The first of December has brought with it the first of the winter's true snow. It had been a relatively mild November, but now is the squall season settling. Snow comes alternatively thick and torrential, or light and swirling. There'll be three inches on the ground come the morning. This is what made the news of an arrival all the more curious. Who'd be out in this that didn't need to be? When headlamps were seen across the moors and steadily and without reserve across the long and frosty bridge, you were called, and given notice that a man called something like "Lou Ellen" was at the gates. Llewelyn. He has never journeyed this far...
     When you and William were roused from your beds, thinking, surely, the world was at an end and Mithras had awoken -- for what other cause would the Welshman have to come to Rosshire? Having just seen William last week or so -- you were greeted not with emergency but early season greetings and two welsh corgies. The seasonal tidings? A crate of Gwynedd mead for William. And for you? There was a gift for you, were you not amazed? A very nice set of silver cups -- each one adorned with a single gem, likely hewn from Welsh mountains. Ah, sure... you could say this was as much for William as you, and likely you thought it. Perhaps it was meant so. But it was presented to you in particular. You do have something between you and the Welshman. A gift of blood that was never spoken of in word or gesture or look...and never shall be.
And then you made yourself disappear again after polite exchanges were made. And it has been an hour...
     There comes a sound of footsteps behind you. Quiet and meandering. Sounding lost actually. Or searching. They have a direct quality about them, and you can feel the presence after. It is not William. The birch door opens...

     It is not William. A smile began to rise, until the swirling presence was not the one expected. Someone else. Ian's housewife demeanor departs. He shall be caught in slippers and an oversized sweater, but that does not mean that the man within will not be evident. It is the only way to greet any, unless it's William. In fact, he is not so sure he knows any way but this way...
     He is in the armory, standing by a row of worn leather tassels. Looking at old pieces. The leather is dry and cracked, barely touchable by fingers these days. The goblets are still in their box, not so far away, and he was wondering what to do with them.
     Turning about, Ian holds his sweater closed, buttons done. It must be one of William's, for he almost seems swallowed in it. "I'm...sorry," Ian murmurs, "...I think you're in the wrong door. You'll want the hatch upwards to find William." He was last on the ramparts, as Ian knew it. Finger peeps from the edge of the wool, pointing at a large handle a bit down the hallway. It so easy to pick a wrong handle here...

     Those who spend their waking hours with Davydd Llywelyn would not recognize the man who's come to Strathfayr. Quiet and sober, though the usual intensity is yet cupped in the emerald-jade gaze, he has apported himself with... unusual grace. Some would say he's putting on a show. But perhaps your empathetic soul will recognize it is a ...lying down of shows and not a raising. Perhaps he should have come up here with an olive branch tucked between teeth...
     He is himself dressed in a plain sweater, deep green. His hair is to his shoulders in copper waves. His trousers are something like jeans and yet not. Sturdy for certes. He is dressed for the weather. And red of cheek. He's been up to the ramparts. Can you not smell the snow. A smile appears at his mouth, slight but genuine. "The land is covered in white as far as the eyes can see," Davydd murmurs, in your Gaelic. He's fluent in that. It has come in handy over the centuries. And he refuses to speak English out of principle. "An enviable view," he continues, hand on the knob of the birch door. "I was... hoping I might have a word with you...Ah sure, I had come to see William too..." There is a pause upon that name, warmth there. Something you share, in a fashion. Davydd glances from you to the collection of armor and weapons. Brows lifting in an arch. Appreciation.
     And then to you. And his gaze lingers there. Not quite locking, but studying. Level and open, the look. It's neither jest nor subterfuge. "I have a matter... I need to discuss with ...you." You, particularly. Not William. "If I may have allowance?" brows lift again. He cleans up well and can be polite on occasion.

     Me? Ian's arms remains folded across his chest, wrapped in the grey wool. Eyes peer past you to see whether William will follow, but as he does not, Ian bobs his head on questions of allowance. Maybe the wool will shield him from the elements, for he remains safely ensconced within.
     He knows not really what to say. Feet move him around a set of recently made armor -- the last four centuries -- and in someways, he looks as antequated as the pieces in here. Disappearing among them, if he could. His lips flutter as he looks down in silence, waiting in curiosity, but also awareness of growing nerves and tension. A spotlight. And he's never been good in them.

     "I'll make this easy on both of us... I'll... get it out all at once..."
     This will make for good comedy on some distant night. Davydd, not the world's best in expressing how he really feels -- though he can spout off ad infinitum about any other topic, and does... frequently. And you, who would just as soon disappear into folds of Time than carry on a conversation with him... and here the two of you are. One determined to get it out and over with. The other determined to leave the room after the last breath of last words spoken fall to the stone at your feet. Davydd takes in a breath...
     This is serious...
     "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, I said it. And look, I didn't explode! Davydd looks to you again, his own arms folding against his chest. A hand lifts and scritches at his trimmed beard. Just now, he can feel every hair of it.
     "You see..." he softly begins from where he stands, still at the door, though it's closed now. "... I've known for ... a while. A long while. That you and Plantagenet," how he ever refers to your William. Never by the familiar. "...were partnered, and... I never ...really acknowledged it. It was...unjust..." And he lingers upon that word a half moment. "...to you to do so. And to him. He loves you. And... as he is my brother...I ...should have made the effort to note that my family had grown." Davydd takes another breath and makes the first motion to turn. "Anyway... I won't keep you... "

     He is placid as you speak. Can you see him as William saw him once, so very long ago? Perhaps not. You know his sire...perhaps as he saw Ian. If that young man is there, he is well-hidden. As you turn away, he does not stop you, there is no lingering throws of acceptance, or some wash of relief.
     "Thank...you."
     It was at your back, when he could not be seen. To see is to possibly hurt, is it not?
     The silence comes again. Would many be shocked to know that Ian Dunross...is an introvert? Shy, when not wearing his thespian manner. And he hates the information, now known to himself as well as a widening few.
     "I...hope you...have a nice visit here." With me and Will. Ian frowns a little, frustratedly.
     "At...our house..." he adds, whisper-soft.

     He wasn't expecting any trumpets or fanfare. No relief nor praise. No effusive gratitude. To have expected it would have made his words, and the gesture, disingenuous. And he meant it. You don't know Davydd Llywelyn well, but you do know he's forthright. Almost to his undoing. It's the one thing everyone can agree on. Davydd Llewelyn is a forthright man. He's also blunt and not prone to effusive, emotive statements. Goes to show what everyone knows. You've just seen and heard something not many are privvy to, Ian Dunross...
     He nods as he turns. A simple understanding. He spoke. You thanked him and its done. What you make of it -- What William makes of it -- this he leaves up to you. The proud Welsh prince doesn't beg forgiveness, he merely asks. But in that turn there is a smile. Just at the corners of his mouth. "Diolch," comes the Welsh. Close enough to the Gaelic 'thank you' to be understood. The smile grows a bit more, he can't help it. "It's a grand old building. I think I'm going to spend the evening walking the halls and drinking the best scotch in the world." A pause. "Which just so happens to be at your house, yours and Will's. Never disappointing." Always the best drinks in the land. How is that?
     "Brawd," is whispered after, and the birch door is opened again.
     Brawd. The word comes with a softness. With a trill of an R and a long vowel. Soft endings that Welsh. The word? If you do not know it, you should ask William for a translation...
     Brother.

     He knows enough Welsh to get into trouble. But that, the sounds are resonant across most Germanic tongues.
     Ian tightens the grip around his arms, lips angling, as if pensive about what transpired. He shall not know what to make of it all, but, as he will tell William later this night, it cannot be so bad...

Posted by rowan at July 27, 2000 06:41 PM