfillment and then a gliding nap.
God, he says, what you do to me...
Let the pillow talk begin...
Sleep came easily, threatening to turn into Dreams. But the kiss calls Ian back to the present, and one eye opens to find curtains and a wall ahead. He doesn't move, save a hand to touch yours, and Ian closes his eye to match the other.
"You talk too much," Ian whispers and smiles softly. A slight pull of his lips. He sighs then, expecting some response will come.
Ian's been glad for the coming autumn. Despite experiences in the heat of Arabia and Egypt, Ian's never loved warmth. Extreme warmth, well, that was the worst. Certainly one can blame his far northern birth and Scottish love of cooling storms, but it is also his general temperment. Humors, the good doctors would say. Such dampness is Ian altogether.
So, to watch the coming autumn of France immediately brings thoughts of the moors and highlands, the open fields and glens, when they are awash in dim light and water. It will be time to go home soon, and that always cheers Ian's heart.
Your eyes are closed, so you miss the first response -- the opening of indigo eyes, the lifting of black eyebrows and the slant of a full mouth. The second response is somewhere mid-groan and short chuckle. You would miss it, amours, the sound of my voice. Admit it.
It will not be long...
Summer slipping into Autumn...
You and your William slipping unnoticed (so you like to think) into Scotland. One chateau prepared for winter, to be closed -- no more tourists, no more lords. One castle preparing for a deluge of lords, horses, dogs, and maybe even Italians. It is still such an Event when you and your William return to Strathfayr.
"A few weeks," William manages after another moment. His hand curls against your stomach as if to say: It will not be much longer. "I am ready," he whispers in Gaelic. When that voice is put to the music of your own language, the things that he does to it. "I am ready for the cool weather, the long nights, bundling in furs..."
He doesn't say anything else for a time. Waiting for you to catch up? Maybe. Waiting for you to comment? Probably. His mouth is nevertheless busy. William bends his head again, mouth pulling at your neck.
Just think...
As soon as you get to Scotland, you'll get this sort of attention constantly. There is no secret painting held in a vault lab to distract him from you...
You may have to come up with something...
"I was thinking of riding in the cold nights and spending more time out of doors," Ian explains. At Chinon, he spends his late evenings within. No easy horseride from the castle at the drop of a hat. No walking over to the woods nearby to hide. No opening the doors and letting the dogs disappear for hours. Chinon has other charms though, including better gardens.
"Maybe I've just been gone too long. That's all," he adds. "It will be nice, a change."
Angevin head is propped up on his hand, his elbow to his golden pillow. Drowsiness and laziness fall away. "It was a long year here. The first time we have been here this long together, you and I. When I come back in the summer to finish my work, you... do not have to come with me -- not for the entire season. It will just mean that I will have to use Henry more often." He pauses, smiling down at you. "For travelling..." As if you thought he meant anything else. "I know that you would like to have a summer at home." And by home, Strathfayr is always meant.
"We will stay at Strathfayr until I leave to finish my work. Maybe go to Moray. We have not been there often..." Indigo trails from your head down the length of you. He has painted this picture, you curled in bed. The sheet just barely hanging onto your skin. The indication of your legs beneath the sheets. The crumpled silk that comes from lying with you. The color of your skin. It blushes wherever he touches it.
"We should have the tailors come. I need a new fall and winter wardrobe. Maybe stop in London on the way back, a little shopping before we get snowed in..."
"That might be good," Ian murmurs, "I could use a few things." But once he's home, it's likely he won't leave for a while. "Moray," he adds softly. "We haven't been there a while." Hmm. "That would be good too. A while in water and stone."
"Are you sure," Ian twists to see you, "...about summer? I haven't been there during summer for a while, laird. But I hate to stay away from you," he grins, turning over to face you. "Sad to say," business voice there, "I think I worry when you are away." That causes pause. Ian thinks on that a second, images of you parted from him flashing in his mind.
"Worry about me?" The corners of his mouth upturn and in his eyes, the truth. "I don't like not being able to see you, I won't like it... being parted. But I hate to make you stay here, simply because I have work that can't happen in Scotland. That seems a little ridiculous. If you want to stay in Scotland for some of the summer, I will understand. If you do not, of course I want you here." He bends, kissing you after the flash of images.
No, no.... how will you say goodbye? How is that even possible? Not even for a summer. Not even for a week. You will be miserable, Guillaume, and you will get nothing done.
William sighs at his own inner dialog. "I will hate it," he smiles. The smile softens. "But we are grown men with airplanes. I will... only be two hours away, if that. I would be willing to shuffle back and forth so that you could have time at Strathfayr in summer for a change."
He takes advantage of your twisting around. He places another kiss at your mouth, your chin, an encouragement for you to turn around and face him.
"We haven't been apart like that for years now," William whispers. He realizes. "Why should we be apart, mais oui, when we can be together? That has been my philosophy."
"Exactly," Ian agrees, the smile slight at his lips -- and skeptical. "Maybe we should fly more. It is a short flight," he nods. "We shall figure it out."
~*~ ~*~
Earlier concerns dissolve into warm laughter, laughter that eases against the air in warmth, your senses, and then against your own stomach as he folds himself there. "She is touring the Vezray, on her way to the Loire, in search of... vintner expertise. Obstensibly in the name of research." Dieu, this ... this is art. He can't stand it -- it is so close to him, it is at his mouth, he has to kiss it. And he doesn't even attempt to quiet his commentary over your torso.
"Mmm... she...is losing Ui in her tracks, mais oui," William murmurs at your stomach, his words slow, pulling, letting his mouth laze over the beloved territory. No, that fetish has not calmed in the slightest. If anything, it is now a full blown addiction. "They have split up...it seems... and she was having ... late night, or shall I say early morning, drinks with Raymond of Tours. I cannot believe you gave away our favorite chateau, I should have stopped you. Now we have no chalet in Switzerland. I would love to have a ski holiday some winter, maybe for your birthday... then return to Scotland for a lavish Christmas..."
William is taking a moment, or two, with your stomach, dipping toward your groin before trailing back up to the navel. He sighs there. "You know... I have realized something about her... I did not realize it before...it seems very clear to me now. I wonder why I did not see it so obviously before..."
Maybe because he was too busy, like now, being face down in your stomach...
Hands come to rest on your head. Though you are clearly distracted, Ian is made of stiffer stuff. You're just there, as usual. "I realized that perhaps she and Ui were on the outs. But Raymond of Tours?" Well that's intriguing. "Maybe I should give her some credit."
"And you're right. I shouldn't have given her the chalet. Too late now. Can we not just use your friend Georg's, as Edward has?"
"And see what?" Ian finally chimes, not too expectant of some great observation of yours.
"We could use it, I suppose," William says, lifting from you to look up the line of your body and to your face. "But people have a tendency to just ...show up. I'd rather have my own place, with my own locks." That mouth of his slants. "And no one to know where I am or who I am with."
This from your William...
Thick arms surround you and it appears that William may be setting up camp for a while. Though, let it be known, he is not as distracted as all that. "I have come to understand that I have mistaken Victoria's shelterdness and inexperience as cunning and deviousness. I thought, once, that she was playing a political game. I have since come to realize that she is a younger woman than she should be and has been relatively cloistered."
You can tell the response.
What?
"As for the chateau, well, fine, laird, we find another one for next year. I doubt we could find one to satisfy both of us before this holiday. And as for Victoria -- who cares?" He's not sure what all the reflection is about. "The end is the same." Your words bounce off Ian into the ether.
"You're right," William says, head lowering, resting against your torso. "Her education is not your problem. Her shortcomings are your annoyance, however. I just thought you might be interested in understanding it better. It doesn't matter to me either way. I don't have her managing anything of mine. I sold my properties."
Nothing in America remains for him. No ties. No business. He will likely never go there again.
"I always wondered what a childe of Max's was doing on the opposite coast -- nearly as geographically distant from him as she could be and still be in the same country. That's all. And when I was speaking to her the other night, it was clear to me. She had no idea how to handle Raymond and I doubt seriously that she ended up seducing him or convincing him to seduce her -- even though he asked her to his room at three o'clock in the morning. An educated woman would know these things..."
"As for the chateau, we'll worry about it next year. Nothing says we can't borrow ours back, however. She's not using it." Yet. "We can always kick her out..."
"You talked to her...she was with Raymond?" That boggles the mind. "No, I don't want to understand her, I don't care. She is frustrating, and I know why Maximilian would send her away." Come now, you talked to her. "Maybe he was hoping she'd use what he taught her."
"She called you about Raymond?" That's just strange. More strangeness from her. Even now, Ian's blood burbles, but why, he cannot say.
Your blood is boiling. And his mouth moves in a smile against your skin. The bed is in motion again, each slightest move from him causing a ripple, until he comes beside you, until he lies down again, flush against you. An arm comes across in soft possession. "It is not important," Guillaume d'Angevin says at your ear, indigo eyes opening, looking to you, from his perch upon your now shared pillow. His mouth makes the first curve of a smile.
She really does bother you, yet sometimes you are so good together. So good to her and she appreciative of you. You are like brothers and sisters, pulling on one another's hair.
You know, that's exactly how it seems...
"We won't talk about it anymore. I only meant to tell you that she was coming by for a visit, around the festival. And that I invited Raymond himself to stop by on his way home to Tours."
Ian sighs loudly, the most unnecessary of unnecessaries. Yet, the body never forgets how it shows itself: it's changes, it's emotions. Ian exhales again, this time softer, and rests against you. She does upset him. Even he must admit that now.
"What are you smirking at?" Ian asks short, twisting his lips afterwards as he knows the answer.
"It's not funny," Ian whispers. "She's a waste of space." He says, tossing more vitriol her direction.
So why does she visit him?
He laughs, and he doesn't mean to and yet he can't help it. "I'm sorry, amours," William chuckles, "...but you sound like an older brother... I know, because I said the same thing about my little sister. That's what it sounds like. Why does she have to follow me everywhere," William echoes with mock annoyance. "I used to say that. I can't go anywhere without her following me. Joanna used to drive me crazy..."
William lifts up a bit, elbow going to the cushions, his other hand still resting against you, the omnipresence of his claim. "I will tell you that she admires and respects you a good deal. She wants your approval, even if she will herself not admit it. Just as you wish that she would listen better. You do care about her." Look at how upset she makes you. William's smile twists a bit. "It's not the end of the world, Ian Dunross."
"She's like the others," Ian states, still annoyed. His jaw is setting and soon he won't be able to talk. "I have seen, what, a half-dozen like her? A dozen? Blonde and a waste. Looks nice and seems worthwhile, but in truth, is not worth your time. Misrepresentation."
...
"Maybe I should take my chalet back. She should fend for herself. See how far it gets her..."
Alright, you are not even listening to me now. I know, say his eyes. For you there is unending understanding. Sympathy and empathy. A downsweep of darkness follows as his eyes lower to your mouth. And then he bends, doing the same. Just a brush.
Why are we wasting our time on this...
He smiles a little, rolling over to cover you again, rolling over to be your sky. And, moreover, to keep your eyes engaged with his own. Perhaps it is for distraction as well -- he will not deny it. His hands move to lie upon the pillow on either side of your golden head, fingers in the strands of it.
William doesn't say anything. He just lies upon you, letting you feel his weight, feeling yours beneath him, and looking at you. Are you done now?
What?
Ian stops, a little surprised to see you overhead. "Everything alright, laird?" he suddenly asks, as if you were the one in distress. He was talking and then, well, you moved.
"What's wrong?"
If you wanted Ian's attention, you now have it.
Indigo, full of deep color and edged with resplendence, is staring back at you. And then, the man who owns the color of those eyes smiles at you. "Everything is absolutely perfect," it is not French, it is not Occitan that reaches out to you, but Gaelic. An adopted tongue, the vowels and consonants of his second country, his first home, leaves him, trips from his tongue to yours as he couples it with a kiss.
And a grin...
"I am glad the subject is back to where it should be -- me. I want to sleep like this tonight," William murmurs, "...do you have any objections, mon roi d'or," my golden king. That's a new one.
A flush spreads into a grin. How can Ian be upset when you speak so? "No objections," Ian replies, hands at your sides and sliding gently. "But won't your arms get tired?" he wonders. "And, well, I'll be pressed flat as linen."
"And I'm sorry," Ian smirks, knowing he flared. "I shouldn't...let things..." her, "...get to me."
"Hmm... mais oui, that is true. It will be one of those things that is good for me, but maybe not so good for you, your majesty." Indigo eyes light up with laughter later echoed from throat and mouth. The slightest bend brings him to your lips again, another kiss, this one not such a brush, this one pulling, and then savored. "You make a good pillow, amours, it is true. And when I wake, I would not have far to go to have you. You will be right here..." Under me. I like you under me. "But maybe we can work something out...something more comfortable and as convenient," he notes for the record.
It's a matter of courtesy, really, for the next moments find the bed being displaced, him rolling, and you being re-placed upon him. "Ah... much better, yes? Yes..." he answers it for you, settling beneath you.
A hand comes out, it pats you on the hip and lingers there. "Who are you telling, mon ami, I have the worst temper. At least you did not fly off the handle, jump out of the bed and accuse the air of moving." Things he is all too capable of doing, as he knows. William leans up, captures your mouth. "I just don't like to see your lips get so tense, your jaw so tight you could break a plate on it." Indigo scatters light in a wink. Better? his hand rubs.
Ian nods and smiles, ending his vapor lock. "Better," he whispers, having sensed the question. Ian settles down, using the manmade bed you are. The crown of his head lands beneath your chin. "You know," he murmurs, "...this won't work either. I can't see you. True," Ian rambles on, "I can feel you, but you know, the mind responds to visual cues..."
Yes, he's rambling.
"And thanks for the warning," Ian smiles. "About the pending visitors."
You can feel the chuckle, held deeply, issuing quietly a split second later. "What is there to see?" he teases. Case in point, you miss the expression on his face and the tilting of an eyebrow. The bland expression shattered afterwards by a grin. "And you're welcome," he murmurs.
"Here, maybe this will work..."
Arms surround you and he rolls over to lie upon his side, reminiscent of how the two of you were lying earlier only... now... face to face. Better? his expression asks.
His kiss is the answer to his own question...
"We may have others when it is festival time. It is hard to find good old fashioned pagan fire festivals these days." That mouth of his forms a smile. "We will be surrounded by bonfires, singing, grape crushing. I wouldn't be surprised if Bacchus himself showed..."
"In truth, he ruins a good party..." Ian observes.
"If we're lucky," the white-blonde one notes, fingers tickling at your collarbones, "Herne will show." Ian grins and wiggles his brow, "Now that would be a fire festival..."
"I will leave those sorts of invitations to you," William murmurs. "I will light the fires, mais oui, like a good Catholic boy. You will have to do the divinations from there," he chuckles. "Most of the angels and saints are party poopers. Let's leave them out of it..."
"Oh, and there will be music... a great deal of that. It is tradition for the procession to tour the vineyards and fields around the chateau, lighting the fires, and then parade to the chateau itself for the ceremonial wine bathing and pagan merriment. I will make sure our Bei Ragazzi do a little grape crushing. I intend on becoming very drunk..."
Actually, it all sounds rather exciting.
Ian's mood lightens considerably, as his thoughts run to wine and merriment, fires and parades.
In all those flashes was something of naked young men, but Ian dismisses that quickly.
"I don't know too many angels and saints. I missed out on all that," Ian smirks, recalling his own youth.
"You didn't miss much, amours. Though, it is a spectacle all its own, for certes. But they are not exactly known for having a good time. Pagans were so much better at celebrating. Sure, sometimes I hear it ended with folks dead, but still...sometimes sacrifices must be made." William grins, for that humor as well as the fleeting thoughts of naked young men. Yes, that is my kind of festival.
"The people from the village will come here, just to the Milieu, and the castle will be lit up for them. It marks the end of when the castle is open to them, and since it was rebuilt, they love to come and see it up close and all lit up. It is Chinon's last hurrah before the spring."
William tips his head, looking to you. "When you were young... do you remember your old festivals? To ...Herne, you said? Here, the green man and Bacchus intermingle..."
"No," Ian smiles, "I don't remember them much. Just -- outdoors and bonfires. Food...used in harvest events, then traded at the end. In Spring...there would be food cooked. Meals. But..." he shrugs, "I do not recall specific ones. Maybe they have all faded in my mind." Before everything changed.
He knows what the forgetfulness may mean. A blank of a mortal existence. Difficulties forgotten. "Maybe," Ian grins, a tease coming, "...I would remember better if I had been king of the Scots..."
"Certainment," a chuckle. "It would have been your job to remember, mais oui. And you would have had an entire staff whose job it was to remind you: 'Today, your majesty, is festival day. Your people will be drunk and happy.' Or, in some cases, drunk and contrary." As is sometimes the case when William drinks. It depends on the chemicals.
Your duke's heavy arm comes to lie across you, to pull you in, and to hold you in place. "It will be for you," he murmurs, sweetly as he tends to do when about to fall asleep, "... this fire festival... will be just for you. For the true-born King of the Scots, my husband."
He also tends to make bold claims whenever he's half in dreams...
"And proceeds from every grape crushed by beautiful male feet will go to a special coffer, for your pleasure. A gift... from the Almost King of Jerusalem." William grins.
"I love it," Ian murmurs, closing the tiny space left between you. "But now," Ian smiles, listening outdoors again, "...how about something less royal? Yes, I will love the grapes crushed by the feet of young men...the effigy...the young men...the cheering...the young men," Ian chuckles. "But, I cannot be with all of the young men, tossing their laurels at me. Someone...will need to represent them, yes?"
"To represent their hopes and fears," Ian laments for them, "...and the culmination of the festival's intent?"
He laughs, his eyes opening only to shut again in the squint that laughter makes. Oh, that is funny, amours. Eyebrows lift, opening outward, William's laughter easing then into a smile. "Hmmm... that, or you will be a very busy king with all those young men. But I see what you mean," he adds, as you further explain. "Who do you propose to represent them? To be their...champion, if you will."
A champion of young men -- what a job...
"Oui, when you say it this way, it makes perfect sense. But where in all the world," he grins through the protestation, "...will we find a young man to perform such an important ritual?"
"A young man - though old will suffice too - who can truly be their champion, the one who understands them and will indeed be their offering at the end of the festival? Who will channel," Ian smiles, "...all of their energy and feeling to represent their hopes and wishes?" And anything else they wish to convey.
"We will find someone worthy. Who will be them..."
"I'll give that job to you...to find someone," Ian nods and affirms.
Posted by rowan at September 20, 2003 04:39 PM
