Now is the quietest time of evening. The hush that falls upon the world in those last hours before dawn. When even dogs and horses sleep, and the wind falls lightly. And rivers run quietly. In fact, it is the only sound currently stirring -- the soft chattiness of the Loire. Set up upon her upper banks are two tents -- one housing Guillermo, the other housing the two lords. The horses have been combed down, fed grain and a makeshift corral has been made -- straps of leather tied to the surrounding tree branches. The truck and trailer is gone, and Guillermo has long since hit his tent and by now surely must be asleep. Late it is for him. For you and your spouse?
     It is William's favorite time of night. When the world seems like a private garden. A cloister for him, his thoughts, to share privately with the one he loves. It is the time of night that, prior to battle, would find him awake and wandering out to speak with his own men. Four hours yet until dawn. And he walks in the grass, barefoot, clothed now not in his leathers but in some sturdy but soft trousers. No shirt, and his hair is still damp from the recent bathing. William's stride, languid, is also silent. For one so large as he, it is otherworldly. His hands slide into his pockets and he looks to you. Dark hair veiling his eyes -- only you could see the color of them... brilliant morning glory. And the direction? Back toward the tents...

     The tents are made of a sturdy and black material, almost kevlar in a fashion. Blocking out the sun. State-of-the-art. And against the night, nearly invisible. But you can make out the outline. Macsen lifts his head at the approach...

     Ah, comfort. Sometimes, he is reminded exactly how spoiled he has become. How much he needs his creature comforts. Cleanliness. Someone to see to the niggling details of mundane Undeath. Granted, if he must, he can do those things himself...living like so many younger vampires do, by threat and chase, fear and hunger...he could survive an existence that way. He's clever. But Ian has never wanted to live in such fashion. Not after he was shown otherwise by Liam...
     As you approach, Ian drops the towel that he uses to brush wildly at his hair. He is by the tent, peering at himself in a bit of mirror. The towel rests upon his shoulders, and he too is simply dressed in a pair of navy trousers, more flattering than anything else. Still barefoot, Ian is, but that is alright. He has spent a bit of useful time in the Loire with you and all is alright with the world.
     "A bit of a rest," Ian asks as he often does. A hint to retire early together. "Or, do you want to go out a little?" Hands lift to run through his hair, grey eyes upon himself. It causes the muscles in his back to form and ripple about each other, lengthening the view to the waistband of his pants. He sighs and comes upright, turning to see whether you are coming closer. "Tired at all, handsome?" he teases, French slipping easily from his tongue.

     Comfort. The spoils of regality and majesty -- he has, in truth, seldom been without them. For he did not live upon the earth as you in your early immortal years, but lived in a castle, even as he had been mortally born in one. You saw to that. To everything. And now, William has returned the favor. With comforts of France and home. You smell of honey -- the soap Marie-Lys makes -- and as he approaches, and you come even more into view, you may see the slant of a smile upon his lips. Half-perched, the birth of a grin. How he does like French from your mouth, and compliments in his tongue. Such invitations to rest are usually nothing of the sort. Or rather rest comes at the end of much commotion. Commotion such as even the Loire does not make against the limestone of its bed. More like the sea against the shore, with something of that ferocity, rhythm and salt.
     Fingers skim against your shoulder. Warmth and the trail of electricity. Blood that knows blood. Skin that knows skin. Souls that know the power shared between. "Not... tired...non... but I would not mind a bit of ..." Dark hair drapes back as he inclines his head and the grin shows itself. "... horizontal. I've been upright all day..." In one way or another. His voice deep and soft sounds slowly, the French that of his mother. The tones both dark and warm. "A glass of wine...?" Several bottles were brought by Guillermo -- a mix of white and red, the reds flavored by the plums and cherries of William's own orchards. His hand lifts and fingers skim the tussled gold. Even as his eyes move over you. You are all the food he needs -- to the sight and all senses. Thereafter is his hand held out to you, an offering.

     Now that he is clean and presentable, Ian minds not thoughts of getting quite messy. He chuckles, boyish look tossed aside for what you know is something older, more virile. A twist of his body to you shows the definition. "Sounds nice," Ian agrees, taking the mirror off his prop and closing it with a snap. "A bit of gentle sociability, hmm?" Ah, so unlikely. Ian smirks and looks to his dogs remanded near the horses for the night. Sentinels all. They will not stay there, and eventually will walk a perimeter of their choosing around the camp.
     The mirror is tossed near a bag. He'll see to it later. White towel still around him, Ian inhales the scents deeply. He does like this soap. Your hand is taken strongly, and he pulls himself towards you. "Are you pouring?" he wonders, letting you decipher that one, already turning towards the tent.

     He is not like so many of his Clan, his extended Family, with an eye cast backward over his shoulders and sighs landed for missed centuries. As civilized as he considered himself, he was still a barbarian was he not? Fastidious... well... to a reasonable point. His father bathed once a month and that was considered extraordinary. Thankfully, William was a water hound and was most happy when naked and wet and so avoided, more often than not, carrying that refreshing Crusader aroma around with him. And his love of being naked, barefoot and wet still applies. At least, when the weather is warm. But there is no part of him that would trade the cleanliness of the Modern Age with that of his own. Prospects of jousts be damned...
     Older. More virile. Yes. And he is in this moment predator and lover both. Held in the darkness of his eyes, in the stance, in the language of his form. And other things invisible to all save you. His hand curls around your own and draws you to him. "I shall be," he murmurs, and then as you turn, you feel his fingers trail against your spine. "Do you prefer...red or white?" So innocent and casual that statement. But... he'll let you decipher that one.

     The opening of the tent is a dual one, but unfastened. There is an outer zipper, a panel beneath that and yet another zipper. This, to prevent the inward spilling of light. Tents, with vampires in mind it would seem. Within? Air mattresses that make one forget one is sleeping on earth, blankets and two pillows. Most comfortable. Princes... traveling in style...

     "I tend to red of late," Ian grins, bending to see about the zippers and then slip within. But not before turning in the threshold to you and muttering plainly, "..tonight, I shall take white. Communion in wine and water, yes?" His brows lift and fall, a honeyed scent trailing as he disappears within, darkly within darkness, under blackened sky.
     Inside the tent, noise follows. Soft sounds of rustling, of linen, of material. Clothing...

     Such a look, the face is one of nearly serious reverence. You know better. And the curl of his mouth tells you this, does it not? Bending, your shadow follows you. Leaving the Loire to talk to itself and to the trees along its banks. As the flaps of the tent are zipped, closed and fastened for the night...or rather, day... even the voice of the Loire falls to a hush. There is now... only the sound of you and him. Of clothing and fabric. He fills the tent, your husband. And as soon as he is full within, trousers are unfastened and he settles on the mattress.
     There are no stars here, but you and he. No sky, but the overarching tent ceiling. No universe, but the one you and he create between you. All the fire, and the fury, all the creation and all the power of it shall be herein contained. A pocket of Existence, otherworldly. The curl of a smile broadens and he makes a cross at his chest. "Devout," comes the languid murmur, "I shall kneel and part my lips for such a communion..." Lord in Heaven, William. And even he has to chuckle at it. Cleanliness is next to godliness, is it not? And communion between spouses may take many forms. Indeed.

     He tsks at the blasphemy, hand reaching out to grab yours and disrupt the sign of the cross. "You will be the end of us," Ian teases, somehow already changed into a white shirt. His trousers, are gone. The hem falls at his thighs, and certainly there is nothing beneath. Ian laughs and rolls onto his back, hands coming beneath his head. Looking up, he observes the new heavens. "No stars," he says to the captive audience, "...but, I guess that is alright." A grin and he asks, "Now, for that drink?"

     Blaspheme? A Plantagenet? Well, he is more devout than certain members of his family but not nearly as devout as his father. Perhaps once he was... he barely remembers it. The time of God and the Perfection of the Orderly Medieval Cosmos. How vampiric life has altered him, yes? Hands do not complete the cross, and laughter falls from him. Even as his eyes fall to the hem of the shirt.
     As you roll onto your back, William moves to cover you. Hover. Indigo to make a sky for you. Brilliant, as though star-filled. He has the eyes of Young Evening, does he not? A hand settles upon either side of you, and then his left hand lifts to tend to his trousers. The light-colored fabric begins to pool at his hips. "Close your eyes... I will give you a few..." That grin again. As deadly as devastating. You know what it promises. You feel it in the brush of a kiss against your lips.
     Poor Guillermo... let us hope he brought cotton for his ears. Or sleeps very deeply...

     "A few?" Ian's face lights up somewhere between blush and humor. He can only imagine. The shirt comes open, as he had not time to button it, leaving little to the imagination. "But if I close my eyes," lids lowering over grey, "...then I cannot see my violet stars," voice soft. Your tongue spoken like so many youths you once new. Fingers lift and touch your face instead, as if marking the rises and falls, the feel of your skin. "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. That is how the rhyme goes, oui, Guillaume?"

     After eight centuries... he does not need his imagination. You fill his senses altogether, far more completely and far more profoundly than images of you his mind may conjure. What imagination could compete with the proximity and vision of you? With you, he loves with his eyes open -- only closing when pleasure is at its most intense. You feel the dark strands of hair draping forward, a skimming touch left behind upon your chest. And after it, the warmth of his mouth. Lifting, to your chin. Your mouth. And with a chuckle, held in his throat, that sounds against your lips. "You will recite poetry, yes? Speak to me in Shakespeare," indigo eyes fix upon your face and a dark brow lifts upward, "...and I shall answer you in Marcabru..."
     His smile pulls against your mouth, and it is suckled, like a wedge of an orange, before released. There is silence for a moment -- full of his breathing, deep and quickening, full of his heartbeat, steady and surging -- as if real -- and there is the chiming of his own belt, falling away undone.

     The chiming of the belt always captures him. Ian stills a moment, listening to the fading tinkle of metal. You unleashed upon the world. And first, upon him. The breaker that spares the world your onslaught. Such a sacrifice. Ian smiles finally, realizing you must feel his chill, the sudden stillness that comes with the belt and falling zipper. Ah, caught. Alright, so you know. With eyes still closed, fingers brush at your lips and hair, so knowing the distances. "Shakespeare," Ian whispers, "...I am afraid..." he chuckles, "I don't know much from him...not memorized anyway. I was never so good at that, you know, Guillaume." A sigh and Ian's brows arch, sending them more golden in the rise, "But why talk of poetry at all? We should talk of...us...." fingers tickle at your ears, "...and this..." what is about to happen. "N'est pas?"

     A noble sacrifice indeed. The world should thank you, Ian Dunross. Such a martyr for the cause you are, so self-less. You should be cannonized for such a service to the world. A brush of his hand -- a glance in the parting of fabric to free him. Soft fabric that thereafter falls slack at his hips. Again, his mouth captures your own. You feel the press of teeth against the fullness of that flesh. Gently. "Us... my favorite topic... oui? And I like it..." comes the murmur at your throat. "... when you call me Guillaume..." Again, the brush of dark hair, silken to your skin, as his head dips. And you shall be loved. And savored. And feasted upon. You know this -- until Dawn.
     As his hand moves in concert with his hips -- to try to free him from his trousers without horribly displacing him from you -- his mouth trails over your chest, exploring. Remembering. What pleases you... what makes you blush... what makes you moan or whisper to him or cry out. Was it this? -- a pass of his mouth over a nipple. Or this? -- the study of his tongue against your skin. "I could hold you, kiss you for another thousand years... and still... my favorite delight is... searching the way of pleasure upon you..." William smiles. A slow pull of fire against your skin...

     "Guillaume..." Ian murmurs at the touches. Each of them elicits movement or sound. A talent it is, for you to inspire such responses. "It..." he breathes, lips full from your pulling, "...is a nice name." He smiles, eyes still closed. It is what you asked. "I could be with you another thousand years," blonde hair at Ian's brow, "...and always still need to know that you find me as desirable as I find you." The brows relax, expression widening. "I would be empty without you, Guillaume. Without this." Ian pauses a second, hands at your shoulders gently. "Hmm. If my eyes shall remain closed, then I am not to see you? And if so, then...." Ian grins and squirms, twisting underneath you. With you dark to him, he might as well be upon his stomach.

     And I you -- the bond between you shimmers with that. The full force of his love. The fire of his lust that darkens against his already bronzed-olive complexion. So much the darker of the two of you. Your Mediterranean lover, yes? Well... close. Empty, he thinks...he feels, there would be a void where there is so ...much now. No, the world shall never know a moment when you and he are parted. Desirable? More than. "It is a need... that will never grow cold. I look at you... you do not even have to touch me... and you have me. I want... and I need..."
     William pauses the kiss at the touch of your hands to his shoulders. And eyes that were partly closed, veiled behind dark lashes, open. Flickering, dark and brilliant all at once. Darkened with lust, lit with immortal fire. And as you turn to lie upon your stomach, the air noticeably tightens. As does he. And the trousers are shoved from him. And every muscle poised. Hardened. And he lengthend. You feel him move forward, mouth to your shoulder, groan at your ear. Your name, "Ian..." murmured, then pulling tautly from a tense throat. You know what this does to him. And you feel it as he moves against you, and within you.
     Poor Guillermo. That he should be but one tent over. The low sound that emits from his throat is held in his chest, deeply. And in his stomach, and through his groin to you in a surge. Doubled, seconded by the surge against the Bond. There is nothing like this. Nothing greater than this. The communion of lovers.

     Hardly time to think upon what should transpire. Let alone talk. Looking to the pillow, Ian's arms slip under and around his own, cheek soon to rest against it. Eyes open when his name is spoken and his shoulder kissed. And as he's moved against, the pillow curls tightly, as if it should provide some brace. But it does not, and blonde hair spills upon the linen as Ian sinks, chest first. It leaves the rest of him aloft, a rise where you might fold comfortable.
     Yet the sound, the sound that comes from him is not so much comfort, as it is the clarion call of Night. Pleasure and ache shudder simultaneously, trembling out across parted lips. No, it was not so quickly expected, the feeling of you filling him again, but it is not something Ian shall ask cessation upon. The world simply knows of his joy, sounded in a groan that fills the tent and rumbles low across the earth to places further.
     And when it passes, Ian pants softly, letting the emotion and physical waves wash over him. Open eyes look askance to the tent walls, as if they should have anything for him. He should be used to you, should he not? But still, how it makes him feel inside, when you are there, remains a taste unexpected. So much is it, are you, that he should not think to feel so filled and loved by any one man. Yet you do this for him. Does it please you...to see me so? Ian wonders, letting his eyes close again. A conversation in a microsecond. Thoughts, sound, and feeling in a moment. It has not been so long.

     His soul finds its home when he is within you. Moving against the blood even as it surges to thicken him, to tighten his muscles, to make supple the skin nearing its thousandth year with every sunset. That you are his world. You are the bright focus in his universe. To touch you is to touch the Divine and the Desired. And that you are mine. Mine. A swell of possession, loving, rises behind the surge of passion. Love. Need. Mine. The power of thighs comes against you where he holds himself flush for moments. Moments of control and settling...
     He trembles with it. With the pleasure of it. Touching you. When he does so -- in a glance or in a thrust -- you become All There Is. Your touch transports him. He can think of nothing else. Nothing. Nothing. "You are all," he groans. You are all, he whispers. And then it is in the groan that follows.
     And the rhythm that begins. You. Are. All. Do you not know the power over him that you have? That others whisper on surely? It is there. You touch him, and he is claimed. It is there. So beautiful. So handsome. Virility and Grace. And Mine...
     As you glance aslant, you might notice his balancing hands upon the surface of the air mattress. Grasping for an anchor in this. You feel his thighs part widely, balancing. Steadying with a taut tremble as his skin sounds against your own. Groin meeting the rise of you. How could I help this? How could seeing you beneath me... not drive me to This? To want. To Must Have... And the images rapidly follow. This position is... a favorite. But his favorite? You straddling and taking what you want of him, facing him. Upon chair, or no matter the surface. Something reserved just for you. Images tumble after your feelings and thoughts. William closes his eyes, unable to keep them open now -- too sweet is this -- and his mouth parts at the nape of your neck. Fangs drag there, and he turns his head, tongue snaking around an earlobe...

     In the next tent, a sleeping form was stirred by a sound, and with a smirk, Guillermo pulls a pillow over his head. Lord... do they never stop?

     The rumor is no, but any should know that not to be quite true. Yet the continuous sounds belie this. Warm and low, they are the heated trawl of a blissful struggle. Someone enjoying the tension. Perhaps Guillermo has gotten so good at this as to know who is who, to differentiate voices and noises. That...is pain. That...is pleasure. That...a call for more. That? A request to be freed. They are all disparate the sounds. My. And this? A finishing. Yes, any could tell that one.
     He tries to leverage himself, to press back against you. At the same time, Ian wants to take whatever it is you wish to give. To lie and enjoy you upon him, floating in the heated pleasure of it all. But that is too easy. Biting his own bottom lip, he sends a message with his real desire. The faint scent of blood rises from him, warmed by his own breath. Quickly, he runs his tongue along it, and where you kiss his ear, he makes his pulsing skin available. There.

     Guillermo has heard them enough times by now, yes. Ah, pain -- well... he knows why, and in truth William would have to kill him before coming that near to him with what God has granted. Pleasure? Though it is not a pleasure he shares in... on the receiving end that is, he can well imagine that, hypothetically speaking, both of you would be more than capable lovers. Ah, and the crescendo. Like an opera. The Pleasure and Pain of the Two Lords of Chinon. Guillermo covers his ears, but in truth he is more than half-listening.

     Every sound of yours is echoed by his own. Deeper, sharper, punctuating every inward surge. Quickening, there is pleasure and sharpness for him as well. To feel you so close around him. Delight is edged. The warm, firm grasp, the sounds you make. And the rise of your blood to your skin... calling him... This... he cannot withstand. Ian... Love... Home.
     Blood seeks itself and the soul its kin held within it. The keen edge of a canine strokes the lobe of your ear in its distending. Rhythm is thrown out of rhythm by the promise of it. Knowing. Knowing that the first taste shall send him spilling forward, within and without. Lifting to his skin, sweat beads like fire, dotting him. Wetting and darkening the hair at the nape of his neck. And with a rolling groan, loud, his mouth parts and your neck. Penetration -- as above, so below...

     The sound then comes upon roiling breath. A collapsing grunt, muffled suddenly. A pillow must have intervened. In the down, air is sucked and pushed back into the world, heavy draughts of sustenance.
     You know that it is but Desire, not a need for breathing. Your name said there upon clenched teeth. No, I'm not ready yet...not ready for the rest... below, where you are joined, Ian holds you firmly. Slower...oh...go slower...make it last... His body does exactly that, as much from the desire to hold the speeding train as much as the languor that comes at your Kiss. Now does the need to simply feel You capture him take hold, Ian's hips gently easing forward and back. He sighs, hoping your momentum follows his. The pillow wheezes when his forehead rests heavily on the down, and his hands curl at the leaning edge of the mattress.

     You had to stop him, for you know that the pleasure of it would have sent him headlong into the burn of this magic. But stop him you do. Still him. You can feel the heat of sweat against him, liquid fire against the skin that instantly cools. He holds still, musculature so on edge as to tremble. Control. Control. You can feel him pleading his blood for it. You have not felt him this close to... such a frenzy of passion in a while. He is ever the master of it. Not usually so lost to it that he cannot command it. But he has to stop. To breathe. The swirl of his tongue against your neck closes the wound, captures the last stream of the blood taken. Sweet. So sweet. Powerful. Incredible...
     Bloody, the smile that pulls slowly across his lips. Bloody. William slows as you slow, rhythm renewed but in rolling surges. Slow and purposeful as the sea. He lets you move him. Command him, even though you are beneath him... and he behind you. And the bedding sounds softly as his hands lift. Skimming next the touch, his fingers placed to your hips...

     More? The pillow lifts as the sounds quiet and Guillermo sighs, rolling over. Thank God...for once a short night of it...

     Images of a secret marriage are carried upon his blood. A bond always there, even if the two of you were unaware. Ian's blood carries the story of you both, just as your own does. Each night with you is recorded. Each drink is a reminder. Feeling you both reeled in, Ian smiles faintly, but the droplets at your nape are crystalline at his brow. Blonde hair shimmers damply at his skin. He parts his lips to breathe, the grin growing. When you move, he comes back to his elbows, shoulders and back taking the moment to stretch and release some of the pinned energy. Face leaves the pillow as he props, forehead dangling to touch the down. "I love you, Guillaume," he grins, as if you did not know it. Skin pales faintly where you took from him, but certainly, soon enough, he will be flush there once more.

     A secret marriage. Before there were rings. The first time there was shared laughter. A shared look. The first time there was sorrow. The first sigh that landed. All are echoed now, in the motion. In the images held in the blood, shown against the Bond like a mirror's reflection. Did you know... did you know it was not so long before he loved you? Did you know... that it was in his first year...see the image of the Truth of it upon his face. When he did not understand it, but felt it. In the glance to you from a nearby candle flame. I have always loved you.
     "I love you..." Still. "I love you," comes the voice again, the groan upon a grin. His fingers curl against you, drawing you in toward him. The concert of muscles -- thighs, stomach, sides, arms, chest -- this is what is behind you. A force of nature, your husband. He fills you, and thickly. With every inward motion, he holds himself full within and hips curl. Savoring. A hand returns to the surface of the matress, and his other slides against your side. "I always... have..." Even when I did not know it. Or understand it.

     "I know," Ian whispers in kind, slowing you both to pause. I know now... and his hand comes to press at yours. Fingers twine, as he supports himself with his other. He smiles and half-twists to see you. "Can I open my eyes yet?" he asks, recalling earlier. And if so, let me turn over...

     Deep and flowing, the chuckle is held in his throat and his chest. Reverberating within you as he is held there. "Yes... of course...love..." But he closes his, an exhale as his hips curl back. You feel him pull from you. Slowly, and with a long and lingering groan. Jesus. William balances himself, a grasp of his hand against you as he begins to settle back on his knees... to allow you to move.

     Across the way, in the other tent, a relieved sigh has turned to a soft snore. Guillermo is asleep. Once more...

     Has it gotten so quiet that the world might sleep? Ian chuckles suddenly, hearing the bit across the way. "I think he is asleep..." he whispers, head tossing in Guillermo's direction. Poor thing. As you leave him, Ian pushes himself up and over. A genteel motion, if such is possible in this situation. He seems more relaxed, your love, and once on his back, hands immediately reach for you to return above him. "It is getting cold," he murmurs in French, smile from ear to ear. You are uneasy. "Will," he blinks, "...come here..." And he will hold you for a bit.

     There are some times, even when held in the knot of pleasure that he would simply wish to lie with you. Without such commotion and sweat and fire. He loves you. He wants you. The pleasure was so much, and when the images spilled forward? You ask him to come here, and he does not hesitate. He lowers to the mattress and settles on you, against you. Perhaps before dawn within you again. But for now? His head rests in the crook of your neck and chest. Pulling a blanket along with him. To cover him... who covers you. You have for a cover his warmth and his strength. He is damp with sweat, just damp.
     "I ... remember the ... first night I came downstairs," William murmurs, eyes blinking away the feeling of rising salt. "...and saw you... and stopped ... in my tracks. That ... knot that was in my heart... my gut... and I stared at you...." That image he saw, that his blood carried to you. That came not in a quiet, reflective moment but in love's own fire. "...I loved you. I love you..."

     He smiles. "What did you think?" A simple statement. In all that has transpired, simple questions still remain about The Beginning? "Did I look more like a boy then? Not...an angel, hmm?" Hands come to your back, under the blanket. Warmth is needed now as the magics work too well. Shuddering brings a release of heat. Chills. "Can you...tell me what it was like? The first night...in Qual-Arador? Or even...the first night on the boat? Or...in Scotland?"

     He shakes his head. Amazed. As if by that to say... no... it is too far. But his arms snake around you beneath the covers and you hear him draw a breath to speak. You feel it, in the shift of skin against you. In the swell of that broad chest. "You did not look like a boy... A youth... who... was my travel companion, and on whom everything depended. I did not .. have never... viewed you as a boy..." You were always More to him than that.
     Sing-song, the languid baritone both soft and deep moves over the words of Memory, thickened with his mother's French, "On the boat... I do not remember so much of it, but being beneath the deck. All of that first month...those first months... a blur to me now. But I remember ...that night..." William lifts his head, and narrowed indigo is brilliant. "In Strathfayr...coming down from the turret to the hall," so nicely refurbished now, "...and stopping to stare at you...from behind you. You thought it was the fire, because it was large and I was still... afraid of it. But it was not that, Ian... "
     I loved you. And the eyes were the same. The look the same. The ache the same. William is not upset... he was excited and lustful to the point of frenzy. But he stills now, and forms entwine more... peacefully than before. "It is Scotland I most remember. I do not remember the journey home...there are... glimpses but... the rest seems to have fallen away..."

     He can understand that. Even his own recollections are hazy. More impressed as the feelings from then. Love. Fear. Frustration. Anger. Passion. Need. Want. Hands caress softly, unchanged in the time you have known him. All for you. They wander up and down, exploring and keeping you close as much as providing constancy and comfort. Ian did think it was the fire though, his face curiously innocent. "I thought...maybe I was rushing things with the hearth too much..." he murmurs, feeling apologetic again.
     "Sometimes, I thought I was just rushing all the time. Too much for you." He thought it was him, but not as you did. A smile forms though, realizing one of the many errors from them. "I loved you too," he barely gets out, "...I still do."
     Hands brush lower, towards the small of your back. "You don't recall landing at...well, what is now Nantes...for a couple of nights?"

     Nantes. Geoffrey's Brittany. Geoffrey dead some three years. It was Arthur's then. For a while. It would not be so long. John would murder Arthur and then Nantes would be among the things that John would lose to Auguste. There is a sound -- it is not thoughtful, you know the timbre of every sound he makes -- held in his throat and chest. Your fingers, love... to the small of my back...
     He lifts to that, and beneath your fingers muscles tighten, shifting. Tiny white and gold hairs standing on end. Black hair silkens against your shoulder as he bends his head. His mouth parting at your skin. Warmly. First seeking. "I recall... having to be careful. So careful in France. In Nantes, in Calais. I remember helping with the language of the region..." The Bretagne so close to Welsh, and the dialects of his tongue... the northern French and the Langue d'oc, his own Provencal.
     William chuckles suddenly, and a knot of intensity loosens. Sudden, warm, soft -- that laughter. Conveying love as much as memories. "A miracle... that we made it so far as to Scotland..."
     Indigo. Such colors, alive with fire and deep hues both, settle upon the features of your face. Memorizing, in such detail. Burning the sight of you in his mind and against his blood. The smile that trailed his laughter lingers. Slight, but not lacking warmth. The countenance beautiful, sculpted features, is warmed by it. "You did not rush me," William murmurs, accent elongating even the French he speaks. "You did not allow me to ...shrink from learning. I benefitted from this. But..." The smile spreads, broadening. "...it was not the fire that stopped me that night. It was you."
     Closing his eyes, William leans in. Lips brush against your forehead. A sweep of warmth. "You wish to know... how I see you when I am behind you... You are the most beautiful man. The pleasure unparalleled. So... intense... that I...sometimes lose the ... studied lover's ... composure..." A dark brow lifts, and the smile slants. And yes... a blush lifts. How long has it been since you have seen him color so?

     "Ah, see this, Touraine," Ian teases, left hand coming to touch your cheek. Fine hairs cover you...sometimes he forgets how downy and tickling they are. "Your Lord turns colors," he smiles, "...and here, I thought it was simply a back that was to you. Tsk," Ian grins like yours. Inhaling his smile turns reminiscently warm, "We made it to Scotland ... because we tried hard. Together, you and I. Together."
     The hand returns to lower, warmer climes, feathering the soft hairs with fingertips. "You make me feel beautiful, Will...just you. I would think myself a feckless boy that no man should want, if it were not for you." A small laugh, mostly to reassure you. He pauses, watching you, head slanting upon his pillow. Gold shudders around him. "Sometimes, I wish we could go back to those times....and say what we meant better. Or...to listen better..."

     That only makes the color deepen and you hear the soft "Fie", teasing in return. Softly chiding. His own blood, moreso than you, yes? William settles now, more beside and flush against you than atop and upon you. Strength and warmth, confidence and knowing. Reassurance? You give it, he takes it, but he was not uneasy. You feel this. It was simply... too much for a moment. Yet though risk of frenzy is gone, the passion remains unchanged. He needs. He wants. As long as lashes lift and eyes see, he always shall want you. Need you.
     A hand trails over your stomach, his other arm surrounds you. "Close your eyes... imagine we are in the dark cloistered chambers of Strathfayr.. before electric lighting and men who fly..." comes the languor of his voice, deep and sing-song. As if conjuring Time's passage like a mage. William closes his eyes, and if yours remain open you will note his coloring returns to normal. He imagines the dark stone -- the blood carries this -- the rain of spring. The breezes through the castle moving.
     "I love you... not because I open my eyes and you are all I see. I love you... because I love. It is simple." His eyes open then. Simple, love. "No small and feckless boy, but a young man. Handsome, assured... and yet... there is vulnerability there. A desire to be loved, to be understood." Lifting again, his mouth brushes against your own. A light kiss. Always promising more.
     "I... liked being your translator...to show you... that I still had that ... command...yes? That I was still the Duke you chose, for whatever reason you chose me. I did not know then. I began to see... it wasn't long before I began to see it..."

     Doing as you instructed, Ian breathes deeper when you are beside him, so happy and at ease with everything. Recalling the times are not so hard, but Strathfayr was a different place then. Halls with furs and arms and torches -- gaslights even at one point. But it was still his home and where he felt closest to you, even if you were not there.
     "I remember," he whispers softly, listening to you speak about being loved and understood. Eyes open and his face lights to hear of the Duke he loved. "How we both needed to be...understood, hmm?" Ian sighs and closes his eyes once more. "Both of us. And you were a fine translator...you were different when we touched French shores." He laughs, "I don't know what we would have done without you with us. You took care of things," he recalls. "I could speak, sure, but in truth, I did not know what would work...to get passage without them looking through everything. Or even wondering if we were always waiting for an ambush from someone."
     Eyes open, filled with your visage. "And you got us out with provisions...and towards home again," Ian whispers with a smile. He grins to himself. I am a young man... blushing suddenly out of the blue. Huh. I guess so. Eyes lift to the tent's ceiling as Ian...smiles.

     There was a ring he could show that made men do things for him. There was a way he spoke, a command in the gaze. He commanded armies and land. Castles and men. And that came across then, so fresh as it was. He had to later remember that command, to regain what he thought was lost. But when he traveled then he was your Duke. He was Normandy.
     That has lessened somewhat over the passage of time. What has emerged more is the William that existed beneath the layers of Normandy. But on occasion yet you may see him, that Duke of Olde. William chuckles at the mention of his...transformation. "Ah...oui... it was hard ...not to be... me in full, oui?" Indigo flickers as his eyes lower to you, even as he is half lifted, propped on an elbow. His fingers trail yet over your stomach, sometimes dipping downward still before lifting to your chest. A lover's seductive touch. Knowing and Discovering all in the same motion.
     "We did... need to be understood. We still do..." Eyes widen slightly with a laugh. "But...it is easier, so much easier now. You understand...I understand...Then, we were both fumbling in the Dark Ages...learning... as we went along." At your blush, his soft smile transforms to a grin. Broad. Wicked. How he loves it. "You are a young man... but a man, no boy. Eighteen? Old enough to be a duke. An Earl... Earl of Strathfayr as you became. A man, Ian... no boy... I have never viewed you as a boy..."
     And you ...have not a boy's... physique... it is a man's... And that thought trails upon his blood even as his fingers skim against your skin, making circles. "We should end our tour in Strathfayr," he whispers. "... Even as our first journey ended..." He loves his Chinon. But Scotland is home as much as this.

     The blush takes a few moments longer to subside. You are the only to speak to him so. To speak of his physique as much as the age he carries. That...people have respected. The rest, was discarded. A wry twist of his lips and Ian looks at you again. You like to embarrass me... he thinks, the blush threatening to return. But he chases it off with a deep breath. "I'd like...to go back to Strathfayr at the end," he smiles, "it...seems like our home?" Not to diminish Chinon...he has had the best time there ever this trip, and seeing the land again. But he too, when he thinks of where you began, it is in Scottish halls, where he brought you to ask you to stay with him.
     "I was thinking," he brightens, "...maybe...we should have a French garden at home? Maybe...we can find a way to have a small orchard? It would be...unique. In the greenhouse maybe? Apples and pears?"

     Energy presses and swirls as William lifts. Indigo now your canopy, the sky and its stars both. "An orchard?" He says in your tongue at last, Gaelic so heavily tugged by the French he has been accustomed to speaking this last month and more. Gone is Scotland from his voice. It will return again, as you know. Dark brows lift and the smile is broad. Excitement. It youthens him for a moment. Human excitement. "May we...? Apples and pears. Ah... we can bring a sprig of each type of tree... well... not the fig, it would not survive the winter, or the olive... but the cherry, the pear, the apple... we could bring these to Strathfayr..."
     He is already envisioning this. Making plans. "We can try the cherry outdoors... the pear and apple will need more warmth... we can try them in the greenhouse..." We can bring Chinon with us. And sudden. Claiming. A kiss with all the energy of lightning is given. Shocking. Full. Parting with a soft smile, William murmurs. "Strathfayr is...our home. Chinon... Chinon I may always share with you. It is yours to enjoy... but it speaks more... to me, than to Us. Yes? I ... love Chinon... but... I miss being Home." Where you brought me when first I Lived. The home you made for Us. Your first true creation given to your first, and only, childe. It is where We Became.

     Surprise at the kiss, but Ian's open expression settles back into a loving gaze. Arms wrap around you and he nods eagerly at each suggestion. "And we can say they all came from Chinon. We should call the groundskeeper." But at the notion of Home, he stills. "I miss home too," he murmurs, glad to feel you upon him again. "And it's not some hideous mausoleum to you," he chuckles. It is what he thought you thought for so long. But he knows better. "I like our home," he nods winningly, legs parting. A slip left. A slip right. And soon you rest firmly between his thighs again, optimally. Brows rise and Ian smirks faintly. I have you now...

     No. No mausoleum. It is and has always been a home. True, he did jest at Scotland's expense... but only out of love, yes? As one picks upon the one one loves the most. But no thoughts of Scotland and its grand halls and twisting staircases are what fill him once your legs surround him and thoughts of you having him move along his blood. Slanting the smile that crosses full lips. Sensuality so naturally held there, elsewhere.
     A raven brow lifts and eyes sparkle in shards violet and blue. And now that you have me? His form settles upon you, equestrian thighs spreading. Muscles tightening. And you know that blood has begun to course once more throughout him. Soft and warm, his laughter falls. "Captured," is murmured against your mouth, and slow, pulling the kiss that follows. Mouth surrounding your lower lip, suckling. Is he heavy? Though thighs are spread to balance the weight, and his hands now rest upon the mattress once more, he is pressed to you. You may feel the warmth rise... as blood rushes beneath his skin. Reviving him.

     "Definitely captured," Ian confesses. Body, mind, heart, and soul. Ah, but you are taking too long. His arms suddenly come around your neck, drawing you down to him. "Where were we?" he asks before kissing Norman lips, his parting no less than your legs have done. A grin, and Ian seems to be done with conversation for now.

     So easily. Discussion set aside, words ended. The only utterance shall be groans, shall be skin to skin, shall be the whispering of fabric and the air mattress. The first, at your kiss. The second claiming. William gives himself over to it. Memories and thoughts hushed by the sound that pulls from his throat. A soft roar from the Last Lion.
     As you draw him down, as your lips part his own, the tangle and passion's return are immediate. Flesh tightens beneath his skin, and the flush of blood ends in the first rolling motion of him against you. And within you. Here... Here is where we were.

Posted by rowan at May 07, 2000 07:03 PM