For the longest moment, there is nothing but the sound of rustling. Hay falling this way and that, turned up and over by a tempestuous storm. No one comes for the brushing and windy swirls, the tack room having cleared out. Swing, swing, and brush, strands of gold fall left and right. There's a breeze from the half-opened outside door from the stall, but the bales of hay keep things from chilling too much. It's downright warm in here.
"Phht," hands waving. "Goddess, I hate the taste of hay." It sticks to his skin and hair as if to the manor born. But he's a golden pile, sitting upright in the middle of what was once organized flaxen rows. The blanket? Grey eyes look left and right. He was on...under...it once. Ian winces, wiggles his nose, and pulls a piece of hay from his lips. Around him, a glorious mess of yellow, he blending into it like sunshine. And the twilight has barely settled upon the estate.
"Will," he spits again, both hands shaking bronzed crumbs of grass from his head, "...what time is it?"
"Time for you to come back here," comes the languid Aquitaine drawl. The lord is spread out -- a sprawl for certes, as if he were reclined upon the very clouds of Heaven. As far as he's concerned, if Heaven is a place, it has a hayloft. There is something about it... he cannot resist. But you know the story of it, do you not? There is another sound of rustling as William shifts in a stretch. Hay is tangled in his hair, a blend of black and gold. It is also stuck to his skin here and there. And further tangled about him? The missing blanket.
William lifts his head, turning it to you and grinning. Brilliance. Warmth. "It is early, amours..." he murmurs. One knightly arm extends to you. An open expression. Inviting. How is it that he can look like a king wearing nothing but hay and half a blanket? Is it a quality his ancestors bore? Or is he the culmination of all that blood.
He lowers his head back to his pillow of hay and exhales. A warm breath leaves him, chased by the slow pull of his smile. Sensuality, even in a barn. Damned Angevins. His eyes brighten -- indigo erupting. Even in the low light of descending twilight, you can see them. And in his laughter his beauty only heightens. Joy best becomes it. "Aye? But it suits you..." His other arm lifts above his head. "I rather like it actually. A bit...what is the word...itchy?" he says in your Gaelic. Fluent now, it comes from him, lyrical. "But... I will always have a warm spot in my heart for a hayloft..." He closes his eyes at that thought, holds it, and grins. "We've scared off the grooms though...what?"
"I think so," Ian says, shoulders taut as he twists to look over to see you. A strand is flicked off and he sighs. "Now I'll have to have another bath," he laments, remembering the one he had not an hour ago. Another strand sent it's merry way. "I could use a scotch too," Ian murmurs mostly to himself, voice low as he looks down and grooms hay from his chest.
A sigh and he twists away to reach for another blanket, rolling upon his side to do so. A grunt and he rolls back, beginning to unfold the second one. "I'll just sit on this one," he whispers, rather into making a decent place for himself right now...and getting off the hay. Spinning about, he ends up on his knees, stretching the blanket out where he was just sitting near you. Hand pushes a corner left, then a corner right, all the while, he losing the battle to the hay that sticks to his damp skin. Blonde hair falls in front of his face as he works, head your direction, but rear faced at the stable's inside door.
He cannot help the smile. Nor the stare. Nor the energy that fastens upon you, moving there. Dark eyes settle on you and the air is alive with it. A hum against the skin. You can feel it. As much as a hand. He reached out for you, but you didn't fold yourself back against him. And so, William moves. Slowly, but he lifts. Half sitting, a hand reaches out again. This time, not calling or inviting ... but fingers pluck strands of hay from you. There is something rather horribly loving about the motion. Or is it more gallant? That mouth, whose smiles have that Angevin soul-stealing quality, pull in another slight, but warm smile. The smile transforms. Slowly to a grin, as William leans in. "We can go in if you like," he says near your ear, his hand brushing against the gold of your hair. More gold than the hay. Far more flaxen. "... We don't have to stay out here all night..." But even as he says it, a silent call goes out. One of the servants called. One of the lads. "...but Scotch, we shall have..."
A kiss lands, brushing against you and he lies back. "You look...quite handsome covered in hay, I must note..." And with the way his voice pulls at his throat, you know how well the sight pleases him. "I shall keep this... evening with me while you are in the Colonies..."
"Hopefully," Ian looks up with a grin from his arranging, "...you won't have to use memories so long. I told Victoria that we would leave tomorrow," he confesses heavily. He's not looking forward to it, but he owes her at least that much. Don't tell her that. He sighs again and crawls upon all-fours onto his blanket, plopping down beside you. "There," he whispers, scooting closer to you and folding left side over his lap, "...much better."
This time, his sigh is final, and he nuzzles in against you. Not that he was ignoring you before, just that he had to get his blanket sorted. "Mm, this is better," he notes, fingers flicking from this more comfortable state. And before he knows it, fingers are seeing about you as well. "So, I thought I might be gone a few weeks..." he explains, "...but I am...whittling it down slowly," he smirks. This is comfortable Scot, yes? Only here can lords be found their own animals' groomers. Maybe the stories are true...a Scotsman never leaves his flock.
"I will miss you," he says, but there is not a throb of sorrow to it. It is purely plain-spoken truth. Simply. But there is contentment found when you return to him, and against him. There, much better. There is understanding for the blanket, a grin for it. A chuckle clasped lightly on his tongue. There is a lift, and William turns his head. A brush of lips left behind. As for his state?
There is hay in the dark hair, speaking of the previous activity and the rest that followed. And against his chest and stomach. Though as he has so precious little hair it is not tangled there. For that, he is thankful. But still, should you want to pluck it off of him piece by piece he'd not complain. Still, it does itch on occasion. His free hand moves and fingers curl and uncurl at his stomach.
"Ah... good," he says softly, the one arm about you drawing you in a slight hug. And there the hold remains. "Tomorrow..." A sigh for that. "Well... amours. The sooner you go, the sooner you may come back. I believe that is lover's logic." Tilting his head, he looks to you. Indigo flickering in the wink he casts. "Hmm... are there... stores here... for me?" You know what he means. "What should I know about the place while you are gone? No painting the ceilings I guess?" William grins. "The ceiling in your music chamber is calling me..."
He was frowning distress at the notion of you alone with paint, but then Ian's eyes brighten faster than quicksilver. For the moment, hay is forgotten, and Ian nose is almost to your cheek. "That...would be a lovely thing...maybe...put frescoes in the keep? Some of the walls could be treated..." and he smiles at the notion, getting more excited. "Oh, Will, that'd be a great idea!" he sits up some, turning back and putting hand at your chest. "Maybe on some of the long halls? Or, yes, something...in our room? Oh, but we have the canopy. Well, the music room, for sure...maybe something in another room we enjoy?"
Now, William alone with paint. Why would that cause distress? But as you brighten, he grins. Every emotion between the two of you is contagious. When quicksilver lights your eyes, his own carry something of fire within them. A lift of brilliance within the dark color. He covers your hand that rests upon his chest, and he smiles. Warmly. "I can do whatever you want. I am my lord's artist. Commission of me...anything. Anything you desire, I shall create it for you..." His fingers curl around your own. "Something... baroque to match your music room... ? Name your favorite artist, I can copy him. Name your favorite style, I can adopt it..." His Gaelic has a gallant lilt. The knight with his love's boasting. But well you know he can answer that boast. It is an offering, not a brag.
William lifts your hand from his chest and brings it to his lips. Each finger adored by a kiss. "I can treat the walls, aye... the ones in the chamber turret, you mean... yes?" His arm that had enfolded you is about you still. Hand lightly running over your golden hair. "I love you..." he whispers. And he will miss you. The touch expresses that in volumes...
His laxing look of calm is filled with adoration. For a moment, Ian stops. "I love you," he whispers in like kind, "...and...I don't want to leave," he confesses directly, if it wasn't clear. "I would just as soon send them back with flowers in their hair," a smirk for the phrase of your former reign, "...but they need me for a couple of weeks, at least." If not more.
Ian's eyes fall to your hands, enjoying the love of his knight-artiste. He knows your words are truth and a sweet offer made to him, and for a moment, Ian finds himself drifting silent as memories of other times are naturally recalled. This you...he will want for an eternity. "Our castle will show how we feel?" he thinks a moment then chuckles. "I remember...when we used to smile knowingly when ladies had their lover-painters do portraits or ceilings." The grin is warm as he returns to the here.
"Do you remember?" he smiles, a past moment able to be shared. Something that separates you both from the rest of the world. Lives and events recalled only in books. Studied by grasping scholars. But for you both, there is no need to explain or to look up. "Dona Marguerite's fresco of the young girl and the man in her gallery? Martuil made it for her..." when he could not show his love for her otherwise. "Or the vests that girl, Marie Fauvrile, used to make for Chretien Lemoire...after he married and became the Count?" There are hours of stories.
"I know... but... it is right that you go." I should go, too. You see that move across his eyes for a moment. But then it is gone. No, it is best he stays here. His work is done there. To go back... would only worsen matters. You are... Ventrue in his eyes. It is right you go.
William smiles. It is an adoring look. One far passing fond. Warmed by that love. Heated by this constant intimacy. "Our castle will know," he echoes, baritone languid. His anglo-french accent lifting again. It is a muddle, his accent. Part lilt, part drawl. Odd, but endearing. From his mouth, even the worst sort of saracen sounds alluring. "And more..." William adds, inclining his head, "...my love shall know." Smooth spreads the grin. "If he does not know already. And even so... it bears repeating..." A wink causes the indigo to flicker. Darkness, like morning glories -- brilliant, rich in hue.
"Aye... I remember those frescos... the vests. Do you remember... Lady Grey's Glove collection? The man who loved her always gave her gloves... he knew how well she loved them. As he could not kiss her fingertips what with Lord Grey being so close by..." He chuckles softly. "So many stories. But unlike those, I belong to my lover... it is not so sad a thing to paint a picture to show my love for you." His fingers lift to skim against your cheek. "I can show you in a thousand ways. I am lucky..." Lucky. The Bond reinforces this.
William rolls toward you, the slight motion it takes, to leave a kiss upon your lips. "I will start then... it will keep me occupied." The grin is broad. "It will not help warm my bed, but that is what Macsen is for, yes?" William relaxes with an exhale. "A question ...though, my love... did you hear me...about the ...stores?"
The stores. Ah, Ian nods, coming from his love-drift. "I should avoid being so tragic," he reminds himself, then sighs to clear the air before moving onto a new topic. "How shall you live without me," he grins, "...in a more practical sense." Brows arch and he looks to the door before settling against you once again. "There...is a private series of..." he swallows, "...stores around the estate. In the Keep, in Whitehall. There is a small refrigerated section in Padraig's offices as well," he nods, "I will show them to you inside and provide the codes...mental and logical ones." Ones for servants, ones for the actual stores. Serious business this...and you should have access to it all.
"Also, in Beauly, there are a few...available access points, in case you find yourself out and..." he waves a hand as if to mean 'in some situation.' "It is a run, but if you find yourself needing, you can make it there. Same with Inverness...I will give names and addresses for that..."
"I thought to ask... which of the house might be... " A pause as he searches for the right term. "... safe for such. But... I should rather have you in a glass..." This, from a vampire who scoffed at such but three years ago. Glass for scotch, flesh for blood. But since his diet has become restricted to you -- he has not fed from another in... he has forgotten, it has been so long -- he has not the desire for aught else. Ah, no there was Felipe in September. But it is January now.
William looks to you, serious business passing. Being absorbed. "I do not think I shall be leaving the estate. I do not know the area so well anymore... but... it is good to know.... yes?" Yes. William rolls again, this time so that both arms might surround you. "How shall I live without you... for two weeks...? I shall sleep with my dog," comes the languid roll of anglo-french. "How sad is that..."
He chuckles, the sound against your ear. Warm, throat-held. And his mouth makes another wandering over your skin. "Tonight... I will not be drinking from a glass... I do not think..." The press of your knight against you, the heaviness of muscle -- this follows in that half roll. So easy would it be to entwine here, shake the hay, make the bits and gear rattle and pluck hay out of your hair from the wrangling. Tomorrow night you will be in America. It will not sink in until then. Half a month! - he will cry. What was I thinking?
"Not tonight, no," Ian grins, roll encouraged as he brings you to his chest. No mind the hay. "But yes, later, I will give you the details, but in the house, there are a few, if you decide that Ian-In-A-Glass is lacking a certain...warmth and comfort factor." Now, he does not mind you touching others. A little. That twinge within brings a smirk, he knowing you must know it as well. "This night, you shall have all you desire," he whispers, voice suggestive as it lowers. Brow arches and Ian's eyes flicker as his smile grows. "Do you want a few of those little crackers to go with?" he teases, arms at your back.
"I'll have one of the lasses pop it in the oven..." He chuckles. He would have said microwave -- and his lips nearly formed it. But in this castle? No such beast exists surely. He has been in America too long. The twinge was felt and for it a spread of warmth against the Bond. No need, and William slowly settles upon you. His hands clasp at the crown of your golden head, his arms at either side of you. Strength there... formed by swords and shields and armor long ago. This, as he settles over and against you. His chuckle sounds softly, and moves against you. Muscles shifting in it. "Crackers? Those...what do they call them... water crackers?" Eyes wrinkle when he laughs so brightly. You can see, in a few more years of life in the sun, he would have had wrinkles there. Laughter lines at the corners of his eyes. "Not tonight. I shall pass..." He exhales. A sigh for you. For your too soon departure. But for this love, more.
His fingers tangle in your hair. "I would rather you in a glass," he whispers, "...than any man in your hall. It will... keep you here with me... no matter that you're in the Colonies, hmm? I will... have them serve it like a bloody Mary." He grins at that, and vipers have distended. Curving, they catch the light when he laughs. The tips, shining. Sharp.
He laughs under you, a rich, honest amusement. Ian's unashamed now to show that he has a sense of humor, that some things you say...do tickle him, or that you have a real humor yourself. Not tending to the frivolous, as he could have called it not so long ago, but a real humor that has gone too long unappreciated. Trying to hide it as much as he hid his own. Wasn't it written somewhere that Ventrue are not to laugh or show love?
Hay falls from his hands as he wraps them further around you, silver eyes fixed on yours. He will look you straight on now, and see what is reflected. In it, he'll let you see what pours from his heart, without worry, shame, or fear. He only hopes you like what you see. Tears wish to begin now, but Ian smiles, forcing them back.
"You have lines," he whispers, looking preternaturally at your skin, at your face. "Tiny ones," he says softly, a secret only you and he share "...and around your irises...it is a dark violet..." words trailing off. Lips part in a damp sigh, the tears kept only barely at bay. "I thought," Ian's voice beginning to break a little, "...that I would have to sell my soul for a moment like this," he murmurs, clear droplets trickling down his temple to the hay. "Would that...I had..." done whatever it was to get to here, "...just known eight hundred years ago." He smiles faintly, "I wish I had."
"I wish...someone had shown me before." What it meant to Love. Not the other lessons he learned.
To hear you laugh. It is among the greatest of his joys. If he were asked to name a favorite song -- he would have to choose this. It rivals them all. Not merely that it has a nice quality of sound to it. It is less that, in fact, than the meaning behind it. For so many years, this laughter was cut off. It did not exist. What has changed it? Was it merely time? That you have a sense of humor -- and allow him his -- this makes the love swell against the Bond. And it is an alluring quality. How many of our kind can do this? Can ...laugh. Truly and honestly? If only our entire Clan could laugh. It could change the world...
Lines? Wrinkles? He knows he does. So much squinting in the sun. So much laughing. Being bronzed by the sun in all his mortal years. But it is not as if he is aged. Non. It is but the birth of such lines. William smiles, even though his eyes narrow. Narrow, in emotion. To feel this, and then to see the echo of the feeling in the moisture that leaves your eyes. "You are the only one who sees them... You are the only one... who has ever been so close to me. That you know me... so well. That to touch my skin, is to feel your own. No... one knows my secrets, but you." William closes his eyes, lips parting for a kiss just south of your eyes. Each one. "Only you... ever have seen the dark violet of my eyes... "
Eight-hundred years ago. What a different time that was. Or, seems. "You knew... you were the one who showed me..." You, not Catherine. "You showed me... how to love." There was never a need to sell your soul -- can you see that in his eyes? You and he... only needed to ...speak of it. Speak it. Admit it. Accept it. Ask for it. At last, you and he have learned that. William closes his eyes and his next breath moves against your neck as he turns and places a kiss there. By the motion and tending of his strong form, you know he is... about to journey lower...
Every touch brings such a release of emotion. Ian smiles to know that he knows you so, then closes his eyes as you begin to venture forth. Hands rise to clasp shoulder blades, allowing his arms to lax faintly as to enjoy the feelings that course through him. His lips part to feel you so close, so within him, that there are no boundaries. You know what he knows. You feel what he does. And he you.
With your motions, more of the ceiling is revealed. Eyes open to find it, but his sparkling grey eyes do not focus there. He sees through it, and beyond. Into the fading twilight and into an eternity with you. His heart races to think of it, and the clear droplets continue to fall haplessly to the hay, seeping quietly into the golden grass to disappear into nothing.
Posted by rowan at January 19, 2000 09:29 PM
