His hand is tight around your own, leading faithfully around the tightly wound staircase. Ian looks back and smiles, his white shirt heavy upon his shoulders. "I hope you like it," Ian smiles,, blonde hair loose and lying upon his canvassed shoulders. He reaches a door and stops there, hand softening around knightly fingers. "It's through here," he smiles, noting the library arrival. But through here? There is the gallery and apartments beyond, the traditional style of turret-as-base. And in your hand, Ian's fingers tremble a little....
     "Oops!" comes a voice, pushing at the door from the other side, "...forgive me, Sirs." A young man's head peeps out, one of the house servants. Eyes drop quickly as he bobs a nod and scurries beside Ian and trips down the stairs into dimmer light.

     There was a rise of energy to match the ascension of stairs. A curling of fingers to accompany the energy swirling around and between you both. Anticipation and Expectation. Wonder. Curiosity. Eyes watch the stone staircase now and again, reminding the feet how narrow indeed the steps are. But the tower is as much memorized. The Medieval knight intrinsically knows the space of them. Still, a glance now and again. Reminding.
     But as you pause at the door, indigo eyes are back upon you. At the tremble of fingers, there is a look that passes between you. Is it excitement? William smiles, with easy warmth. With easy affection. He was in the midst of bending for a kiss when the door half-opened and a servant came tripping out. The smile turns to a grin. A blush for you. As if caught in a tryst. Once the boy is gone, William leans in again. Lips parting for a brush of warmth at your mouth. Then your forehead. And then the door to the library is opened, by a slow moving hand. Dark and brilliant, both at once, his gaze lifts to what ... lies beyond it.

     The door opens easy enough, swinging wide upon newer hinges. The kiss brought a smile; the blush was first when the young servant rushed through and beyond. A smirk for serendipity, and Ian leads you both into the library proper and along an inner wall. Route...towards the long gallery.
     "You...remember...well, you know, that your work is...well-distributed, right?" Background given to whatever this present is. "I mean, you know what you do..." Ian laughs, turning crimson. His feet pad along softly upon the stone and fur, naked floor interspersed with covered. "I...guess I should explain," he exhales, fingers curling at yours again. As he speaks, eyes glance back to you, to see whether you are keeping up...literally and figuratively.
     "When...at one point...we were not together...back...in the sixteenth...I guess it was...no...late sixteenth yes....I was at...the house of Compte de Belvoir..." he looks up a second, "...I could not remember the year to save my life. It was...Austria...well, now Austria..." His walk goes on, the library's high walls like a gantlet. "But...it was then. I had..." his grey eyes bright as he looks demurely at you, "...not seen you...in..." he inhales, remembering the feeling, "...it felt..like forever..." his words trailing off almost sadly.

     It is hard... no, better to say difficult... to answer that comment. Does he know what he does? In what context? Mon Dieu, the list is long. But figuratively and literally, William is beside you. His languid stride carrying him easily alongside you. His eyes studying all around him.
     And the memories he can see here. And the memories you voice. Indigo eyes, such deep blue-violet, travels between you and the shadows of his own steps. But he looks past the floor. To the Past Itself. "The late sixteenth... I was still... in Italy. Mostly," comes the languid baritone, a murmur that softly echoes upon the stone around you both. William looks to you. Your Almost Sadness finds its own echo upon his features, held in the memories behind his dark eyes.
     "I think...it had been years. Distance and Business... " He sighs. Obstacles that both erected, for no purpose at all. But with the intake of a breath, William inclines his head and smiles. It shall not color his holiday, or this presentation. "The Comte de Belvoir... and Austria... and...?" He looks to you, curious and open. His expression warm, and evidently loving. His hands clasp behind his back. "... I ... think I am following, but lead on. If not, I shall catch up..." Figuratively that is.

     "Oh," Ian chirps, arriving at the next door, "...well...de Belvoir...I saw something at his home," his chin dips, "...upon a visit there. And I had to have. It...sorta began there." Putting a hand upon the door, he presses the latch. "I know now...what I was doing...and why. Before then, I hadn't cared much...about the form. But as with all things," he smiles, "...when you are...involved...my heart changes..."
     Ian steps aside and lets you finish, hands coming to his side. "Just know...that I loved you then...as I do know. I..." his brow flattens as he understands what has passed between you, "I didn't...understand then..."

     Something of mine in de Belvoir's residence? Now...what would it be. The question is visible. A wash of inquisition across his features. His hand moves to the door, it lies flat upon the wood. But he does not yet open it. Instead, his eyes are to yours. His understanding there to match. Knowing for Knowing. "I loved you then," he says. "I loved you long before." His mouth pulls in a smile of his own. He bends, another kiss placed. Rather than speaking. He did not understand it Then, even as you did not. But he loved no less.
     William takes in a breath, looks to you and then to the door. The press of his hand begins. "Amazing... I had totally forgotten about the Comte de Belvoir...." What little he knew. There is a wink in that to you and then he moves within. Slowly. The air around him tightens, even as his form does in Anticipation. He knows not what he is about to see...

     The room is quite bright, the gallery. Upon the floor, there is parqueted wood. One of the first rooms to be restored such. Rugs adorn the place, and comfortable seating is abound. A cool room, it stands unused, little energy of life coming from it. But opening the door is akin to sweeping away cobwebs. The cool walls of stone are there, but from floor to ceiling there are things. The room filled with them around it's edges.
     Armor and tapestry saved, images and texts. See the connection? Perhaps not yet. Each image looked at, is that of a young man, in his early twenties. The epitome of his age, he was captured by artists' hands and in plates in books. Passed down iconography that may not be exact, but the same essences captured: violeted eyes, some darker, some brighter. Not blue, not black, but something else. Dark hair that speaks of midnight. And a face and nose, that nose, that must be of France. South. Something.
     Icons, sketches, pages open in illustrated and printed books. Entries from dictionaries, peerages, diaries old. Books about Plantagenets on shelves, items that claim to be of Guillaume d'Angevin of Anjou, also known as Plantagenet, Duke of Normandie, as it is sometimes spelled in the older books. In a corner...a petrified wood sarcophagus, carved upon the lid the body of a young man, holding a sword. In the carved wood upon the base...Guillaume d'Angevin, in simple statement. And upon the walls? Larger pieces. Heralds and shields, things 'authenticated'. Collected. A museum's worth of material, lined along two long walls and two short ones. And higher -- large canvases. Things that you have perhaps not seen in centuries. Things that should be in others' homes....
     The Last Supper here. There...a sketchbook that speaks of da Vinci...but clearly not his hand. Over there...a young woman, Raphaelite. Another young woman...colors bright like Botticelli. A woman coming from the ocean. A young boy in English blue. Gainsborough, Reynolds, Michaelangelo, Monet. Vermeer. Toulouse-Latrec, Canelletti ... ah ... Caravaggio's young man with dark curls of hair. The missing girl with a golden pitcher...post-Raphael. Another reputed to be lost. In a private gallery. Real or true, there are dozens of them in this room...all of it, William Plantagenet.

     You can see it move through him. A tremble that soon becomes a kneel. This, in shock of such reverence. Of himself. All of these things. Leaves of Time. The leather that ensconces him, bends supple to the lowering. And it comes without sound. But fitting, perhaps, for the knight to be on his knees in this. How could he stand when his own sarcophagus is in residence. Saved, years ago.. by you. He had no idea. He thought it lost from Canterbury altogether. The resting place of the Crusader Son and Brother was said to have been lost long ago -- and he felt forgotten.
     But... he was no forgotten. As this is testament to.
     On his knees, William turns his head slowly. Eyes moving over each thing. Over each gathered thing. He need not breathe, but even so the breath is held. The old habit forgotten in the shock of it. The longer portions of his black hair drift forward, edges lying against his high cheekbones. "Oh... Ian..." is all he can manage to say. And that in a hush that falls silent in the next moment after. Even his own works. Himself. Everywhere. You know vampiric senses are full. You can feel it on the pulse of energy that moves between you. You can feel it on your own blood. You can feel it in his. You can see the second tremble move through him. Oh, Ian. He says it again. Shocked joy. Happiness... wonder... My God, look at it all...

     In the quiet, the lights rise upon the room, a dim golden hue upon the images and objects that fill the space. Within Ian, the same thing. Would you find it morbid? He hopes not. It is Yours, he thinks, a private sanctuary and personal tomb open to the world now. Grey eyes look to you before Ian kneels beside.
     "It's yours," he whispers, "...he was..." eyes filling as he smiles, "...is...the...most..." words coming through panted tears, "...handsome...elegant...vexing...charming...creature I...had ever seen..." he still taken by you. Obsession made manifest...made trousseau. "He stole my heart," Ian whispers, words from another time, words he did not get to speak to another heart eight centuries ago, "...he broke my heart..." eyes look at you, hand to your cheek, "...he mended it...and gave it back to me....with his own."

     Morbid? No. No. There is none of that. There is ...nothing of that in him at this. This is ...such an outpouring of love -- it is overwhelming. There is a sudden need, a sudden desire -- to curl around you, to press you to the floor. To vex you. To charm you. To kiss you. Were he not so stunned, yet.
     As you kneel beside him, indigo eyes turn to the lowering motion. Lashes are dampened. The light of the chamber plays upon the moisture there. Glistening with the passing of attention, tears are held. Until your hand touches his cheek, and then... they cannot help but spill. Warm, as living tears. Warm, as a mortal's own emotion. Warm, with the magic you have given him, taught him. But even though there is liquid, there is also the start of a smile. Understanding. "I..." his voice is taut and cracks, uncustomary for such usual smooth languor. William swallows, his eyes moving from you a moment to look upon This All. The immortal within composing emotion. He takes a breath and looks to you again. "Thank you," he whispers in your tongue. "...for loving me. For giving me this life. For... giving me this gift..." This that is all around him. "For letting me mend the heart I broke... after you healed my own..."
     And then he cannot speak again. William chuckles, a choked sound, at that. The Bond conveys the rest, he knows. Overwhelming love. Crashing against him again... like the night you found him crying on the shore. He leans in, his mouth finding your own. His eyes closing for a moment. For all of William that is in this chamber, his world becomes You.

     He laughs a little, even as sparkling tears roll down his high cheeks. Ian leans into you, putting his arms around you while the Bond shimmers with love, laughter, and strong emotion that few could understand, let alone survive. He is eager to feel the reassuring kiss, it firm in return, then soft upon parting. He sniffles and wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand.
     "You should...see your things. Many...museums hate me..." he grins. And so goes why William Plantagenet...has little footprint upon the world, what was known elements of him slowly vanishing. Private collections, passing time, disintegration of textile...not so. They were retrieved for another day.
     "Oh," Ian sniffles, reaching into his pocket, "...a key. Symbolic, of course," he smirks. And a long key is handed to you. "Your room...your things...to do with as you like." And now he can open this place to you both, where once, he could not.

     Laughter. First within, until he trembles, having to release it from his throat. A hand lifts to your cheek, capturing a tear missed by your own. Or is it his? He cannot tell, and such but thrills him. To be so a part of you as to be indivisible from you. William smiles, and the warmth of it moves over beautiful features. Lingers in the deep hue of his eyes. Blue and violet both. You have, and can see it, like no other. The smile becomes a grin. "Aye... well they must. They hate us both. Is it not beautiful?"
     It is that same hand that stroked your cheek that now takes the key. The key is studied a moment, and then covered wholly in his grasp. Pressed there. And William slowly rises. His great form takes a moment to straighten, and a hand is held out to you. He is beaming now. He shall not stop. He rarely is lost for smiling in your presence but... it practically gives off its own light now. His tears yet mark his face. Though liquid has begun to dry, the flush it leaves behind lingers yet.
     He lifts his gaze. Indigo eyes flickering, as if backed by flame. To see his things. Things thought to have been lost to Time. He shakes his head. Overwhelmed. And there is such tangible joy around him, the air is alive with it... to the point of humming against the skin. William does not let go of your hand. Well he may look at the things, but you will come with.

     "I don't know...what there was. I started late," Ian murmurs, entering with you. "But..." he smiles, pointing at the girl with the pitcher, "I should have apologized to Belvoir for having his painting stolen. Not that he ever knew it was...forged." He smiles, "I only knew...because I had seen the original..." he chuckles, "...at Menon-aix-Cromante," finger touching his lip as it does when he's trying to recall. "And then it again at Belvoir's?" Ian smirks, "...that was when I realized...where you were spending your time...well, what you were doing perhaps in some of your spare time. Arthur..." the young lord of Menon, "...had mentioned that he had seen you the previous spring. I...did the rest of the work...nor..." he shrugs to think of it, "...did I want to...bother you." During that time. "So...I...just..." found pieces of you as he traveled. Free hand drops at his side. "It just...grew from there, y'know?"

     "I am glad you have it here... it is... not a very good copy." William cannot help the laughter now. It comes easily. Past his ability to hold it in check. It as much moves against the Bond, between the layers of blood and Existence you share. He teases, but you can feel how well he loves it all. His hand surrounds your own, interlacing. Clasping. You are his anchor now, as you have ever been. William tilts his head, taking another look at the girl with the pitcher. Grinning. "It is not so bad, hmm?" he murmurs. And then winks to you. But a stilling breath is taken again. He closes his eyes a moment, and then takes a step more within. Closer to the things.
     "I was aching to see you..." he murmurs in his own tale. "My heart was bursting... I turned it into this..." a nod to the painting. "I thought... they were lost..." These you have here. All of these things. His hand tightens around you. "Even as I thought, then, that I had somehow lost you. But..." he smiles easily. "I was seldom right in those days, where the heart was concerned. I was cloistered like a priest, making love in oils and canvas, until I could return to you... stronger than when I left..." He did not want to return to you as your childe... but as someone you could respect... as much as love. William smiles, moving toward the sarcophagus. "This... I cannot believe... you have... "

     He nods, understanding. And he thought you were lost to him...and so he kept memories of you locked here, and inside. In that way, you could never leave him. You were forever his. Locked in time. Ian's brows arch at the sarcophagi. "Yes, well," he grumbles, "I did have to...orchestrate that. It had been taken from Canterbury," he notes dryly, "....we tracked it down." Woe be to the one who took it. End of file. Abruptly said. "A...defrocked cleric who thought...vampires..." yes, he knew, "....should not be enshrined in Canterbury." And while you may be intrigued by it, Ian seems more annoyed. Eyes look upon it with mixed emotion. There must be a longer story there.
     "I thought about returning it to Canterbury...but to explain it? Before I could...liberate it..." nice phrase, "...it took some time to find it. It should be in Canterbury, just like Bolingbrook and Longchamps are in Salisbury," grey eyes moving up and down the carved wood, "...but...I guess it was not to be. Maybe...now you can do with it, as you please..." Ian looks up, a smile growing where the pout was.

     "When I heard it was missing, I thought of orchestrating a haunting... but... " He smiles blithely brilliant to you. "I had not the skill for such... hmm... subtle retorts as that..." William chuckles, then the sound fades upon an exhale. "Thank you," he murmurs. "...for liberating it." The thanks of the man who by all rights should have been lying in it, were it not for you. It is a very personal thing. And that you have it and have had it all along? It has touched him. Profoundly. It is William.. Guillaume... who thanks you. Not the vampire. What does the vampire care for it. But the man? It is like having one's existence returned, where it was once thought stolen.
     William looks to you, for your annoyance and now your smile, warmth. The curve of a smile claiming the sensuous mouth. I adore you -- he mouths it. Even as he looks to some representation of himself. He shakes his head a little. One had the nose right, the other the mouth. One the eyes. But no one had it altogether, did they. Books of his family. It is like... a reunion of Plantagenets. But this, unlike any other when they were all living, shall not turn into a civil war with swords clapping on tables and armor rattling.
     William shakes his head again, still stunned. His fingers tracing over the heart of your palm. "Incredible...." Indigo eyes fasten upon you, moistening again. "I shall be tearing up all night... you will tire of it, yes? But... such a beautiful gift..." He pauses. "I will put the book you gave me last year... I will keep it here to read... whenever I look at ... what you have done. Jesu, Ian... " William closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

     "I think," Ian whispers, closing the distance and putting lips to yours, "...that is all, hmm. The last of my secrets...where you and me...and my own...sadnesses...were concerned." He chuckles a little, "And you believed me not when I told you I was...not well." He grins and takes your hand. "Maybe...you will understand and forgive me, just as you asked me to do, right? And we promised, no more secrets. I..." he looks around, "I am trying."
     Fear mixed with love, let loose. Nights he crawled here and cloistered himself in misery. Nights he crawled here...and decided he needed you with him...no matter the cost to himself, to his soul, to what was left of him. When thought it was a dichotomy...choosing you....over himself. "I know...different," he whispers, looking at all of the objects in the room as he lets them go. "Hey," he whispers, seeing your eyes closed, "...how about...we go to...our room..."
     Dunross grins a little, "It's...almost like those letters you wrote to me...when I was here last," he cocking his head to see you. "Remember? The...confessions?" He smiles, "You started it..." Ian's hand tightening around your own.

     He feels it all. He can see it now, as he never could then. How sad you were. You had this... cave of William. William had a makeshift shelter out of canvases. It is no wonder that sometimes, even when you were together, you could not see one another. Not truly see. But that time is passed. And he does not dwell on it. Not on that part of it. William nods, the breath released and slowly he opens his eyes to you. A hand reaches forward. Fingers...seeking to touch your skin. To know you.
     "I ... want to give you... your presents...there." ... and me. As you mention the confessions, William's mouth pulls in a spreading smile. The birth of a grin, and he chuckles quietly. "Aye," he whispers, his other hand squeezing against yours. He takes in a breath, takes a last look and nods again. "Let's go to ...our .. room," he murmurs, his emphasis the same as your own. Feeling it is his again. "Your presents are... hidden there..." His grin calms into a loving smile.

     "Okay," Ian radiantly smiles. All forgotten. Forgiven. A life in the present. He turns to go, giving the room only a passing glance. "How..." he turns to see you over canvassed shoulder, "...how'd you hide them in our room?" Now that's a story....

     "Easily... you never look under the bed..." comes the warm murmur, more half-a-quip at your ear as he comes in beside you. His arm winds around you and he heads back out of the library. Key in his grasp. William grins broadly. "And the other..." He pauses there. "I'll show you ... in the room..." He draws you to him, a kiss pressed to your temple. Love. All else is forgotten. Forgiven.

     There's a quick series of blonde nods as Ian cheerfully leaves the Gallery. "I didn't realize I never look under beds," he ponders boyishly, youth upon him these days, "...that's...not good." You can never be too sure. He walks easily in your arm and you in his, quickly taking the chilly library, and heading to the wending steps. "So....what's these gifts?" he chimes disingenuously, as if you'd tell him because he simply asked.

     The smile returns, the echo of the chuckle held in his throat. In his chest. William looks to you as he moves along with you. "Ah, well... they are not animal or vegetable..." Indigo flickers in a wink. "More I cannot say. You shall... see for yourself... in a moment..." In a moment, indeed. For to you and he, the bedroom is not far. Though it may be on the other end of Strathfyr, you and he can cross the distance swift enough. But William lets you lead the way. "I hope you like it... I was pressed for new ideas this year, having already given two orgies and a handful of men and boys." The grin is damnable. Wicked. Endearing.

     "Now wait," comes Ian's voice in haughty Gaelic. Fast and accusing...with humor. "I cannot help if you decided to give such a generous present for your supposed love to learn what it is that has kept him so. Aye, if you didn't want me to enjoy the gift...that means y' didn't mean it, right?" Hmm. Twisted, but some logic. "And if y' didn't mean it, then...twasn't a gift at all, it was a bat meant to beat me up with?"
     The stairs are quickly left behind, the great hall crossed. And still he goes on, ahead of you, "What sorta man would do that, I wonder? A man with something wicked in his heart, a man..." he waves his hand, "...look to you, William, giving gifts you don't mean, so that you can spite me with them later...and when I needed it so...to open myself to you more..." he turns and walks backwards, tsking as he bumps and opens another tower door with his backside.

     Loud laughter, rich and warm, comes from him. His eyes, indigo ignited. "Look to, Ian Dunross of Strathfyr... I never gave a gift I did not mean..." Mock offense quipped back to you with a Norman's care for Gaelic -- which is to say, noble, haughty and pronounced altogether with too much French. Oh, and coupled with that look. Teasing, openly -- yet Noblesse Oblige all the same. Were it not for the wink. As you bump the tower door with your backside, William rushes forward. As if to pin you there. Ah, how you know he loves ... adoring you. Literally. Filling the tower, and by that the castle with the sounds of uproarious coupling. A Norman's Knock, it's called. With something of teasing yet in him, he smiles. "Ah now," comes the plaintive baritone, "... well you know I love you, Ian Dunross. And the gifts given were from the heart... or... the second heart..." The grin is slanting, and edged with vipers as he presses you against the door you open.

     "Ah, but I know ye, William Plantagenet," Ian wagging a finger as his arm rises suddenly between you, "...and your gifts were given from a rogue's heart," he clarifies. But when you close upon him, he laughs and lets the pretense fall. "It's a rogue that I love...that...now I know. And aye, there's nothing wrong with that." He laughs and swings with the door, then drops out of line of sight, out of your pinning, and into the open staircase. "A slow rogue, but, aye, a rogue nonetheless." And with a wave of his hand, Ian, around a corner...disappears...

     He may be a bit slower than you, perhaps, but there is, as he would contend, much to move. And when he comes full upon you at such a gallop, be sure you shall feel it. Well, as you know. As you twist out of his pinning and the door swings open more so, William follows you. The last sight of you. The last curl of your fingers in a wave. Though he starts a step after you, you feel his approach. A singe of air. The press of him against the surroundings. Against you. Norman clipping from his lips. Slow he is, he'll admit it -- with a rogue's tongue he speaks it. But -- he continues -- better to be known for one's...endurance. His laughter follows after, even as he bounds up and after you.

     There's thunderous feet and laughter as Ian's tickled by the entire thing. By the time he reaches the bedroom door, he's in a gale, unable to turn the locks...for laughing so hard. Unnecessary breaths are staggered and he leans, trying to futz the lock before you're there....

     He was some five steps behind you, but you know the Plantagenet way: once they are started, it is hard to stop them. Thank god for the laughter -- it forces him to slow. Breaths come hard with it and he leans against the tower wall. An arm across his gut. His face is ruddy with the loud, hard laughter. His eyes sparkle. Shards of violet catching the tower's low light. "Mon Dieu," he murmurs, grinning broadly. Fangs distended. He bounds lightly up the remaining steps to you. He is nothing if not graceful. Chuckling still. "Having trouble, my love?" comes the teasing mull after.

     "No, no," Ian cackles, pushing the door open. Fingers found it hard to be nimble when they're fluttering with humor. The door swings open and the warmth spills out. Ian smirks at you and tumbles inside, giggling as he stumbles to the pile of furs by the chairs and near the fireplace and falling to his knees. "Oh," he inhales, trying to still himself, "...I don't know what was so funny..."

     The door closes, wood resounding against stone as William leans against it. His more than two-hundred-pound form thudding against the oak. "The sight of me running?" he quips, and he lifts his hand to his eyes. Exhaling as he wipes away the tears of laughter.
     After a moment, William pushes off the door and heads toward the bed. "Alright... now... close your eyes..." he says, even as he kneels at the bedside and then lowers to the stone. Reaching under it and beginning to tug. "And don't open them... until I give you leave..." Spoken like a true Norman.

     "Aye," Ian sighs, settling on the furs. The slacks and the cotton shirt swallow his form, an outfit more than likely made by someone in the house. His eyes do close, but the smile at his lips remains. "You're not going to do anything bad, are you?" he smirks.

     "That..." there sounds a grunt, and you can hear the sliding of wood against stone and fabric. Slowly. "...depends...on what..." yet another grunt, "...you consider... bad... amours..." William is quiet again for a time, and again you can hear the slow, gradual sliding. Muffled, now. The sound of cloth softening against the rug more than the stone the rug beneath the bed covers. You know he is standing, and you can hear him... negotiating the lifting of something. The sound of the bed. The sound of something resting against the top of the canopy. The sound of cloth pooling to the floor. Velvet that, by its whisper. "Very well now, love.... I believe it's ready..."
     When you open your eyes, there is a tall and broad canvas. The red covering pooled at the floor. It has been prepped for framing, but not yet framed. That, waiting your leave. It looks to be 5' x 7'. Taller than him by six inches. William holds it, aiding in its balance. His eyes on you. Waiting your reaction.

Communion      The morning before battle. The world around is held in a reverent hush. Like the moments preceding sacrifice. The earth has become an altar to receive the bended knees of knights. Crosses have been kissed. And last words of Love whispered. A prayer hangs upon the lips of crusaders...      Upon the grass of the fertile, Holy valley stands one such crusader. At his back and in the distance, one can note the first arrival of dawn, with lifted dust made lavender and cerulean. Just a glimpse of morning between the rise and fall of earth. To the right background, an ancient city on a hill. Sentinel torches lit, awaiting the birth of war. The area depicted is otherwise lit only by some nearby campfire. Scattering gold across the crusader's features.      His black hair has been recently cut, shorn short at the nape but left long at the top. It holds the glow of the nearby fire. Handsome, he is made more so by his slight smile. Armor is a silver metallic sheen, links bending against the form it holds. And where the firelight lands, colors seem to breathe forth from the canvas. Of the crusader's mantle, which is also a future king's. The "Cross" he bears shares the space with the evening's cloak. Though the morning should find it gone, this night -- this night held forever here -- finds the heavy swirl of the royal cloak against him. Gold fluer de lys upon a blue field. Noble, made to seem so not merely by his knightly vestments and his prince's mantle, but by the subtle touch of something more... tender. There is something of Truth expressed in this. And it has nothing to do with the sword belted to his side, or the ring of the country he wears as his office. It is held in the dark blue eyes that are looking to the one with him.      Here, the commander is caught in a moment of peace -- how different dawn would make it. But in this Now, though he stands arrayed for battle, his gauntlet hand is extended, making a last offering to his branded mount. The arched neck of the horse, though covered too for war, shows his strength. White, he is bronzed by the firelight easing into this scene. It is their Communion. Held between the crusader's fingers is a small dagger. Held balanced upon his open palm, a slice of pear. The stallion is forever poised to take it.

     For several seconds, there is silence. Grey eyes reveal themselves again, scanning the canvas placed in his way. Placid as the glade that night, Ian's expression is but his visage. Blonde hair, high cheeks, grey eyes. Angelic countenance open and fresh. Eyes dart left and right, and only after returning to the Commander's face does his mouth smile. Knowing the man in the paint. "That's...him. The one I loved," he smiles warmly, as if unseeing the man for a while. "Beautiful," he whispers, "...so pretty ... how his cloak is, how gentle his hand...how strong his hand...at the same time. The sword....how the cloak sweeps around him...." And then eyes look at you. "I still love him," his eyes mist, but above a bright smile.

     His hand -- that same hand -- moves away from the canvas and he steps back and then toward you. To look at the picture. "You ... commissioned," he murmurs, "... a truthful rendition. This was... as close to Truth as I could get..." His voice ends in a hush. William folds his arms against his chest. He is both that man and something more. Both that commander, and someone else. "By the next night, he was in your arms..." he finishes in a whisper and then he looks to you. You like? But before his tongue can loose the question, he sees it pleases. It fills him. Something painted for you. Completely for you.
     "And he loves you. More each passing night." William pauses, smile pulling. "Or so he tells me..." A wink to that. He... himself. William looks to the canvas. "I'll have one of the lads help me downstairs with it. Where would you like it displayed?"

     "In...our main sitting room," Ian murmurs. One of the apartments next door. "I want it there," he smiles, "...not down in the great hall or something. It's...not for show like that..." Though those who come into the personal sitting room will have much to look at. "Is that alright?" he asks, almost innocently.

     "I think it would be perfect there..." The smile is warm. Full of love. And humor. "And it is less to carry," he adds with a soft, brief laugh. "Now... one thing more...it will take a moment..." William moves toward you and once he reaches you, he bends. A kiss left behind as he rises again. "Close your eyes..." And his fingertips glance against your golden brows, as if he shall sweep your eyelids downward himself.

     "Alright," Ian tickles, grinning to himself. Sitting on his haunches, hands fold at his lap. "Another one, huh?" he murmurs, lips gentle as grey eyes are hidden. "I only got you one, though!" he points out with a bounce.

     "One? Love, that room was filled with a thousand things..." William grins, bending again. A last kiss left on the crown of your golden head. "I have but two for you in all... but... I think you shall.. like the second one as well...I will be...right back...do not move!" A last, gentle warning.
     With an audible grin. You can then feel him moving from you. You can hear him, even though to most others he would move without a sound. You can hear him breathing. You can smell the cinnamon upon his skin. You can hear his steps move toward that sitting room. In the next apartment. Moments pass. And then you hear him returning. His steps soft. You can hear something...chiming. Something heavy is set down, but set down with ease -- for he is more than strong enough to lift or maneuver most things. Something is set down to the left of the painting... slightly away from the bed. You hear William move again, and then you feel the touch of his hand. "Open your eyes," he whispers at your ear. A kiss left behind.

The Crusader      An effigy has come to life, and layers of History and Time peel back and fall away. Before you, a Crusader stands.      It is no dream or conjured magic. The steel the statue wears is real, overlaid upon the effigy. You may lift a portion of it. Heavy, the steel links chime against one another with every movement. The chainmail is fashioned of "blue" damascan steel and has been constructed as a replica of 12th Century style and function. But this, this is finer than an average knight's gear, for it protected the life and form of an Almost King. The chain "shirt" and chain leggings have traditional leather bindings, and are over a secondary layer of thick steel-mesh wool. The fastenings are covered by the prince crusader's mantle.      A red cross is emblazoned upon a white field, both front and back -- a symbol of a Knight of the Cross and of Christ's Might. But embellishing this mantle at the shoulders is the heraldry of the House of Angevin -- red and blue fields, bearing the three gold lions and the fleur de lys. Heraldry that is echoed upon the crusader's shield which lies at armored boots. The mantle is belted to him by a thick leather girth, which also serves to hold his sword belted at his side.      Damascan steel gauntlets cover his hands, and a simple type of helmet, with only a noseguard for added protection, rests upon the effigy's noble head. But catching the eye is a spill of blue and gold. Of thick velvet and of damask. The long ceremonial-seeming cloak hangs from off the prince crusader's shoulders, spilling about his armored legs and pooling behind him and around the statue's base. Gold fluer de lys wholly cover a field of royal blue.

     "I was starting to wonder," Ian murmurs, grinning as his eyes widen in utter shock. The mind reels for a moment, the image from the wrong place. "What...where'd you get that?" he beams, putting hands on the floor and pushing up to his feet. There's light laughter as grey eyes fiercely grab onto the look, shock of shocks. "Goddess," he whispers, moving around you slowly, "...did...oh, you had that made, right?" Hand tentatively reaches out, and he finally ventures to see your face. Then does Ian come still. It is Him.

     "I had it made..." William concurs softly. He is in his own wonder. Smiling at it. To know it is Him. To know how it would look on him. To know... that is who and what he is. Indigo eyes shift to you and fix upon your reaction. "It is... down to the last link of metal... as I was...that day. The steel is better," he adds. A slight slant to his smile at that. "But apart from that, it is... a replica of a Crusader's gear, such as a Prince would wear." There is a pause, and William looks from you to the armor briefly. "I started to put it on and sleep in it. To have you wake with me...thus. But..." he chuckles, "I thought it best for you to... say you wished to see me in it, rather than... shock you out of your skin, my beloved." To wake beside that knight -- would it have not shocked you? "I can," William murmurs, moving toward you and it, "...wear it if you like...it is...fully functional, in fact..."

     It would have sent him into catatonia. As it is, he spirals to another time. He may have heard you, but his next actions come in silence. Ian's hand finally settles upon one of the links, lips parting. Wear it to...our bed, he thinks, face turning crimson. A swallow and he reaches for your hand, holding it gently as he heads towards the canopied bed...

     There is a danger in giving so... close a thing to one's Beginning as this. But he... does not return to Yesterday with the full lunge of former years. He can look upon a replica of his armor and not feel tugged completely back. Frightened and in pain and anger. No, not for over a year now. He is in the spell of it still, however. Pulled only so far. Only this far.
     A hand reaches out to touch your own. Fingers clasp, and then slide against armor. ... I shall. And there is an image held there after the thought sears through him. Of coming to you thus -- of covering you. It is only a few moments delay, as he moves the canvas to rest against the nearby wall. Heavy, it will lean there without issue until it may be carried next door. As William returns to the bed, his woolens are in the midst of being pulled from him. Indigo eyes fix upon you. Feasting. The blood lifted to your skin in a flush. His own lips part, and past them fangs distend. And then he half turns to the effigy and its covering of metal. It shall soon be his own.

     When you move, so does Ian. Slow-motion development of a hazy scene. Figures moving slower -- faster -- than Time. Between moments, where the past and the present collide, heading dazily into the Future. A look to the left and to the right...all can be read in Ian's face. Minutiae of infinity, elapsing in a slow blink of his eyes, grey gaze to you, then a second's long ponder upon the makeshift bedding near the seating area and fire. There. Choice made. He shall leave you to your preparations -- his are there. A change of scenery, not the bed; the same scenery...something hastily done in dim light.
     A new altar is made this time, the ritual prepared for another priest...another minister. Where it was angelic before, this night the place is prepared for the Chancellor. He does not speak his change; instead Ian simply walks towards the furs before the fire, and with a finger, pushing the canvas shirt down a shoulder. His back is to you, fireplace allowed to send him more golden. His face is forward, the telling expressions gone from any curious gaze. Instead, it is the image of a beauty before a hearth, your own, letting rough cotton slip from his body.

     Slowly, the vestiges of the Present are stripped away. Woolens and leathers are removed. Piece by piece. And replaced with the solemnity of an ancient rite with the armor. The long thick cloak is set aside for the moment, resting brilliantly upon the bed nearby. There is a soft grunt as William bends. A breath taken, held and he straightens. When he does, the chainmail pools heavily over him. Coating him. The blue damascan steel catches firelight with a gleam. The Modern Age far from him...
     He foregoes the under layer of protection upon his torso, his arms. But the leathers are wholly replaced by the underlining and the armor after. Even the gauntlets are placed upon his hand, and the armored boots upon his feet. Half an hour passes and he is fully arrayed. Only the cloak left. And upon the effigy? Only the helmet and the undershirt of wool and metal mesh. Indigo eyes flicker. Dark. Brilliant. And he, in armor, resplendent. The firelight catches blue and gold, as the thick and velvet layers of the ceremonial fluer de lys cloak is clasped to him. The steel softly chimes in his movement toward you.

     Half an hour...the world spins. You are dressed. At Ian's feet circles a wash of linen clothing upon a floor of blankets and sewn furs. He wishes to speak, the Bond tightens with it, but what would he say? He does not even turn to face you as you approach; his eyes locked upon the hearth and the flicker of images held in the flames. He relives the story as you near him, arms left at his side.
     It will still take a while for us to clear the past from our memories, from our thoughts, he thinks, closing his eyes. You may have come to a new place together, but old memories need be cleared by newer ones....and those you are now beginning to make. There is no sadness, just understanding that the process you two are undergoing will still take time. Time to create New, time to replace old, time to be comfortable in the fresh stream of ideas, feelings, and thoughts. Yet he speaks it not, even with you behind him, and Ian waits upon the Chancellor's desires this time. A fallen angel being ministered to this time.

     It will take time... but... we have time. There is a slight smile. Echoed in oils and blood on a canvas. And in the touch of his hands upon your arms... there is that gentleness. There is that strength. Gauntlets are removed and tossed to the side. They land with a thud. His fingers now move along your arms. William bends slightly. A kiss left against the side of your neck. Then upon the nape. The story is not as much relived as it is recreated. Perhaps, as it should have been in the first place. The Chancellor well, healthy. Ensconced in a castle, rather than laid bare upon a field of battle. His hands lift from you and unclasp his cloak. The thick and rich fabric is lain upon the bedding you have arranged. It will cover you both warmly in time. The gold fluer de lys will glisten, when coupling rhythm lifts and lowers it to catch the reflection of the nearby fire.
     A kiss is placed upon your other shoulder, the other side of your neck. And at your ear, a word of love. Occitan. And as arms coil around you, you are drawn back against the armored figure. Swallowed in the grasp of the knight and duke. It will be a slow consumption. Enacted as a ritual. With solemn passion. With love. You feel his hands next at your hips, turning you. And even as he moves to guide, his mouth seeks you in a kiss. This is how he should have been welcomed home from victorious battle. Yet clothed in Crusader's gear, his love stripped for him. By him. This is how it should have been. And this is... how it shall be now. The past cannot be written again, Ian -- but the future can be conceived and born, forged and created...
     The firelight catches against the Cross of God. Crimson against a pure white field. Like blood upon fresh snow. The fabric is soft to your hands -- soft and unsoiled by war. Your fingers the first to discover its texture, truly. It, as he, is here for you. This, the true nature of the gift. The knight you desired is here at last. Resurrected from some layer of blood once feared forgotten. Breathing with a deep and natural cadence. Sounding with a groan in the pause of passion -- and in the pang of lust encased in metal. You can hear the thunder of his heart. Feel the heat emanating from him, moreso with the added weight and the proximity to the fire. Smell the salt beginning to rise to the surface of his skin. And something else, profoundly William. Something forever Angevin. The mantle is unfastened by fumbling hands, lifted with a breeze. Discarded in a pile. Only metal remains. And your knight seeks your mouth, and whispers your name.

Posted by rowan at December 26, 1999 03:38 PM