Sir, come to me and I will keep you warm Taste hope in my skin and faith with the dawn You will rise Beyond the sunrise that is where we live Feeding our counsel and true comfort give Travelling men...      Limestone rocks, pebbles scatter, from the little traveled back slope of Chinon's plateau, scatter beneath ironclad hooves. The back slope is home only to the dip of vineyards, his, tended by the vintners of the appellation, and those of his neighbors. They are in bed by the time he makes his way with you. No Henri. No Marco. No Augustin. No Amadeo. Just you and your horse, and he and his. The usual sure-footed Andalusian for him, the elder of them all, Safir.      He rides without saddle, without blanket. It is a warm night. He rides in the simple clothing of an unassuming gentleman on a summer evening jaunt. No formal gear. No boots, in fact. In fact, no shoes. The trousers are a shade darker than ivory. The shirt is white, short-sleeved. He is visible. His mount nearly not so.      He rides with the easy grace of one who knows exactly how the earth is formed here, how it moves, the location of each seeming pebble, each and every stone. As he scatters it into turf, he looks behind him to see how you are coming.

     Should you be so worried about your faithful companion? There he is, behind you and at your side. Ian navigates his horse on the slope, slightly concerned about the horse's nerves in its youth. But you look, and Ian's gaze lifts to you as he comes to a halt, his grey eyes softly gleaming this evening. He's dressed in black from throat to feet, and wears a new set of plain black boots that do not distinguish his equestrian ranks.
     "Everything alright, Gui?" he asks in his native tongue. He speaks it more often than not these nights. He's not sure where you're leading this evening, but it really matters not.

All the way back home I'm telling you I caught the sun Creeping up behind my shoulder And another day's begun I was following a trail I'd never been along before Chasing darkened skies above me Looking like the spring Like the winter And the morning...      There is nothing to worry about, and there is no worry spent. To see you coming -- your young horse coming -- and having no issues with the falling pebbles and limestone, he turns about, the older horse breaking into a canter as he heads along the gentler slope from the hill to the road below. Chinon is filled with the false stars of modern lighting, mostly along the main road that runs along the Vienne and then in the heart of the ville. He is heading for the bridge and the other side of the river. As if the two of you were going to head to Fontevraud again.      He holds at the road. This time of night there are few cars, but you can hear the sound of the ville at night. Dinner is finishing. The smell of meat and bread still linger on the air. "Better than alright," he replies in your native tongue, his second language but with a modern vernacular.      And it doesn't matter where we go, does it. He smiles as you ride beside him. A glance either way and he heads across the highway. "I want a little open land," he says. To do that, we will have to head out of town.

     Understood. Ian's horse looks a tad nervous about the traffic and strange asphalt underfoot, but he's fine to follow another horse and rider, and soon trundles across the bridge in form.
     "Will we go to Fontevraud?" Ian asks, lifting his voice over the dim noise of the ville. "Or..." find another place for the evening?

     There is minimal traffic upon the bridge as well, there is even some foot traffic as people come and go from their evening's entertainment or visitations. While it is late for them, for us the night is just beginning. Shorter these nights, but not without their moments.
     "I was thinking mostly of a bit of running and then returning. I do not think we shall go so far as to Fontevraud," he notes, turning to look at you. Single file upon the bridge's walkway. "Just a little trip, yes? I just ... needed to feel some wind..." To experience the kind of speed and power that does not make me want to explode. To race forward in a charge and to feel that burst, but without the danger of anyone piercing a lung over it. Unless, of course, one were to run into a tree, amours.
     "We will take a longer trip in the next few nights. You... me... Henri... anyone else you want. Chenonceau?" William glances back to you, eyebrow lifted, wondering. He looks ahead again, the end of the bridge nearing and the outskirts of his ville.

     "To Chenonceau?" Ian asks. He nods, bouncing to the gait of the horse. He rolls with each motion, his hips affixed in the saddle. "That's fine," he murmurs, thinking suddenly on Henri. Him again. "I am sure the Twins will wish to join us, yes?" Ian purses his lips, the turtleneck around his throat causing his highlighted paleness to make him seem even younger than he normally appears. White-yellow strands look like rays upon his black shoulders. "That's okay," he murmurs again, nodding with it.
     "You're bored?" Ian asks, wondering. "With here?"

     The bells of the Marie Javelle ring in the distance. Ringing out the time of midnight...
     As gravel sounds beneath Safir's hooves, William is quiet. Thinking. "Non, not bored. It is Chinon," he quietly remarks. Always affection in his voice for the castle he rebuilt from nearly nothing. "Living in it, one can feel so removed," he notes, guiding Safir to the river bank. He pauses, Safir stamping with fiery impatience -- he and this breed are so well-suited. "It is so self-contained." He smiles. "Normally this is one of its best features. Some nights, though, it is good to escape the confines of the chateau and to ... be in the country. That is all."
     Truly...
     And getting the smell of solvents, thinners, chemicals and paint out of one's nose doesn't hurt either...
     "Chenonceau has more country," he notes. It's simple. Nothing to do with Chinon, just better riding in Chenonceau. It is the perfect country lodge. "Ready?" William chuckles, eyebrows lifting. For The Twins there was only a turn of his smile, a slight and amused twist. Yes, what would a ride be without The Twins? Apart from short on drama.

     There's a gentle nod from Ian as he returns from his own thoughts. His lips upturn and he rises in his saddle. The horse responds, anticipating a command or three.

     But, in truth, I am a little homesick. The bees are stealing the nectar from the lavender in the gardens. In Strathfayr, they drag their feet and wings across the yellow flowers that cover the heath. The smell of the sea comes rolling in on the wind. In Moray Firth, our lighthouse sits with memories packed, two coasts known in a single beacon's lifetime.
     Bare feet brush against Safir's dark hide and the andalusian lunges into a sudden gallop along the river's edge. The river is lower than it was a few months ago, the swells of winter rain evening out over the drier summer months. It is a loud percussion. Your thoroughbred will pass him -- there is no contest in the short range -- but in full gallop, bareback, William sits straight, barely moving, balance held perfectly.
     As the ville ends into vineyard countryside again, he guides Safir up the riverbank's slope and into the open country...
     It is like shooting oneself out of a cannon. Propelling oneself. A hurtle at the seeming whim of another creature. But this creature is an extension of himself. The relationship is symbiotic, necessary for both of them.

     He's so quiet with you. Is there little to say? Nothing to talk about? Ian remains in his own world, venturing forth only when you call him thus.
     His horse, indeed, appreciates the run. Beneath Ian, the horse picks up a stride, its four hooves trickling in a cadence: one-two-three-four. Quiet. one-two-three-four. Stretch. onetwothreefour. onetwothreefour. It picks up, shortening the space between extension and the crashing cadence of its landing hooves.
     Upon the horse's back, Ian leans forward a bit, reducing the resistance he makes.

     Ahead, the valley opens up in rolling vineyards and the downward slope to the Vienne. There is another bridge in the distance, but the lights here become less and less frequent. A house light here and there. A car in the distance, but little to interrupt the ride...
     Like you, William leans in, head given to Safir. The stallion stretches his lead, but you have already begun to pass him. The Andalusian makes a go of it, however. There is the sound of his breathing, his shod hooves meeting the earth, the whisper of long mane and tail in the wind he creates. For his rider there are even more sensations -- the way musculature moves, an anxiousness best defined as excitability and competition, the smell of sweat.
     Soon, the thoroughbred's ass is in the foreground of the view and William's laughter can be heard above the noise. "Fine! Leave me!"

     "You can't get rid of me so quickly!" Ian laughs, the first burst of emotion for the evening. Where it comes from, he can't say. But laugh he does, letting his young mount charge ahead eagerly. Spindly legs are rather sturdy for one so young.
     Ian glances back and waves at you. But soon enough, when he's cleared a few hundred meters ahead of you, he slows the horse down and twists to watch you catch up. The horse continues forward.
     I love you. There's so little I know right now, save that. It seems I am just here, existing, save when you engage me. You and you alone. For you, I can find happiness, pleasure. Even sadness. But for the rest of the world, I have so little to give.
     "He's not for the Irish Stakes, but he'll do," Ian says of his horse as you catch up.

     "It's not speed that matters, it's staying power," William chuckles, as if soothing Safir's ego. He slows his horse to a canter, then a lovely dressage trot until he reaches you. The black stallion is lathered. And ready for more. Sound familiar? "He'll do," he says quietly as he comes up close alongside you. A kiss is taken from your mouth as much as it is left there.
     Sometimes, amours, existence is All. Sometimes it is as simple as that. You just Are. Maybe it is time to give to yourself. The rest of the world can wait a while, ne c'est pas?
     William leans back, straightening. "You are worried?" he wonders softly, voice picking up where thoughts were plucking silently before. William reaches over, giving the thoroughbred a pat.

     "Hmm?" Ian brightens, stopping himself from slipping into quietude again. "Oh, worried?" he trails off. "I don't know. I don't know what I Am," he smiles, trying to put a brighter spin on it. "I keep waiting...for something to Happen." Not bad, mind you, just something to transpire. Something to inspire. A foothold to jump off into this new phase of life. Something to propel him forward. Ian shrugs, not really knowing how to explain it. Something to give him Reason and Meaning to Act. To test the him that is now. A reason to care about anything outside of you. He smiles again, feeling himself drift in his thoughts and realizing he needs to return to the here and now.
      "Do I look worried?" Ian teases, blunting the subject. The answer would have to be no, oui?

     He draws back as if has to really inspect you, an eyebrow cocking up. He looks at some Picassos in the same fashion. Then he grins. "Not really. Here, hold this," and reins are lain across his lap, arms come up, the shirt comes off and he lobs it to you.
     A part of you may well wonder whether William will be dressed at all for the ride home. It's summer. It's a valid question.
     And while you're busy asking it...
     The duke propels ahead, turning his horse toward the river. Hooves mark the earth, imprinting the malleable soil like a seal in wax. They will dry there and remain there until the rains fall again and the river rise...

     The shirt hurtling at him is a surprise. It lands against Ian and falls helpless at his lap. A few blinks at your retreating self, and he turns his horse to follow you to the river.

     Lesson for the night...
     Don't worry about the future. It will come when it comes, not in ways that can be expected or anticipated. Not even for us. We who plan out everything. The chance will come when you will have the opportunity to see this new phase of life prove itself out. But like with most things, it may come when you are looking back, after the phase is done. For the thousand things that may go into The Moment may be imperceptible. Or insignificant in and of themselves.
     The gallop slows and then it is just another dressage gait, the stallion's neck arched tightly, showing off the musculature of his breed, its claim to fame. William turns his head slightly, marking where you ride.

If you can just get your mind together
uh-then come on across to me
We'll hold hands and then we'll watch the sunrise
From the bottom of the sea
Trumpets and violins I can hear in the distance
I think they're callin' our name
Maybe now you can't hear them,
but you will, if you just
...take hold of my hand...

     He won't ask Where are we going? It's too easy. Ian doesn't quite understand the feelings that stream from you, and its written in expression. He'll trust you, and as you turn to look, he slows behind you. He cannot help but follow now, and Ian glances at you and the river ahead. He looks up to the thickened trees and the muddy banks ahead. A hand reaches up to pull some overgrowth down, stringing vines connecting the misshapen trees in the flood plain.
     "You forgot your shirt," Ian murmurs, holding it up with one hand. The horse beneath him shifts, and Ian swings himself around to see you from the other side. "I guess I'll keep it -- you don't really look as if you want it back."

     There really isn't any destination. There really isn't any purpose. It's just a ride. A lovely, warm summer night. The removal of his shirt simply that. No real messages. Just a little something for you -- and for him. A pleasant and simple evening and a little nakedness.
     Between the villes, Chinon behind you and the next in line, there is next to nothing. The river and the two of you. The roads have turned off course from the river slightly. For just a while it will seem like true countryside. No modern interruptions. It is freeing. Relaxing.
     William takes in a deep breath, holds and releases it in a satisfied exhale. "The pants will be gone in a moment," he warns. "I'm thinking of a swim before we head back toward the ville." Dark eyes turn to you, silently inquiring -- interested? "We can lounge on the bank for a bit, find a bit of grass, then head back. Plenty of time."

     Ian's slow to respond. His eyes blink to clear, then blink to realize what's been asked.
     "I...will watch you and the horses," Ian smiles, folding the shirt across his lap. There's little confidence there.
     "I can hold the pants too."

     "Watch me?" He grins, the devil. "Very well. I'll try to make it interesting..." You become tentative, he becomes teasing. He edges Safir toward the water, the horse tossing at the sudden sensation of water.
     William swings off and the pants land across your lap in the next moment. Now is the time for the summer baptismal. Naked, the duke wanders into the river's cool water, no regard for his own nakedness. Do you tire of that?
     There's not much to holding Safir, he pretty well stays on his own. He turns his head toward the departing William, perking his ears forward. The blue-eyed horse looks to you as if to say: Aren't you going to stop him? He'll get leeches...

     Ian jerks back as the pants land at his shoulders. He sighs dramatically and leaves the reins of his horse to pluck a pant leg from his neck. Ian folds as you go to the water, and raises a brow at Safir as if to say: What am I supposed to do about it?
     "Be careful," Ian calls suddenly. Maybe he's hearing horses too now.
     Then, a thought comes to him. Hmph. As you go on, Ian slides from his horse, patting the youthful thing. He looks around and begins to pick and kick together a pile of drift and debris, more than likely to make a fire.

     Safir turns away from the sight, either bored or afraid to look and divides his attention between watching you curiously and keeping an eye on the young thoroughbred.
     "I'll try to keep drowning and getting sucked away by the current to a minimum then," that voice rises and carries over to you as he is now waist deep. Smartass. The next sound is that of water being displaced and William plays with the current, letting it take him for a moment, swimming back.
     "Are you sure you don't want to join me out here? The water's nice..." He always says that, even when it is absolutely freezing. It is less so now, but it's not exactly the warm waters of the Caribbean.

     "No, thanks," Ian calls, stomping across the banks to find bits of wood. When he does, he flings them back to the pile -- even when he's feet away. "I doubt the water's nice," he shouts, rather not convinced. "At least you're up from Chinon," he observes. And not downstream.

     He laughs. That is true. Why do you think he came out this way? "Well, it's not the Moray Sounds, that's for certes. I did mention my wanting to go back in November, yes?" Powerful arms carry him forward until the water shallows and stands. William wades toward the shore. "I think a bit of time in Scotland would do us both some good," and I know it would do you some good, amours. "Huddled into our hidey hole," as Edward once called it. He thinks of that for a moment and smiles. It's true.
     "Then I'll return to Chinon in the spring to work on finishing up. I should be able to finish by June." Next year. "I have had an offer from Girault as well. One job per year," he smiles, "... it's the way I prefer to work, I think. I have asked him to come to Chinon and discuss it in more detail. I think it may be... a building. I suspect that much." Which means he would be on location for parts of it. Probably a fresco repair. It is his specialty. It's what your Guillaume is most famous for.
     "But," he exhales, "I could do with ... being home in the heath, with the dogs and the rabbit pies. I miss it."

     Oh. Rabbit pies.
     Ian walks back to his growing pile with an armful of drift. He nods, "I miss pies too." I do miss home. "And...I don't remember the last time we were at Moray." The pile thuds and tinkles as he opens his arms. But Moray does not bring thoughts of comfort. It's another new experience to work through in this form. Familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.
      "We can have pies," well, you can, he'll smell and nibble, "...and I can do a few snares each evening. Pheasant?" Ian wonders absently, now standing at the mangled wood and staring at it.
     Okay. I can do this. I know how to do this.
     Closing his eyes, Ian clears his throat. He looks the wan magician, weary in form but great in power. He exhales roughly, as if a little frustrated and disappointed, then opens an eye to see the pile. A quiver of his chin, and Ian closes the eye to try again.

      He sees you trying something and he doesn't speak. He puts on his pants and looks from you to the wood and back to you. William lays a hand upon Safir's neck and Safir turns his head, nudging his old friend.
     And possibly checking for leeches...
     The only sound is the swishing of equine tails, William's breathing, and the wind moving through the trees.

     From the pile comes a tendril of grey-white smoke. It's from the bottom, and bears no heat.
     Ian stands, his expression forced, as if he's trying too hard. He exhales, but keeps his eyes closed again, arms wrapping around himself.
     I can do this.
     Fingers fold over opposite shoulders, as if he's cold. The bond hums with his worry, fear, frustration, disappoiment, and lack of confidence, but it also says, keep trying, please keep trying.
     Ian's eyes flutter though closed, the orbs moving behind his lids and lashes.
     Keep trying. Don't give up.
     It's easy to give up, and I want to give up.
     No, no, you know how to do this! I promise you know how. Just try...
     The wood crackles faintly at the base, somewhere between leaves and sticks. The tendril curls, soon growing to a larger billow of more smoke.

     He feels your varied emotions across the bond much in the way the wood may feel the magic you bring to bear, a slide of heat, a little smoke at first, and then tendrillig outward. He looks from you to the wood again, hearing it pop.
     It is hard not to shout encouragement, but he doesn't want to distract you. William watches on in interested silence. But what begins to ease from him is a sense of pride.
     Look at what my love can do. I never need be cold again. He knows how much I hate that...

     Then, as if hearing your thoughts, Ian begins to smile.
     Near him, the billows turn into a crackle. No longer the white emptiness of dying embers, but instead, the exciting crackle of a growing fire.
     Only then does Ian open an eye and peer over into the pile to check.

     Pants are on once more and only sticking to him a bit. The fire will solve that. He doesn't bother with the shirt, the night is warm enough and will be warmer still with the fire. Smiling, William steps forward, a hand resting on your shoulder, he leans in and places a kiss against your temple. "Brilliant," he whispers in sudden English.

     The smile becomes a blush as Ian's hand curls at his mouth. The grin is hidden behind the fist, and Ian bites his thumb in contained amusement.
     See, I do know how. It's not so terrible. Some things work alright. Not everything is a failure.
     "I did it," Ian whispers, emotion behind it. The smile quickly becomes tears as both hands cover his face and he starts to cry.
     "I did it."
     When his fingers curl down from his glistening eyes, Ian smiles at you, a grin shared with his damp cheeks. He looks at you disbelievingly, then to the fire again.
     Look at what I did...ha!

     For the past few years, I've looked at restoration from a purely selfish angle. The paintings, my hands, my work, my life. Until recently, this last year, I truly have come to understand that the restoration is not to restore something I lost, to restore Us to some state prior to numerous mistakes, infidelities and hurt feelings. I didn't understand it fully until I was asked to recreate the boy and the pear from the shambles of abuse and time and oblivion.
     It's not about me...
     It's not about the painting...
     It's about you...
     Sometimes I wonder why it has taken me so long to understand. To remember your words about vulnerability, not being or feeling exposed. I selfishly moved forward on my own path these past years, dragging you behind me. Even She saw this, she saw this after I came back. And She warned me. And I hate that she was right, finally and truly right about something. I didn't see it.
     When you asked me how you would live in this world as Aithlen without Ian there to protect you, I boldly stated, like a king giving an edict, that it would be alright. You and we would make it right. I had no doubts and no reservations then. When we stood in the Siddhane Gael that night, I began to see it very clearly, very deeply. I shone a hot, white light on you.
     What I should have done was protect you...
     Every decision I have made at every point until this year has been based on selfishness, self-gratification, all under the guise of selfless, unconditional love. When I resurrected the boy with the pear, I realized it was you. And you are more dear to me than a priceless work of art. You are as fragile in some ways. Is it any wonder that when I gave new life to the youth that he has your skin...
     "I believe in you," William says quietly, his hand still on your shoulder as you turn to him. You see his eyes are watery, surely. "Most of what you have done... you've succeeded in. I do not tell you this, I assume you know this. You are teaching yourself magic. Do you know what would happen if I stared at a pile of wood?" He laughs suddenly, despite the release of water from his eyes. "I'd get a headache."
     Ian... Aithlen... please forgive me. I understand it all so much better now. And I am here, to protect you both. That is my role. That is my purpose. That is why I have retired from the politics of the world. I don't need cities. I don't need parties. I need to be here for you on nights when you should be congratulated. On nights when you need to be shielded. On nights you need to fight, kill, fuck. That is why I am here. This is how things are made right.

     The hands between you and Ian lowers, curling at his chin. He swallows, sending tears into his pale lips.
     I believe in you.
     Who's said that before?
     Ian's lips parts, but he remains quiet. Grey eyes look at indigo, and slowly the figure in black takes another step closer, within your embrace.
     I believe in you.
     You believe in me.
     Ian's head lands at your shoulder, his forehead at your jaw. His arms remain tight against himself, and in the crook of your neck, Ian closes his eyes and continues to silently cry.

     He takes you in so easily, though your arms brace your Self against the outside world. He folds you in his arms. A hand rests at your back, another at your hair. And William says nothing. He lets the silence speak for him now, and the press of fingers at your back and at your scalp. The brush of his mouth at your head.
     I believe in you...
     William lowers the hand that rests lightly upon your head to your neck, which he rubs, an idle motion. He does not tell you that you should stop. He does not say that you have nothing to cry about. He does not rush in to fix it. William just holds you, simply. Being the wailing wall for you. Holding you up. Shielding you with his arms. Giving you space to cry and a body to cry against.
     Indigo eyes lift, taking note of the sky, the darkness of it, the position of the stars and planets and the stations of the hours. There is no rush and no need to rush. It is okay to cry and here in the wilderness it is just you and I.

     Minutes pass. Two. The shirt you wear dampens. Between you and Ian, the bond strums...not with sadness, oddly enough, but with renewed calmness. Quiet strength. After a clearing exhale, Ian pulls away to look up you, but not so far as to leave your embrace.
     "I can do just about anything, can't I?" he asks, face wet. "But, I just want you," he whispers. "That's all." That what all of this was for, yes? To care for us, at first, but then, to show you and the others, that I was worth your time.
     And then? It became a substitution. Unable to be exchanged for the real prize. Left with an empire as consolation gift.
     Ian exhales, fingers wiping at his face.
     I can do anything. Anything. I have, and I will. And, I can have my prize too.
     There's a smile upturned.
     "What do you think of my fire?" Ian grins, glancing behind to see the burning pile. "It's not so bad, huh? Pretty good, really, huh?"

     "We can now reduce the number of our house staff," William jokes, grinning down to you as you look up and then over to the fire. He sees it past you and the smile remains. "It's more than not bad. It's really rather good," another English idiomatic phrase. "We could have used that eight hundred years ago," a laugh at that. But he's not a bad firestarter when he has to do it the hard way. The hard part was finding wood in Scotland. And then wood that wasn't wet and mossy.
     He holds onto you, arms shifting to lie across your shoulders. Tilting his head, tipping it back slightly, William looks to you. "You can do just about anything," he says. "I haven't really seen anything you couldn't do. You're even a passable modern artist," speaking of your watercolors. He smiles to think of that. Of all the things you have done the painting is what touches him most. Since the first blob of white you ever made.
     William leans in, closing his eyes. He places a kiss upon your forehead and then, bending, places another at your mouth. "You have me," he whispers. "And you always will." It is an easy promise to make. He means it.

     "Good," Ian murmurs, snuggling up again. He closes his eyes when you kiss him, feeling the rush that your kiss always brings. "Good," he whispers again, as if to affirm it.
     "Can we...go home...so you can show me?" he asks, voice even. It is a genuine request, and the need for you has already started. By the time you ride home, he'll be well into the flush of it.

     "Of course," he says. A request easily filled. "We're not so far," he smiles. Perhaps even by design. Holding you still, William turns his head, a look over his shoulder. "You can see our lights from here," and so you can, the amberish lights of Chinon.
     A series of soft whistles leave your lover's lips and the black stallion comes to him with a mouthful of riverfed grass. Another kiss is left behind on your forehead and he goes to fetch your own horse. Not quite as obedient as the andalusian, being so much the younger, but well trained even still. He leads him to you, holding him ...as he shall until you mount. "I'll put out the fire," he notes as well. There's nothing you need do but mount.

     There's a nod from Ian as you depart. He lowers his hands to the edge of his turtleneck, pulling at it to straighten himself out somewhat. Turning about, he stares at the lights of Chinon for a moment, then gives his attention to you as you approach with his horse. His arms extend, and Ian easily lifts himself onto the young thoroughbred.

     William hands the reins to you, keeping a hand upon them until you're settled. I like attending you, you know. The smile shows it. And he looks at you not in a leering way -- though when does he ever look at you and not want you? -- but when he looks at you he sees myriad things, feels myriad things. They all come forward, tilting the smile and warming the gaze.
     "Now, amours," he murmurs, smile slanting, "...remember that Safir and I are old and slow..." The old horse grunts, as if he understands -- maybe he does. Pulling his shirt back on, William gives the andalusian a pat on his shoulder. With a breath, he swings himself up, with all of the grace of soldier who has performed that move a million times.
     One million five, to be exact...
     William looks to you, turning Safir around. Ready?

     There's a grin. Ian nods, rather tired now. He's ready for the castle and its private confines. A tsk under his breath is all the young horse needs, and Ian's arms angle the reins to head in the right direction.

     Remember when this was the only thing we did that made sense? Now it is just one more piece of what is right and good. One more piece of things that are understood.
     Once we arrived at Chinon, handing the reins to Henri, we came to our bed. We fell into the linens. The windows open, the warm breeze turned cool against our skin.
     I eased myself in...
     And I spoke to you as I moved. I told you how much I loved you and what you do to me. When I came with a breath of your name at your mouth, I smiled. Don't you know that you can do anything...
     I believe in you...
     We must have fallen asleep...
     I wake, opening my eyes. I am lying beside you, facing you -- our last position was scissored lateral. Our legs are still tangled. Smiling, I kiss you, closing my eyes, and my hand lies across the rise of your hip.

     "You're awake," Ian murmurs, his eyes opening at the finish of his observation. They are grey, as grey as ever. The kiss is returned with parted lips, and when done, Ian's tongue touches his lips as if to taste. His smile comes drowsy, he relaxed and content.
     "I wonder lots of things," Ian says softly, just for your ears. "Then, I think I know the answers." About us. What happened. How did I end up...without the very thing I wanted.
     And then, it all changed. I changed.
     There's a grin. He knows he doesn't have to speak his thoughts any longer. You'll know what words are not said. Ian chuckles, not really expecting comment to either. His legs slip against your own, and he leans forward into you, exhaling gently. Ah, reminders always of a recent Guillaume Plantagenet encounter, Ian thinks...

     "A little," he murmurs and then he smiles. A little awake. And it doesn't matter now, how things happened as they did Back Then. And I don't even marvel at the change anymore. It Is and We Are.
     "Pain," he wonders softly, for a moment not even realizing he said it aloud. His hand massages your hip for a moment, as if that shall help anything. The not so gentle reminders, ne c'est pas? No matter how gently made. William lifts his hand from your hip and rests it lightly at your head, hand moving against your scalp, fingers playing and straying in the gold.
     And then it all changed. I changed.
     "So we meet in the middle," he whispers. "It's the way it should be." Another kiss, another tug of your mouth, another round could start like this. Other things are not said but felt, the air is thick around the two of you and the double-charge of conversations audible and silent.
     You have me. And you always will...
     Indigo eyes open, his gaze glancing down your body and he smiles. Right in the palm of your hands.

     "It is," Ian whispers. Just as it should be. Hoped for. There's delight and relief in the thought. A quick grin of amusement. Lucky us.
     "Do you think it's alright," his tongue fluttering natively, "...if we never do anything else again, but spend every moment together, talking or painting or riding...or...staying in bed? Is that alright, for...let's say...a hundred years?" Say yes. We deserve it, laird.

     "Yes," he says. We do deserve it. "And if the hundred years are not enough," he murmurs in the shared hybrid language between you both, vowels and consonants moving in a Langue Gael, "... we will tack on an extra fifty." William grins sidelong.
     We deserve it...
     A prolonged quiet. Just the two of us. We haven't had that in so long. Maybe not even since the beginning when we huddled under thatch, wattle and stone.
     We deserve it...
     The restoration...

     A fine answer. Ian grins, knowing it was leading the witness, but he cares not. "And another fifty after that, if we feel like it." So there, vampires of the world!
     "I want to watercolor more. And paint things," Ian murmurs. "And make more fires," he smirks. "Or fall into bed with you, whenever we get the tiniest," and his fingers pinch together, "...of inklings. Just because we can," Ian laughs.

     He laughs with you, "We better set up some easels next to the bed then." Knowing himself. And his inklings, tiny or no. William exhales a sound, one arm slipping beneath you, the other lowering back to your hip.
     Vampires of the world, beware... or is that rejoice?... you shan't be hearing from us for a while. "Yes," William seconds again, you have your extra fifty.
     "We will paint then. I would like that. Maybe I'll even do another ceiling." Your husband and his frescoes. "I like the sound of this," he murmurs it at your mouth. My only obligation is to you. And through you, to Us. And it brings me joy, it brings contentment.
     "Mmm.. good scotch... big fires, that you will build for us," a chuckles. What could be better than this, amours?

     Ian's face brightens at the idea that he'll make fires. A useful ability, yes. He nods, scooting closer - if possible - into your widening arms. "Anything you want to do?" he wonders, having given his list.

     "Hmmm... some riding now and again, maybe a little hunting. We could go to the coast, watch the dolphins in Moray." Or maybe buy another property in the south of Scotland, like you talked about before. Like Chenonceau is to Chinon, a country home to Strathfayr. "Bed and painting is usually enough for me," William chuckles, eyebrows lifting. You know his tastes, his likes, his dislikes. And bed and painting rank one and two on Plantagenet's list of things he'd rather be doing.
     The hold tightens somewhat, and he bends his head, mouth at your collar bone. Tasting your skin -- there is nothing better than this. Nothing. "Reading... just... living." It is enough. It's what I want. Just to live with you.

     There's nods for your list. "Me too," Ian murmurs, closing his eyes as lips wander over his skin. This is the reward of a hundred lifetimes. He smiles faintly, hand settling at your stomach.

Posted by rowan at September 20, 2003 01:29 AM