Still, the wind is howling. The storm that rolled over the Highland mountains two days prior to the Lord's Birthday is still coating the land with frost and snow, and freezing the heath and hills with its frigid wind. It is hard to tell how much snow has fallen, for the wind keeps it in constant fits. Blowing, lifting, drifting...
     But it is easy to forget the wind and snow held within the embrace of Strathfayr, particularly in the bedchamber with its hearth, the Great Hall with its constant fire, and too... in the Plantagenet Menagerie you gave him as a gift. It is there you shall find him, seated on one of the old chairs, his feet propped up on another beside him, a spill of red, blue. He looks the proper king, does he not? With book opened and across his lap. He is surrounded by Himself. Pictures, writings, paintings. He almost seems as a fixture of the collection, himself. A smile plays just at the corners of his mouth. And his hand holds half-aloft a piece of paper. A listing received...
     He has made calls already about several available titles. It has been his hobby and his occupation -- apart from warming your bed and being at your beck and call. You have but to speak his name, and all would be set aside. William bends his head, reading. His black hair draped forward, half-veiling his gaze.

     "Did you find the article I mentioned?" Ian murmurs, back in view as he pushes the door closed with his foot. Dressed warmly, he's in an unbleached wool sweater and heavy woolen black pants. As he was already wandering the estate, he decided to bring you both something to drink. He scans around you, then motions with the tray to a shelf nearby. "It's an interesting article, really...some medievalist trying to discuss your importance in the Angevin line. Granted, she's got plenty of historical facts wrong, but the sentiment is perhaps the right direction. I don't quite remember..." he squints, shuffling towards you, "...oh...might have been the Labyrinth's proceedings...the printed version." It's on some shelf. He shrugs and smiles, setting the tray on an antiqued table near where you both have set up shop. Hopefully nothing will heat to the older wood beneath. Ian smirks, "This table," he chuckles, "...was found at an estate sale. Said it was...of the hand of a craftsman in the house of Normandy, circa 1182."

     As you near -- and then as you speak -- William lifts his gaze, and his hand lowers. The piece of paper rests against the book. The grin is wide and warm, smooth, and with just a twist of something ribald. Indigo flickers, rich blue-violet in the wink, and then his gaze drifts toward the table. "My brothers and I did once place odd bets on a table somewhat similar..." comes the drawl of his voice. It is now Anglo-French. Perhaps more close to his accent when he lived on the Island, oh so many years ago. As a mortal. Gaelic is having its way with the lilt of his tongue. But it is endearing in its way, no matter how strange the cadence may seem.
     "Though this seems a bit nicer..." He pauses, settling back and he lowers his legs -- the extended stretch transforming to a more usual lordly sprawl. His attention upon you... fixes. And you are held within his gaze, the sight of you upon his tongue. Mulled. Tasted. Swallowed. William inclines his head, smile slanting and then becoming a chuckle. "It is a bit amusing to read about oneself... I must tell you. I forget... most of the time... that I am ...historical."
     The beautiful countenance warms with laughter. "It does much to make one feel old...but..." an exhale as laughter fades again to a smile, "...it is interesting. I've been... delving into myself and...some lists Edward emailed me. I think your Angevin Marquis is going to work...just fine...what have you there?" Sitting up, William looks to the drink you've brought him.

     "Ah, it's just a bit of lemon sip," Ian explains, bending over the stone cups and teapot. "I think with honey...and a bit of brandy. Something to make the night pass easier," He smiles,"...well, or so they told me. Sionnach and Padraig are on duty tonight," notes idly for the record. "So...what's this with that brat Brujah?" he asks, sighing as he takes the second seat.

     Lemon and honey. Well, t'will serve. Ah, but the mention of brandy? Blue and violet interchange as flames within his eyes -- a lift of a smile conjured in color. Brandy always pleases. Both raven brows lift as William draws his cup to him, having plucked it silent like a thief. "Hmm? Ah... well, I sent him a little message early this morning... after you were a-bed. To give him a belated but Post Hangover Happy New Year... and made a small inquiry into the Marquis Aix-en-Marselle..." He pauses, setting book and paper aside. With an exhale, however, it is neverminded. "He sent me a small file... " William makes a wave of his hand and then lifts his cup to his lips. "It seems the Marquis has been vacant for a time... it shall serve well...I think."

     "Good then," Ian nods. A comfortable evening between partnered gentlemen ...Sherlock Holmes would be proud. Watson...he'd miss the joke. "About time he did something useful." Smirk pulls at his lips as he reaches for one of his journals. A current one. "I should let you see this one," he says softly, crossing his woolen legs and tossing a blanket over himself, "...it's one from last year."
     But not now. Instead, he picks up a pen and settles himself for a long evening of talking and writing...and lemon sips with brandy. "Are there any lands associated with the title? If so, who has them now?"

     It is another kind of intimacy. No less than a touch, for is not the air between you alive? Words and voices, thoughts and desires. They move between you both with the same warmth and confidence as the stroke of a hand. Quiet laughter tugs at his throat, and eyes are alive with deep resonant colors. William shares the smirk, "Aye... I did think it a bit of a Christmas Miracle." A pause. "And told him so."
     Indigo flickers in the casting of a wink, and William takes another sip of the drink. Warmth fills him. His complexion darkens for it. A whisper of Gaelic -- an affirmation to it. His mouth pulls into a slight but warm smile and you are the sole focus of his attention. "As for lands," an exhale, "...much of it has passed into the hands of public preservations after the second war. It would be a title, but not much more." He rolls his shoulders somewhat, "I have my own properties in Anjou, long-standing. I can have them... realigned to this purpose..." He looks to you, and then to the journal. "I would like to...see it... " he whispers, and he studies you for a time. "This journal... whenever you wish to show me."

     "Oh, sure," Ian nods, eyes upon the pages as his hand moves. "I will lend it to you when I am done with this entry." He begins his florid script, grey eyes moving along the developing line. "When do you wish to inform the staff officially that we are remaining, hmm?" And tell them who the other lord is, in detail.

     "I need another few days... to paint a full picture of William Fraser, Marquis of Aix-en-Marselle..." Smooth, the smile that traces his mouth, curving. Claiming it. A natural borne sensuality, it could not help but warm him. "First, I must ... decide how a Fraser found his way to Anjou...Franco-Fraser mix, most likely it shall be. It will be easier for me to live in..."
     William is quiet for a time, holding his cup in both hands...his elbows resting on the arms of the chair that holds him. His head rests back against the chair's own backing, and with a smile lingering he looks to you. Studies you. Beautiful. The Bond feels a sudden swell. It is not of Lust. But of Love. He watches your hand move. Such artistry. Such strength. Even to the way you hold the pen. Everything is noted. Held by him.

     He nods as you speak, agreeing with the path chosen. You, most of all, must be comfortable with the name. "Of course, the clan might hear that there's a Fraser at Strathfayr..." Ian murmurs, distracted highly by his pen, "...but I can see to that for you," he finishes, pressing his lips together softly.
     A few more words and then he sets his pen down in the loving bend of the journal, reaching out with his hand for his drink. Then do his eyes look to you, grin growing. You've been watching him. "Thought about what to do with Chinon...or what you want to do about France?" Living, visiting....

     Caught. But he is unrepentant. As you catch him, as you grin, his own smile grows. Spreading smooth and warm. He adores watching you. You are the artist's favorite model and study. You fascinate. You ignite.
     "Chinon... I have owned the village and the lands for a long while now, this shall not change. I was thinking this... We could... do spring and summer there... and autumns and winters here. Always... Yule shall be here in the land that most becomes it." Languid baritone falls into a wondering hush and a brow lifts. "How does this sound to you, amours?"
     A pause, "And... as for the clan... what would they need to know, Fraser or no? Surely they shall learn soon enough that Plantagenet has returned to Britain. Knees will knock together..." he makes a wave of his hand. As if to dismiss concern. William grins, the look as deadly as it is devastating. "The usual... but... what do you think we shall ...have to do Clan-wise for my return?"

     There's a smirk. "No one would be thrilled to hear about a Plantagenet," Ian chuckles, "...but then I figured..." his brow raises, "...they wouldn't hear about a Plantagenet. Just a random Fraser of France, with some title, that's perhaps moved into the castle here. Taken up with that Lord, or more than likely that will go when it gets out through the gossip mills." You know how scullery likes to talk to scullery. "Only then, if a Fraser hears, might they come calling. But, it was just a point of notice, no worries. We can deal with it when and if it even happens..."

     He would be offended were it not so true, and so he laughs, your William. With a half-roar reminiscent of his own father. William rises, his own laugher falling to the stone even as his multi-mantled vestments readjust around him, hems falling at his ankles. Soft soled boots barely whisper against the floor as William sets the book and papers aside. "So misunderstood," William bemoans, the mull of it teasing. "Ah well... we shall paint a picture well enough for clan Fraser. I know the history well enough to lie..." He glances to you aslant and so goes his following smile. "I thought you meant Clan... as with a capital C, love..." he adds in a more serious hush. William rubs his hands together and looks to you. Preparing to resettle in the chair. But you know him, he could never stay seated and still for long. "Ami... I am wondering more... what to do with Fitzroy..."

     "I did mean the Clan...but only if they came looking, is all." Ian looks up as you move around, so used to your need to move. He sighs and nods, "And what about Fitzroy? He could go home, back to what was his clearly beloved Europe, to disappear among the halls of the exiled aristocracy and those who wish it was two centuries earlier..."

     He is quiet for a time and then he nods. Easily done. "Nothing more shall be said. He will slip into the continental fog then..." But he had a name. His most public face yet. It will take time for it to unravel. But William looks to you after, Fitzroy discarded. A raven brow arches upward and a kind of endearing puzzlement rests upon his features. "Would not...Ventrue know well enough that I have left, and well enough by now that to know the dark-haired man with you was... is ... me? Fraser or non, the guise will not last long among kindred. How could it?" William returns to his chair and settles there, dark eyes turned to you as his settling slowly becomes the lordly half-sprawl.

     He nods, "I wasn't thinking of Them," Ian nods, "...mostly mortals." But the time for talk about Kindred comes. Ian sets his cup down and closes the book after he removes his pen. "They won't care...we move and we move. It is the way of things. I think some...closer to us...will wonder why we have departed perhaps ten years earlier than they expected." He shrugs, but does so lightly. "How do you want to tell them? I actually guess...most will be thrilled that we're home again."

     A grin claims him and the Bond feels the thrill of inward turned laughter. He misunderstood your first meaning, but now you and he are on the same page again, yes? "Ah, we should crash a party in Edinburgh or London..." He waves at the rest. It matters little to him. Until you spoke of Clan and clan, he had not thought of it at all. Nor does he linger on it now. William leans in toward you, long lashes downsweeping as his gaze lowers from your face to your chest... and then further still before finally lifting to linger on your journal. "Shall you show me now, love?" comes the Franco-Gaelic. Lilting the smoothening over the rise and fall of his cadence -- like the water of a brook over smoothened stones.

     He grins, always blushing when you are so close. "I'm not done yet," Ian whines a little, pulling book to himself. "I didn't even finish my entry for now...we ended up talking." He smirks, blonde hair falling at his face when he shrinks into his seat. Blanket is pulled up and he sticks his tongue out at you. "Drink your sip," he motions, "...and find that article." A chuckle, and he opens the journal again, retrieving his pen.

     And he always grins when he inspires a blush. Oh wide and wicked, the Plantagenet hallmark smile. The wretch. But William concedes with the lifting of both hands. And with a kind of playful nonchalance, he turns back to his sip, and reaches for the article in question. "I will be quiet, you will see," he whispers. "Quiet as a prince in mass." A pause. "Apart from the snoring..." William smiles wide and blithe and then lifts the cup again to his lips. He is quiet, as he promised -- his gaze moving over the article. He reads quickly, but it shall be time enough. William rests his head against the back of his chair, tilting it as he reads. Dark hair drapes forward, strands lying against high cheekbones...

     He was going to quip...but you were right to add the snoring comment. Ian smiles and begins to scrawl lines once more, pulling blanket and feet up into his seat. "You never have kept a journal?" Ian wonders, keeping you occupied, of course, with a bit of talk. "Though," he smirks, "I guess your paintings are a sort of journal, if you really think about it..."

     "I was never much of a writer, non..." An almost chuckle at that -- rather, it pulled upon his voice, giving the languid tone a lift. And his gaze follows. Lifting, and shifting, to you. And there his attention lingers. How could it not? You are so golden, and so thoroughly loved. But he does not distract you, overly much, though he should rather stare at you than read about himself. "Looking back at them now... I can see the.... journals in them..." A pause as his eyes sweep over the words before him. "Pieces of myself in them. I can remember what I was feeling... at each point. But..." a chuckle clings to his throat, "...a writer I was not. My mind is never so blank as when I have a pen in my hand. It is better than meditation for clearing out my brain..."

     "I always wished I had that problem," Ian smiles. "I can always find words, non?" More and more does he sound like you. After a finishing flourish, Ian sets his pen aside and smiles. "Alright. You can have this one now..." he smirks, grinning as he closes the journal and offers it to you on a limp wrist. The look...ah, how boring. But he chuckles as he picks up his lemon sip again.

     "I can always find words to say... god knows it," comes his quiet, clip of a reply. Self effacing humor, but nonetheless true. Grinning, William leans in toward you. Article abandoned. Your journal taken. He settles back, a portion of that smile remaining with him. Curiosity claiming the better part of it. There is a moment... no, several... where he looks to you. Seeking something in your eyes before turning his complete attention to your own words. William opens the book with slow, deliberate hands. No less in this, than in loving you. "Merci," comes the languid murmur. And thereafter... he reads...

     July 17th, 2008
     Today, I am writing to you with paint on my fingers! He didn't laugh when I told him how I felt inside about painting and him. I mean, who cares, really, that I don't know anything about colors. I wish I had learned. And even now, I find it hard to tell you about it, it...seems so childish. So old. So ...infantile. Perhaps that is how I am. But he showed me...and gave me a brush. I got water and paint all over everywhere, but he didn't seem to mind too much. I know, I'm going to paint lilies first and then maybe a pond. Those should be easy. I don't know how long it will take me to learn how to paint cranes, but I guess I have time. This was such a good night with him...
     A.

     There's quiet from Ian's seat. Just the occasional glancing over to you. He holds his cup with both hand, pen set near the ink dip on the table. After a while, he turns his gaze ahead and closes his eyes while he drinks.

     For a moment, even the Bond is hushed. As much as it may. For the fingers that turned the page, move across the words a moment after they are read. The hover just above the page a moment, and his expression goes placid. And then the Bond is alive. Like a sudden rush of electricity. And the smile follows it. And then, his look to you. Watery, the blue-violet of his eyes holds an otherworldly sheen. He swallows. Obviously touched. He closes the book. It is so intense, were he to read more... he would be in tears. William intakes a deep breath and extends his hand to you. Come here, say his eyes. And the Bond shivers with it. And the need to hold you. When dark lashes meet in a blink, you, Immortal Lover, can see moisture lingering like dew there.

     "What's wrong?" Ian asks, not sure what he sees. He stands, twisting in wool to set his drink down. Blanket is caught and he brings it with him. "Ugh...was it one where I was mad?"

     "Non," William replies swiftly, but softly. "You... were talking about painting ... and..." He shakes his head, smiling warmly even as crystal tears move over high and noble cheekbones. "It was... a good entry," he murmurs. His hand is yet extended, palm up and fingers curled to you. Laughter follows on the heels of tears. "Are there scandalous bits as well then..." Oh, do not believe him flippant. He is still touched, most profoundly, by what he has read. You can see who the tremor moved over him. You can feel how it moved through him.

     "Well, I guess there are scandalous parts," Ian grins, taking your hand. His fingers coil as he shuffles around to sit on your lap. "But, you read the other journals, yes? Just like that." He chuckles and allows you to hold his weight. The blanket is tossed again across you both. "Maybe you should stop reading now," he chuckles, suggesting the obvious.

     "I think I shall... keep to one entry a night, hmm?" he murmurs, voice near your ear. And with a lean, he sets the journal aside for the time being. William inclines his head as his arms settle around you. Beneath you, his legs readjust slightly. You are not heavy to him, but you are solid. Closing his eyes, William rests his chin against your shoulder. He need not speak his love, for can you not feel it? And yet, he is compelled to whisper it to you. To say it. To shout it. "I love you..." William grins, canines extended curving. "And so... are you not flattered your writing grabs me as it does? Maybe I should skip around then... and try to find the scandalous bits..." A arm begins to loosen around you, reaching for the journal again.

     He laughs, startled from his enjoyment of the embrace. "No, no," Ian reaches for the book, "...one entry's enough." He pats your hand and smiles. "I love you too," he murmurs, placing a kiss at Norman lips. "I'd love a brisk walk...but even this..." he looks to a small window towards the ceiling, "...is too much even for me."

     The wickedness has returned, and dark eyes smolder with it. "A brisk walk? I'd like a joust myself, but... " he sighs, "..I shall have to wait for spring..." Arms pull you in against him, and there you remain. The hold close. And warm. "It's cold enough to freeze a Ventrue Woman out there, it's not fit for men or beasts. Pity, for I could enjoy a good romping, mad hunt with an overabundance of scotch and mud." He grins, tilting his head. "Do you remember that winter... the first winter we returned here after our American Separation? The hunt we had then, roaring into the castle covered in mud and dogs and so soaked in scotch we could have qualified as our own distillery?"

     He rolls his eyes and smirks, "Aye, I do. It was a feelthy thing," Ian emphasizes. He chuckles, "We should have gotten the worms from it or something." He curls up closer, leaning his head at your shoulder. "But it was good...to be like that again." Instinctively, a hand comes up...the one with the ring upon it. "I would have never thought then...." what is happening now.

     The hold is tighter at the uttering of 'Feelthy'. "Aye... it was filthy," he murmurs, mouth brushing at your ear. His smile there. Wicked. But then, wickedness fades as you lean against him. As you lift your hand, the ring catching the light. He lifts his own hand, a partner to it. His fingers slide against your own, warmly.
     For a time he says nothing. He merely feels the energy coursing back and forth from even so simple a touch as this. Warm. Electric. His own ring gleams golden. And ruddy. Only you and he can truly see the sapphires and rubies embedded on the ridges. The infinite detail, designed for immortal eyes. "If I had been told then... of where and how this year would find me...I would have sooner believed I was the reincarnation of Cicero..." He chuckles softly and looks to you. "But I loved you then. I love you now..." he murmurs.

     "I loved you then, I love you now," Ian repeats softly, eyes upon the joined hands, the rings. His lashes rise and fall softly as he looks to the ruddied gold and miniature stones. "Maybe I jumped the gun a bit," giving you each those, "...I guess...I might have a lot of words, but sometimes, I have a hard time expressing them to you."

     "Hmmm... non... I think I should have asked you... a long time ago," he murmurs. "In truth... for a long time, I did not think you wanted a ...traditional coupling. It was... a mortal construct. I thought you'd laugh at it, actually. When you ... proposed to me, love... I... was a little shocked." William looks to you, his smile remaining. But beneath it there is something more serious. Truth. "It took three times for it to take. You have the patience of a saint, Ian..." Your name eases upon a falling breath. An exhale. William smiles, inclining his head. "But ...the third time stuck, non?"

     "It did...a charm." Ian lowers both hands to his lap, but keeping them joined. "Want to wander to a place a little warmer and more comfortable?" he wonders, grey eyes half-lidding to see you. He chuckles, "Preferably horizontal. I am...already getting tired." Earlier than normal. "Hibernation..." he explains sagely, nodding his head.

     A grunt sounded at the mention of 'horizontal' and his arms begin to loosen their hold around you. "I should like that. You know... I have noticed for the past month... I am.. sleeping later. Maybe it is just ...seasonal..." Or perhaps not. "Hmm... must be the cold..." He grins at that and his hands let you go at last. "Ah... to be horizontal with you and in warm furs..." He thinks about that a moment, and the air is alive with it. A rush of fire. The slow spread of his smile.

     He stands and immediately begins to pick up the journal. "You have been sleeping later?" Ian wonders aloud, gathering his blanket to himself. He leaves behind the drinks, certain someone will bring fresh ones to the bedroom. Sticking his feet into his shoes, he huddles himself and his pile of things to the gallery door.

     "A little," he murmurs, and rising he lays an arm across your shoulders. It shall be a slow, joined stroll to be sure. And you can see the late hour is beginning to tug at him. Or could it be all this reading and sitting about? You know your William, do you not? So much better in action than in reflection. Still, he tries. A chuckle catches in his throat, "Perhaps I just need a good...long... drink of you for restoration...."

     "I doubt it will help, amours," Ian grins, pile clutched at his chest. Fringes of the blanket dangle as you walk. "Maybe...we should listen and...just rest." Word filled with much.

Posted by rowan at January 04, 2000 01:35 PM