A message comes in, but not from your laptop in Scotland with its video accessories -- that very same equipment that was used to send the last...rather...festive email. Who do you know with the email address... bigusdickus@lionscorp.co.uk? Who else. The message is in Gaelic...
     It was after my sixth glass of Glenlivet that I decided upon what to do with the music room ceiling. I've ordered a new pair of stilts. I've already put wood down on the floors and draped everything that can't be moved. It will be a proper mess to greet you upon your return. But then, how else would you truly know I was here, yes? If I were not leaving traces of my existence here and there. The boys and girls have been attentive in picking up after me. But I've made it easy on them -- I've been staying in the turret, going in between the gaming/music area and the bedroom.
     Apparently, they've kept the priest entertained during the day. We've not had an official confession -- though he has already mentioned I am arrogant. (He is a quick study this one.) But there has been no true explanation on the Nature of Things. I still have a little following up to do yet before I subject him to four-hundred years worth of sin. The references are quite good and I trust the contacts that led me to him, but... you know... discretion is the better part of valor. We've had lovely little conversations, however. If I am going to deal with my perception of sin, how better than with a French Jesuit? You know me, yes. I never do anything half-assed...
     What else. I always have plenty to say until I sit down to write it. Oh yes, the ...bath you mentioned? It has not taken place. I bathe alone. Perhaps it is for the best. But... I am going to meet with Mr. Stevens tomorrow night and select a "personal valet" in the meantime. Someone to tend to me, keep me company. Pity this is not an age where courtiers are plentiful or guards are kept. I could use some lord's men for when you are away. Companions, yes? Pool buddies, as they would say in The Colonies. Someone who was not afraid to speak or laugh. It is more difficult with servants. They are always so worried about their station, their livelihood. And me, they do not know so well as all that, so ordinary tentativeness is only moreso. But maybe this "personal valet" can tend to me well enough for the remainder of your time away.
     I miss you, Lord Dunross. The castle is too large without you and Scotland is too cold. Call me soon or write. Tell me how you are. How you have been doing. Tell me about the warm weather and the cute American boys. You have gone dancing? You should go dancing. Bring a taste of The Colonies back with you. Be sure that you are tending to yourself as much as business.
     Love always,
     Will

     In the sky, day changes to twilight. Indigo marks the Oregon sky, hued into cascades towards black. Elsewhere, deep night comes and begins to yield to the earliest vestiges rising blue-violet. Later they will be pink and red to bright blue. But that is later.
     Next to your bed, a phone rings. A private line, reserved for calls that do not need corporate or staff mediation.

     It took three rings for it to be answered. Vampiric motion can cross the room in seconds... yet, lord, the room is large is it not? Upon the third ring, it is picked up. "Hello..." A private line -- it is not business, surely, and so the greeting is not one of business but more quiet. Warm. Wondering. Ian? Of course it is you. Who else? And so there is warmth in his voice. And expectation. And anticipation.
     You do not see him, fresh out of the shower. Clothed only in the towel and the robe. Not yet dressed. The paint has been washed off. The colors have trailed into nothing. There is only his skin left, and the water beading upon it. A towel is draped over his head and he stands by his bed now. Not out of the shower long enough to feel the chill. Steam yet rises from his skin from the heat of the water that held him...

     "And what exactly..." comes the voice at the other end, relaxed and teasing, "...was I supposed to think of that small piece of footage you sent me? Oh, I'm sorry, it was not footage..." Ian purrs, rather amused at it all. Behind him, the sound of a breeze...he may be outdoors. Ah, yes...the familiar stroke of a wave crash. It drowns out his breathing for a long moment. "Did you send that to the right person?" he chuckles.

     You miss the smile -- you cannot see it. Ah, but can you not feel it, even so far as you are? Laughter follows it, soft -- and behind it you can hear the bed adjusting to his sudden weight. "Aye..." comes the word amid a chuckle yet, "...you received it. So, I did it right. If you laughed, then that was the reaction I was expecting..." His accent -- it is transforming. The brogue comes as easily as the languor that yet tugs on it from time to time. A lazy Gaelic. But the lilts come and the tongue is moving differently. At the bidding of a different language. You can hear him make a slight grunt -- the sound of a towel moving over his head. "I found it while ...searching for something else..." William chuckles, throat-held.

     "Really?" Ian quips, voice wavering as if in motion. "What could you have possibly been searching for?"

     "Never you mind..." comes the Gaelic in smooth reply, held deep in his chest and in his throat. He does not linger long on the thought. "Suffice to say, I did not find it... the Internet is a bit... frustrating. Yet, I had my moment of amusement." William chuckles another moment. Recalling. No, it was not "footage" but the movie did amuse him. Laughter softens to something else. "It is good to hear from you. I sent more email... " There is an exhale. You cannot see him toss aside his towel or rake his wet hair back and away from his eyes and face. Wet, it holds there. "I just got out of the shower... much paint...but the ceiling will be lovely..."

     "I know," Ian smiles, "I wrote you back. You should see it when you get a chance. And I am glad to hear you too...it is like talking to home. So you are fastly," he smirks at the word as the wind whips behind him, "...painting the ceiling? This is in your studio, yes? Did you have them put up a new layer of sheetrock or something?"

     "I am doing the prep work on the ceiling... painting the demo... it will take a while to do, but it will be lovely..." A pause. "Non... not my studio... the Music Room..." He pauses. "Aye? I'll pull it up in a moment and read it then...well, after we finish here." On the phone. There are sounds of him rising, stirring. He holds the phone propped by broad shoulder and chin. The sounds? Him dressing. "I will show you the demo when you get home though, yes... How is it going there?" In other words, when will you be back? William grunts as he stumbles...trying to pull on pants while holding a cellular phone in place. Too bad you can't see it. Quite the graceful vision. An eyeful at any rate. "Fill me in on all the gossip. I'm not getting any here.." He grins smoothly. "The servants all hush when I go to the kitchens..."

     "I have none," Ian confesses, voice twinged with grumpiness suddenly. "I don't spend time with any of them enough to hear anything." Behind him, a constant sound of wave and wind. A breezy early evening. "I avoid them...in truth, I wonder why I am here. Ah, I know, to go to this one meeting, then to leave. That's it." There's a moment of his breathing, then, "So, what will be on the music room's ceiling then when will you begin your studio?"

     "I was not asking of Them..." William soothes upon a warming voice. "I was asking about you... how you are... what you have been doing... if you've left the city for other entertainments. I bloody well would..." A Gaelic gruff at that. William exhales as he is clothed and as warmth of fabric begins to cover him. "All of the shops close so early in Scotland and England... I thought of going to Inverness... but... by the time I'd get there or wake up, it'd all be shut down apart from maybe a pub or two, and I can drink well enough at home..." He chuckles at that. "Ah... the music room. Yes... I am thinking of doing something cosmic and universal. Maybe the ... evolution of the cosmos from Pythagoras to Newton... but in paint. It would go well, such a thing, in your music room. It reminds me of the salons... " William leans over, taking a bottle of scotch -- always to the ready. You can hear it pour. "I have been living in the gaming and music room primarily..." Again, soft laughter.

     Oh. You meant him. He smiles, felt across wireless connections. "That sounds ambitious...but I know it will be...just brilliant. And I am glad how the renovations came out...I'm glad we can enjoy them. As for me..." he pauses here, "I have...been to Portland. The Satyricon." You know the place. Both are said with a hint of dismissal. "But I am ready to come home." Truth in that.

     The Satyricon? Both raven brows quirk up at that and he smiles. "Eye-candy, that..." He chuckles quietly. But you can hear the sound of it. He misses you. "I am ready to have you home, Ian. I miss you, laird..." Lord. The bed sounds again. Beneath him, as he falls back. "The ceiling treatment is drying... I'll begin sketching it out after. Just an indication, then I'll start the serious work. Maybe two nights." There is a pause for a swallow of scotch. He is quiet for a moment. "I will then bleed for my art," he says upon a smoothening smile. Literally. You know. It is the magic that makes those paintings come alive. Like no other on the planet. "How much longer do you think... before your business is concluded there, amours?" French eases back slightly upon the tongue. Although 'amours' does lilt more oddly than it used to.

     He listens in silence. Not just for your voice, but how it lilts. That tells him if you are moving. And sound. Where are you are moving. In the keep, upon the bed. For him, it is much more stormy, though no rain falls. "Maybe a week to ten days? That is what I am expecting. Meeting has...been moved." Preternatural ears can trace the sound of tinkling. A drink in hand. "If not...then I will be departing regardless, Will." He's tired of New Port. "But!" Something forgotten. "I almost forgot....the state thinks...perhaps a move of the Agate Beach Lighthouse is not a bad thing. Apparently there has been murmuring -- concerns about the lighthouse's position. A bit like Hatteras."

     You know his habits. By the soft sounds. By the way he breathes. By the way his voice moves. You know he is lying back on the bed, one leg bouncing against the edge of the bed, over which it lies draped. Those long legs, how they wish to wrap around you. The arms feel empty. And so he paints. He reads. He bundles himself up in the gifts you gave him for Christmas. He reads the old journals. He plays pool and talks to priests. "A week to ten... aye..." he murmurs. For a moment he considers that email he sent... wondering on what perhaps was said in reply.
     But it does not linger at mention of the lighthouse. "Aye? Gods what a task that shall be. But a glorious one. I have contractors... my team... they can help with any restoration work that might have to take place...." Thoughts of the lighthouse... and all it saw. "I would love to have it...back. It is the only thing I miss of that city really." Well, apart from Victoria. You can hear him sit up. You can hear him finish his scotch. "How would you like for me... to whisk into that city... and pick you up at the end of your week... to ten..." I miss you...

     He was pondering as you spoke, but then returned to the moment upon the question. "Pick me up? You would do that?" Not a light offer. "Are you sure? It's a long way..." as if you didn't know. But a smile follows as he agrees, "I would love for you to pick me up, hmm? That would be great...so I could see you faster. And the lighthouse...I think we can ship it," the regal 'we' of Midlothian, "...but if you have managers and structural engineers after delivery, that would be good." Already he has picked up, his energy soaring. "It will be a good project for us, hmm? A joint project?" And I miss you too...

     "Aye... it's a long trip." The grin turns to a chuckle. "But I won't be swimmin' it, love. I'll come over on a LionCorp plane...we'll have Henry fly us out and then he can begin his vacation..." It is settled. He will do it. "It will be... incognito...yes? I do not want Them to know that I am there. Except... perhaps... for one other." Victoria. But it is settled. You can hear the resolve. "I have the structural people, aye... I'll call Florence and make certain they will be available. So... hmm... how will you ship it?" William smiles and the warmth of it eases out across his voice. "A joint project. We've... never done this, Ian. You know?" He chuckles. After almost 9 centuries. Amazing. "Good... it will be very good for us. I am assuming the state will provide the initial engineering or shall I arrange for my crews to go to America...?"

     "No, no, we ship anywhere," Ian smirks, to borrow a phrase. "Rhian will have structural engineers to see to the move, dismantle, and pack. I will have others see to the inside. It is not an issue. But once the boat arrives at Glasgow," not Edinburgh, "...then it will need be prepared and redone...for land travel. We can see to that as well. Your teams can pick up at the site, or at least have a few managers at Glasgow to do any preparation at the dock for the site." If that makes sense. "But I will charge Midlothian with making sure the lighthouse arrives at the proper spot." He takes a drink, then asks, "What's this about Henry taking holi-- ah...he is decided to go ahead with the cruise yes?"

     You cannot see the pride. He wonders -- can you feel it? To be with one so powerful. Not merely in personal carriage and strength, as you are, but one who can command seas. The things you have built. So huge they are. You are a builder. He... a restorer. Perhaps in this... you are a perfect match. "Sounds good," comes the lilt, consonants and vowels merging and falling. Scotland rides upon his tongue. And how sounds the brogue on him? "Let me know what the itinerary shall be and I will appoint them to Glasgow, aye. For now, I will merely tell them to block out a portion of their calendar for it. Oh, and I thought Henry was going on his holiday. He seemed much in the need for it. I assumed he was. Will Paddy be going ...with him then?" There's a bit of a grin to that. Slanting. Wicked. Wondering.

     "Well," Ian laughs, turning to household gossip, "...I dunno, laddie, you tell me. Is he goin'?"

     "I don't know -- all conversations halt when I come into the room," he says upon the edge of laughter. Deep. Resonant. "I'll have to see about it. I'll ask Mr. Stevens -- right after I ask him to set me up with one of the houseboys..." William grins, giving a sigh for that. "I'm not sure how to bring it up. It'd be easier, aye? If I weren't so bloody ... sensitive about it...Ah well..." You hear him rising. He is moving across the room to the fireplace. "I'll have to get the latest and greatest gossip from one of the lads... and I'll fill you in before your comin' home..."

     "So shall we talk of your mail?" Ian smirks invisibly. The tinkle comes again as wind breezes across the microphone. A cordless headset, certainly. "I dunno how Stevens would feel about setting you up," he chuckles, "...with someone, but I am certain that if you tell him that you are prepared for him to assign his valet choice, he will see to things from there."

     "Non..." he says quietly. "You sent a reply. I'll read it..." He is quiet another moment. "You'll be home in a week at any rate... hardly matters really..." Hardly? He doesn't dwell on it. At least not now. The hour for him is late... or is it early. You hear him moving. Doors closing. Moving out of the bedroom likely. "Have you gone to the gallery at all? It's a bit more spartan than it used to be. I've had the valuables sent to Chinon...." Moments where he does not speak are filled with sounds... environmental. A lift of something. A setting of something on the table. Breathing, as he tucks the phone beneath his chin and works on ...arranging something? Your laptop, unseen by you.

     "Yes!" he chimes, "I spend a great deal of time at the gallery." The sound of the cubes gets louder -- he must be out of his drink. "It is like I am waiting for you to arrive," he smiles. "That is where I sit the most."

     You can hear the set up of the computer begin. A dialup. And then the pouring of a drink. "Aren't you cold standing out in that wind, amours?" he murmurs. He can hear it. You are outside the lighthouse... near the beach? "I saw some of the pictures on the Internet... I think Anne has done a good job with redesigning it." Suddenly, William chuckles. "Alright... enough of the small-talk. I am sorry. So... in a week..." his voice pulls slowly. "... I will be flying to you...and I will call Florence tomorrow about the engineers... Is there anything else you wish me to do?" He will check your email in the next few moments.

     He laughs brightly, "It is..." the wind changing direction or is that him, "...a bit nippy yes. But it alright. I stand," and the wind sounds stronger suddenly, as if he is meeting it head on, "...in the wind on our beach, near our lighthouse...and it reminds me of you and your strength. That's all. Being out here, reminds me of you." He sighs as his vociferous protestations of love, "Ah me. I am out of Scotch, I am in a jacket, but without shoes. And yes, about a week...hopefully I will be ready then. I will make sure that the lighthouse is at least organized as an undertaking. Despite Oregon not wishing to lose it."

     "I will come in a week..." A grin there that spreads across his voice. "And I will stay until you are ready to go, yes? I will...cut my hair or....something. Do something different... and then stay at home," at said lighthouse. "No one will even know I am there. But you..." William closes his eyes and settles back in the chair that now holds him. That image he will keep. And it is late. He exhales. You stand out there on the beach and the cliffs that remind you of him. "And I am held in your castle... and you are everywhere around me..." Indigo eyes flicker as they are opened. It is late. But he is fighting it. William smiles. "I should read your mail and crawl back to my bedroom, mon ami... the sun will be cresting the forest soon..."

     "Just me, I like it," Ian smirks, the sounds outdoors blunted. He is turning. "And we can spend a couple of nights at the ranch and the lighthouse." A sigh follows with, "I'll miss them both, you know..."

     "I know. So will I. But the lighthouse we will have... " A pause. "And we will soon breathe life into our old homes. First Strathfayr...then Chinon...and as much as we may miss the ranch-house... we will wonder how we ever lived outside of castle walls..." William grins at that, slightly. Softly. "I miss you," he vocalizes it, finally. "But I will...walk around the castle more often... to look at the you within it..."

     "You'll see little of me and more of all their work," Ian blushes, giving the staff credit. "But, over time, it will be Me again. And you should read my mail before you sleep hmm? It might help slumber." He is aware of the time, and feet carry him closer to the lighthouse. "Another thought...should we get a holiday house, further south?" In Scotland. "Away from some of the snow drifts for next year? I was thinking...some place central...near Pitlochry or Killiekrankie?" In the Highland plains and in the middle of the scotch trail. "Let me know what you think on it."

     "Ah... this sounds good...I should like that... we will talk of it when I am more awake, oui?" When he is tired, the French commands him. Gaelic becomes Provencal. "I will read it and then, I promise, I shall go to bed. Macsen or no Macsen." He chuckles at that. William smiles -- can you feel it from as far as you are? "A holiday house... I should like this... very much. You know...how to get to a Norman's heart yes? Offering the chance at acquiring more property..."

     "Well, especially," Ian smirks, "...when it is property done in a Native American design, hmm?" Like the ranch house. "Ah, think on it," he lets it go, "..we will talk when the morn is not so upon you, love." A pause. "I love you, Will."

     "I love you..." And that came with clarity. It will be the next night before he realizes which house you meant. It will strike him while he's in the midst of something else. Painting perhaps. When thoughts so often turn to you. "Rest soundly and well. I will write tomorrow...or call. You will hear from me..." A knight's promise in that. A soft Gaelic farewell...

     "Aye, good morn, sweet Prince." Ian grins and soon after, there's network air....

Posted by rowan at February 04, 2000 11:49 AM