The great hall of the keep sits silent and warm. The thick green curtains are drawn over the windows, and beneath that, the panes are covered with the leather and wood shutters. Another blustery night in the north Highlands, but nothing like the last week. Maybe it's a break. More than likely, it's just a deep breath by the Dromnedeach.
     In one of the seating areas, a bit from the enclosed fireplace, sits Ian. Curled up in an oversized chair, he enjoys a scotch in one hand, and a book on his lap in the other. A thick blanket hides his lower half, and he's bundled comfortably in a thick wool sweater. A grunt, and he picks up nearby pen, drops it in a vial, then begins to scribble upon the page. Christmas decorations have been changed for simple Yule reminders, holly and wreaths exchanged for brighter baubles and lights.
     There's noise from the kitchen doorway, more than likely the staff sitting down to a bit of warm dinner...hearty soup and fresh crusty breads. Whatever it is that's excited them sends the occasional raucous coil into the great room, but Ian doesn't seem bothered by it at all. When he wants something, someone will come.
     But where is his Shadow? He seems not about at the moment. That too must be something soon to be remedied.

     Where is Lord Shadow? The Night companion to Lord Daylight is yet stirring from bed. A slow waking this evening and an even longer bathing. As if, by soaking in warm water, he could use his learned magic to conjure summer in. Certainly, he may be felt. Stirring. But removed yet from entering the hall...

     There is, instead, another arrival that sends a portion of the household into activity. Someone heard the honking horn -- the wind was not so high as to drown it out -- as the car pulled into courtyard. From the warmth of the kitchens, staff spilled outward, and greeted Henry Fitzsimmons with hurrying waves and polite smiles. They have seen him before. Last year, was it? When he and William arrived. William in a kilt, at that...
     It is moments after that when voices can be heard to lift from the kitchen, and when the staff entrance to the Great Hall is opened. Hazel-eyed Henry Fitzsimmons, 42 forever -- or as long as William sees fit to keep him so -- is clothed in a honeyed wool sweater, thick and hand-knitted by the finest of Irish granddames. His sandy colored hair in disarray, and his high cheeks ruddied with winter's affections. The rest is wool slacks and hardy leather shoes. An Irish, English or Scottish gentleman out to the manor born, no?
     "... No, that's fine," he says in reply to your kind elderwoman servant, "... no need to disturb him. I'm fine to sit by the fire...thank you...lovely," he says upon a sigh as he is handed a warm drink. You will hear him, feel him, smell him and his cologne even before he sees you...

     A waft of something. Ian's grey eyes glance to the direction of the sound and scent as the two fill out a picture. Fitzsimmons. And what is he doing here now and so late? He's not expecting to even ponder him until the end of the week. There's a sigh and then a closing of the book in anticipation, finger kept to hold the page. Pen is set into it's holding well, letting tip dry.

     It isn't until he's a few more steps within the Great Hall -- and a few more sips into his heated drink -- that Fitzsimmons even sees you. And as soon as he does, he lowers his cup and half-bows his head. A warm smile crosses his features. "Lord Dunross," he murmurs. "I...hope I haven't disturbed you..." He is far more deferent to you than a 42 year old man should be to young man of seeming 18. But he is not 42. And you are not 18. It is the way of things. And he is nothing if not obedient to honor and deference where it is due. Hazel eyes are careful not to openly stare at you.
     He looks to the fire even as he crosses over to it. "I know I am a bit early..." he begins quietly. An exhale follows as he takes another swallow of the mulled cider.

     "Sionadh Fitzsimmons," Ian smiles warmly, returning no less than he's given. Normally, he'd grin like a cat to see the flyer arrive, but these days, most he can muster for any man not William is a sense of camaraderie. Understanding of the world they share...especially with men of like minds. Of that, Fitzsimmons is one.
     "There's no worry on being early," his hand waves, certainly not the largesse of 18, "...I'm just now curious is there a problem?" Taken from the worry on being early. "Please..." he motions to a seat, "....Young Fraser," Ian snickers, biting his bottom lip, "...will be out shortly, I'm sure."

     Fraser? You see a moment of Hmm? crossing those features. Both golden-ish brows lifting. You'll have to explain that one. William has not yet given Fitzsimmons his... new identity. And perhaps that is a reason for his early arrival? "No," he smiles as he turns at the fire. You can see the warmth beginning to thaw him. "Not at all. Just some dicey weather," follows the Irish-flecked brogue of his own. "I thought I would see how far I could get without sliding into the North Sea..."
     A pause as he takes another sip of cider, he raises the cup to you and sips again. "Happy New Year, Sir." Another pause follows as he takes a seat in one of the comfortable chairs. An exhale comes quickly after, trailed by a smile. "I was not sure how flexible the itinerary was to be. I thought it best in the name of prudence. Fraser," says Henry, grinning, switching topics quickly. No, he has good hearing and a good memory. "Is this a ...new lad then? Is he single?" He chuckles and then looks into his cup. O sweet heart. To be so thoroughly unattached through the holidays. Oh well.

     "Ah, not really," Ian smiles, "...just a new edition." But that's a boring topic when the question of his singularity comes up. Loneliness he can understand, and it strikes at him. "Do you plan to stay with us...until it's time for departure?" How easy emotions are felt these days. Empathy not just academic, but shared. "We missed seeing you this holiday season."

     "I should like to, yes," Henry easily replies. The smile returns to his features, even as his gaze lifts up to you. It is a long life this -- how may attachments truly form, when one ends and one does not? He never has mastered that. But Henry does not let it linger on him. Even as he settles back within the embrace of the chair, he is grinning. "Do you have an extra bed, Lord Dunross? Or has William claimed them all?"
     That Irish twinkle lights the hazel eyes. "I missed being here," he answers more soberly, more seriously. "I was convinced to stay in Dublin this year. I spent New Year's Eve in London...lovely establishment, the Hawk and Hound..." An exclusive London club. You have likely been there he imagines. The smile returns. "I trust you had a lovely holiday?" And yes, he looks to you. In the pretense of discussion. But... you are beautiful. Can he help that?

     "Yes, we did, it was...unusual," Ian confesses, watching the pilot. An affinity...if his heart was not already taken by another former pilot and commander. "It was nice...being home again." You must know the years apart...when you did not fly the routes between them. "But there's always a bed for you here..." he smirks, "...whatever you like." It is your home. "And...Happy New Year to you too," he says genuinely. Glancing at a doorway to the stairs, he focuses a moment, then looks back your direction. "You know...it may be the last time you are in New Port for a long time...when we head back next week."

     There is a look to you -- did you notice the lift at the mention of New Port. But his expression is casually borne. Placid, nearly. As you return the well wishes, the smile is warm and genuine. He nods to that and then turns back to the other issues. "I did not expect I would have much of a reason to return," he says, a half-laugh upon the ends of his words. "But..." his hands gesture, ".. I am always at your service and to the ready. You know this. Ah, and thank you... about the room and the welcome. It means a great deal to me..."
     Oh, he does think about the one in New Port that he'd like to get to know better. Close calls that could become something else, closer. But with you in the room, those thoughts and feelings are... pointedly distracted.
     Henry takes a swallow of the mulled cider. It is nearly finished. His complexion is beginning to return to normal. His thawing nearly complete. "I'm glad to hear you had a good holiday celebration. And... I can imagine how it felt to be home." He doesn't quite smile at this. "I hope for you that the unusual becomes the usual... in this regard..."
     His voice trails off and he tries to look from you, but he's a bit caught up in it now. William is a lucky, lucky man. "How's the old knight?" meaning his own master. Henry takes a look for him. No William in sight. It's just you and him. He seems to appreciate that for the moment.

     "He's fine, really," Ian smiles, feeling the shifting attention and distraction. "He should be down though...I'm sure someone's called for him already...as soon as you drove up, I'm sure. Did someone take your bags and show you a room?" More than likely the bags were absconded with, but they figured to show you a room later. Grey eyes glance to the kitchen, to see if anything is forthcoming.

     Something is forthcoming, however. The doorway to the spiral staircase opens, and a tall Padraig McKinnon comes down, pen in his hand. He's similarly dressed as everyone else this season, in warm pants and a wool sweater..more than likely created by someone who loves him. "Aye," Padraig says, red hair cropped at his ears, "...is ever'ting passable, Sir?" his brogue very West Scotland. Somewhere towards Skye, he's from.
     Green eyes give instant attention to the blonde, for double reasons, then glance over as he realizes someone else is here. The thirty-something young man smiles politely at you, lingering a little at the honey-colored sweater. Very nice. "Ach, good eve 't ye," he bobs.

     A hand lifts in a small wave. No rush. And Henry smiles, seeming to relax. "Ah, they took the bags. I told them I needed a fire before I needed a room." He laughs at that, rich sound that it is. "I was frozen straight through. And I heard that wasn't the worse Rosshire had seen this week," the Gael upon his voice lilts now. Around you, his own Irish restores itself rapidly.
     As the other enters however, Henry's voice halts itself. He smiles and bobs his head in return. "Good even'..." The look to him is brief, but you know the appraisal when you see it. It moves back to you. The fire and your golden hair compete for his attention thereafter. Henry lifts the cup of mulled cider and finishes it.

     "Padraig McKinnon, Clan MacRae, our house barrister and accountant..." Ian waves in your direction, "...Henry Fitzsimmons ...commercial and private pilot." Always something that impresses. He smiles, "Did you bring the envelope?" Ian wonders, raising both brows at the younger man. "Padraig's...been busy of late," explaining his wide-eyed look.

     "Oh...no..." Padraig frowns, seeming to slump a little. How was he to know that? He sighs and looks at you, placing the name. Yes, he does have something with your name upon it. "I'm sorry, Dunross," said as title, "...I'll...aye...um...can y' jes wait a second...I'll go back to meh office an' fetch it..." he shifts left and right. A hyper young man, if sedated now for the confusion.

     You can feel another stirring. Something approaching. No. Someone. It is your William. You can feel the first spreading of unchecked power. Like warm sunlight moving over grey stones in an encroaching dawn... the energy builds like warmth...

     As Padraig is introduced formally, and he likewise, Henry rises from the chair a moment. Another nod given, a warm smile before returning to his seat. Were he closer he would have shaken his hand. "Pleasure... " He looks to Ian, a golden-ish brow lifting. "Oh aye? May I ask with what or is it to be a surprise?" He grins then glancing to the younger man.

     As Henry's hind-end meets the chair, the sound of a loud voice -- who else but Plantagenet? -- and the sound of a greyhound barking rise. Not quite in the Great Hall, but very near. The Angevin roar was not in anger -- no indeed. But in some clipped command in rough French to the hound. The lord of the manor indeed...

     "Oh, just something from me for you in the new year," Ian says, shifting between something half-Scots Gaelic, half-Irish. He glances in the direction of the roar, smirking as he sends off Padraig, "Go on then, McKinnon," he smiles, reassuring the youth, "...we'll still be here...well..." he looks in the hearkened direction, "...hopefully."

     Padraig looks over too...he hasn't heard that sort of noise in a while. But a bob of his head, and he's soon gone in the direction of the noise. Presumably, back upstairs to fetch whatever it might be.

     "For me -- ?" Henry's question is interrupted by the roar, and he twists in his chair toward the sound. A smirk resting on fine lips as he turns back to you. Brows lifted, he returns to the matter of that something-from-me-to-you. "Very kind of you to think of me," he murmurs, and he means it.
     His look upon you lingers for a while. You can feel it, surely. He hopes William would get distracted. Just for a moment. Just for one... brief... moment. Henry glances to Padraig as he leaves, but soon enough his look returns to you...

     As for the hounds -- one grey and one Norman? The entrance from the upper portions of the Keep is soon full with them. The bounding greyhound, Macsen -- named for a Welsh hero. And bounding in a stride after him, William. Both bear the same broad grin. Both are lovely in their way.
     The brindle greyhound clicks against the stone of the floor, calming in the presence of Ian out of some canine instinct of an even greater alpha male in proximity. William? Clothed in black leather, he looks like the proper prince. A large and loose grey sweater drapes over him. It has the look of chain, but soft. His eyes filled with shards of violet within the greater sea of indigo. He and the hound have been wrestling...

     "Sionadh," Padraig bobs respectfully, passing William and steering around Macsen. He skitters towards the door and disappears from sight.

     "And why not," Ian smiles, "....you're part of us...and well...this house. It takes all of us." Alright, where's Ian Dunross, and who left this damned pod? He turns to William, giving him a bit of attention. "Good eve, Lord Fraser, we have company..." he grins, turning back to the honey-goldened pilot. He does like looking at you, at least. That has not changed.

     Henry smiles, and some of that weight has left him. Some of that shadow. That loneliness. Who can be lonely here, when one is so welcomed into a greater sort of family? Included. Particularly by one who... so interests him. Of course, when William enters, Henry twists toward him, flashing a quiet sort of grin. "Hello, Lord Fraser..." he says, trying on the title with the name for the first time. From a Fitzroy to a Fraser. Well, at least the F is constant. He begins to rise from his chair.

     But a wave from William halts him. And the smile. "So it appears we do..." comes the languid baritone, lilting oddly midway between Scottish and French. A blend of Gael and Anjou. For his name, it is wholly appropriate. William turns his smile from Henry, to you. And you see the smolder of something else in his gaze. He has not seen much of you tonight. It bears his love. And then to Macsen as the dog sits before him. Curled against his palm in his left hand, some treat it seems. For William tosses up his hand, and midair Macsen catches it. "Now go lie down," he murmurs quietly to the dog. And so the dog does, right by the hearth. "I should leave you two alone to gossip in private," William mulls, voice transforming into the slant of a grin.

     As if. The Pod Ian rolls his eyes. He will not even dignify that. "You are up late," he instead goes on, "...the weather bearing heavy upon your sleep, hmm?" There's a look to Macsen, and he wonders upon his own dogs. That will have to be sorted too. "Drink?" Of course.

     "I soaked for a while," William murmurs. Henry or no Henry, he bends for a kiss once he reaches his love's chair. "And something warm would be nice..." That last is whispered as the kiss is brief and soon departs. William straightens with a smile, slight but warm. Dark eyes hold brilliance. Like deep gems tossed to a fire. They flicker blue-violet.
     He turns to Henry then, the smile remaining. "Good to see you," genuine warmth there for his pilot. A member of the large Plantagenet-Dunross family. "I wasn't thinking we'd have the pleasure until later this week. How was London...?" William glances to you. His gaze, like Henry's, must return to you in the end. Compelling as you are...

     "The clubbing was nice, but you know. It's London..." Spoken like a true Irishman. He nods to William, his gaze divided now between the two. For different reasons. If only Plantagenet weren't who he is. If only. Can you feel that? "But it was good. And I decided to come a bit early. Spend some time just visiting and waiting out the weather."

     "They've already seen to his bags," Ian clarifies, "...and all we have out here right now...is scotch." Looking around confirms the assessment. "Henry and I were just speaking of holidays and how we are looking forward to holidays changing for the better," he does go on, making feelings verbal. Eyes glance to Henry and he smiles, "...this year was just a start for us all." Then, "Oh, if you want something warm, you should call someone, love."

     A glance was given toward the kitchen's exit. Shared thoughts turned to action. It is not long before William is making himself comfortable in a chair somewhat nearer to Ian, but yet within range to Henry. The lordly half-sprawl commands the space of the antique chair. Leathered thighs and legs relax. Elbows rest upon the arms of the chair and fingers steeple in between. At the sensuous mouth, appearing all the more so by the framing of dark hair. It only draws the gaze there, does it not?
     He smiles behind his steepled fingers, glancing aslant to Ian. Love there. And more. He inclines his head as the kitchen door opens. "Oh good," William answers. He looks between you and Henry at the mention of the holidays. "It was much improved this year, oui... I think being home was a big portion of that..." A smile given to you. And Understanding.

     Henry nods, eyes lifting hopeful as the kitchen doors open. "Hope springs eternal," he clips, Irish brogue riding his consonants and vowels. "I am actually looking forward to New Port. It was a nice little town, apart from the rain..." As if he can talk, being of Ireland. The land without a sun. No wonder they worshipped it when it showed itself. He glances in between the two of you. Then clears his throat.

     The elder woman is all warm smiles as she comes in, William looks from Henry and Ian to her, smiling broadly. "I think this evening calls for brandy." A pause and a grin, "...as warm as you can get it. The hot bath has worn off..."

     The staircase sounds loudly for a moment before Padraig reappears. Holding a flat silver box, he strides across the room, eyes bright at the gathering. All these people. Wow. He smirks and runs a hand through his red hair, adjusting. "I...aye, I got the box, Sionadh," placing it gingerly upon the palm of his hand. He looks to Ian first, wondering whether he's going to take it, and then to Henry, wondering if he should just give it to him. Oh, hell. A shrug and he paddles over, smiling as he bends and offers the box, still panting.

     Brandy. "Not a bad idea," Ian smirks, finally twisting to set his book upon the table. Silk marker is lain between the pages, so when it quiets again, he can see to his writing. "Everything was lovely this year," Ian agrees, book set near his remaining scotch. As Padraig makes himself known and stares the room down, the Dunross simply goes on with his conversation. "Do you have many plans this year, Henry?" keeping the discussion moving. A hand absently touches where William's kiss was left, brushing a bit of hair from his face.

     As Padraig re-enters, Henry turns toward the sound. And the sight. For a moment. But Ian, again, commands his attention. He smiles, a glance given to William. A shared smile there. "I guess that depends on Lord Fraser," he says warmly. "But, if he has no plans for me specifically, I was thinking of spending some time in Italy this year. It's been a while..." Henry shakes his head, looking a little wan for all that. "I don't have much planned actually. Jet setting, I imagine. The usual parties...." Oh, brandy. At that he looks to William. A smile there. "Have you anything planned for me?"

     "I suppose," comes the languid murmur, that smooth ease of baritone -- even with its slightly odd lilting. "... we could always go on holiday. I haven't really thought of it. I don't think I will be jet setting much this year..." A look to Ian. All the attention you receive. Mon Dieu. And he can see how Henry looks at you. But he sees where your fingers brush, and his lips curl slightly upward...
     The brandywine is delivered. Warm. Within a flagon to keep it warm, along with four snifters. The warmth shall bleed through the glass and warm the hands, even as brandy stirs and warms the blood.

     "Here y' go, enjoy," Padraig breathes, blinking as he takes a step back and leaves Henry with the small box. Turning to Ian, he cocks his head and places hands behind his back. Discussion of travel brings a bright, knowing smile, but he dutifully keeps words to himself. Eyes, say otherwise, looking to Ian as if asking, "Anything else?"

     "Thank you, Padraig," Ian calls, attention now to the warmed beverage -- then a glance to the barrister, "...unless you'd fancy staying for a drink?" He'll leave it to the young man to decide. The more the merrier to be sure. "I'd hope to not travel much either," Ian confesses, rejoining the other conversation for an instant, "...but..." finger motions at the silver box in Henry's lap, "....not all travel is equal, hmm?"

     Looking between everyone, Padraig decides there's not much happening upstairs. "Eh, thank y', Sionach...maybe a little?" and he moves to a spot near the pilot, cushions silent as he sits himself down.

     There happen to be four snifters. Is that a matter of fortune? William rises from his chair as the tray is placed upon a small table beside him. Unfolding himself gracefully from the chair. He is silent-watching, your William. Listening. Enjoying the presence of the two mortals. And you. Another quiet evening in Strathfayr and he seems to be adjusting well to it. Adjusting? Reveling. Indigo flickers as he glances up to the sitting Padraig. Lips forming a small smile there. Four it shall be. "How are you this e'en, Padraig?" says William, even as he pours the brandy. Two glasses poured, and his gaze lifts again. To you. Lastly to Henry. A raven brow lifting. Did he know about this gift?

     Henry looks to Padraig for a moment, and a moment more, as he receives the small silver box. His complexion ruddying a bit, but he smiles. Looking to Ian mostly, though certainly William is within the scope of his gaze. Hazel eyes lit brightly. "...Ah... Thank you," he says quietly in Gaelic, though more Irish than Scots. He goes to open the box...

     William holds three glasses with the balance of an expert. One deposited before each other. Padraig lastly. And then William moves to pour his own. He returns to his seat, silently. Curiosity turned toward Henry then. He inclines his head, black hair draping backward. He lifts the snifter to his lips with his right hand. It is a king's countenance he wears these days. He is easing into his new role... a natural role for him.

     "Oh, thank you," Ian whispers, smiling at William, but looking quickly to Henry and his box. "Suilbh," he says to all, a cheer as he lifts his drink and then follows with a warming taste. He crosses his legs under his blanket, winks then to William, then looks to see what rises from the box.

     Inside the box, is what looks as if it is a credit card. However, upon the front of the card is a series of numbers, at the top edge, the official scrawl of 'Cunard Cruise Lines,' and at the bottom, embossed in silver upon the white, Captain Henry Fitzsimmons.
     "I...thought you might enjoy spending some time captaining one of those other vessels," Ian remarks in the quiet. "Around the world? You begin with the Elizabeth, see the Mediterranean nights, the pyramids, the Canal," that Suez one, "...the oceans...and work your way around? Exclusive stateroom, of course...and the chance to bone up on your maritime lessons for....say...six months?"

     Padraig smiles. It was his idea, after all. He blinks and bobs as his drink is offered to him, looking sheepish and grateful at the Lord Pl--Fi--Fraser. That's it. "Thank ye, Sir," he whispers, taking a sip and grinning from ear to ear at Henry.

     "Suilbh," William echoes, and he sits back. But as the gift is announced, the earlier warm smile spreads. He looks to Ian, head inclining slightly as he takes another swallow of the brandywine. Padraig's own smile -- knowing, that look -- catches William's attention. He chuckles softly, the sound caught in his throat. "If that isn't the cat with a mouthful of canary..." he murmurs in Gaelic. But then his attention returns to Henry and Ian.

     It takes a few passes at the card before it sinks in. And then the smile follows. Wistful and broad both. Hazel eyes sparkle as he lifts them to Ian and Padraig. After a few speechless moments -- rare for Henry -- he exhales, the grin cocking almost slantwise. "Thank you..." he says to Ian, and then to Padraig, and now William. He shakes his head for a moment, looking at the card, going over that itinerary in his mind. "Amazing... thank you... " he murmurs after. You, Empathetic One, can feel how well this touched him. He takes an absent-minded sip at the heated brandy, coughing as he wasn't ready for it. Henry chuckles after with a grin. "I will see what sort of sea legs I have left..." And then he winks. In that customary way of his.

     "You're welcome, do it in the best of health. Take a friend, it is arranged..." Ian waves off with his glass, "...and drop home a postcard, yes?"

     "Tis a nice thing, ain't it so, Mr. Fitzsimmons..." Padraig suddenly chimes. He gave out plenty of house gifts this year on the payroll...but this one had to be the best. He'd almost wished it for himself...but how kind is that? "I think y'll find th' accommodations to be....better than anythin' around." Like a puppy, he nods, taking a long drink from the glass. That'll hit him later. "Y'should have a fun and relaxin' time."
     "Oh, an I'm fine, Sir," Padraig blinks. No one ever said social smarts came with book and number smarts. He drinks much more from his glass.

     "I shall, I shall," Henry quips, grinning fully now. The card and its silver box are slipped into wool trouser pockets. For now. "I will make certain to take plenty of photos..." Particularly during the day. Those he will give to Ian and William. That would be a hard thing to part with, sunlight.
     Grinning now, ear to ear -- and his eyes full of it -- the earlier melancholy is far from him now. The twinkle has returned to his gaze, the quip to his words. He takes a swallow of the brandy, and looks to Padraig. "Aye, 'tis. If your schedule clears, Padraig..." And he lets the rest fall. Hell, he doesn't have anyone else to take with him. Yet. He chuckles, then clears his throat.

     Brandy held cupped, ruddy in the clear crystalline glass, is swirled. He listens to the chime of it. Then finishes it in a swallow. In mid-lean, William's gaze lifts to Padraig. He smiles a bit and then looks to you. To check on how you're fitted for brandy. Even as he pours his second. "Make sure to stick a tiny French flag in some unclaimed spot of soil and take a picture of it..." A chuckle trails his voice, clinging to the edges of languid words. Indigo eyes flicker as William looks to you. And yes there is a wink in it. He settles back. Content to dwell in the company of the men gathered here and drink his brandy in peace. The Peacock doesn't seem to need to be the center of the room at the moment...

     "Aye, indeed," Ian nods, "...we will send you with handfuls of French and Scottish flags to claim unmarked territory." He chuckles and keeps his drink close, savoring it. The wink is given back in a smile, but for now, he seems fine. But this interests him. Ian looks at Padraig, a bit surprised that Henry asked about the barrister's schedule.

     "Um...my schedule?" Padraig blinks, Opie-freckles coloring. He looks embarrassed for an instant, glancing at the gazes of the Lords. "I..." he swallows, "...um...I get seasick." Did you mean for him to go? Certainly not...he hardly knows you. But green eyes twinkle a little, wondering did you really mean him?

     Brandy is finished, and an Irishman is bold. The two go hand in hand, do they not? Henry smiles and holds his empty glass a moment. Looking past it to Padraig. "Aye? Pity that... I'm not sure who to take with me now..."
     He looks to Ian, the smile holding constant. "I don't suppose he'd have the time anyway." He glances toward the young man, "They have pills for that sort of thing. Just so you know. Future thoughts." He rises from his chair with a soft groan.
     Yes. More brandy. He'd ask you, Ian, but then you'd have to bring your husband. That sort of spoils it, you know. Henry gives a nod to William, still wearing his smile. He takes the flagon from him. "I'll have to pop by Chinon on my way back...conquests in hand, sir." And yes, more brandy. With a refilled glass, Henry returns to his chair. This second glass will do him.

     Chuckling quietly, William settles back. His brandy cradled in his grasp... the butt of the glass balanced against a leathered thigh. Quite the picture of aristocracy. He is comfortable in the skin of a prince and lord. And the mention of conquests do nothing but better his mood. Half-turning, his indigo gaze settles upon you. Fastening there for a moment. "And they said France and Scotland would never rule the world..." Lips pulling in a slant of a smile, William raises his glass to you. A toast to conquest. Real or Imagined.

     There's a half shrug from Ian, "The time is his," he says evenly, "...I'm sure you know how to schedule things, don't you, Padraig?" The employer will not stand in the middle of this one. He finishes his drink, and after a lingering watch of the moving Henry, decides to physically remove himself from this one too. "How about...a look at the greenhouse, Lord Fraser?" he wonders. The blanket is lain aside for now, but Ian makes no move to remove his writing implements. "A short walk and drink?"

     Padraig still sits. Time? Pills? Future? That man can't be serious. Crimson now, the barrister stays still, hoping no one sees him. But the last of his drink shivers in the glass, he simply unknowing what to say...and if everyone is just having him on.

     "Aye," says Fraser... William. This, as he rises. Brandy and all. He doesn't focus so much on Padraig. No need to have the young man permanently flushed. He gives Henry a last look, a quirk of a smile. As if to say: We will be back. Eventually. The mostly full glass of brandy dangles from William's fingers. Loosely, as if each moment should see it fall. But it is securely held. William lifts the glass for another drink as he moves in behind Ian. A light touch to the small of his back. A whistle sounds softly, and Macsen comes trotting behind them. Sentinel as ever he was.

     Henry gives a glance for the departing men, and a look to the flushed young man. "I'm sorry," he says, taking another swallow of brandy. "I didn't mean to ... put you on the spotlight. But... if you would like to go... " Henry intakes a breath and holds it for a moment. He leaves it open. "I don't have anyone else that can use the pass. It would be a shame for it to go to waste..." he adds quickly, quietly. "Which is not to say it's an afterthought...I'd just rather go with someone of their acquaintance... " The Lords' that is. He chuckles suddenly, softly. "Maybe half a glass of brandy should be my limit." And yet, he works on finishing his second.

     It is a graceful exit, the sentinel following his charge. Ian smiles at the two left, but nothing conveyed in the look. Largesse. Awareness of Self enough to know when to depart...and enjoy a bit of a walk and solitude with his companion. Ian sees to the dog's following, and at William's touch and direction, he passes towards the north of the great hall, and to the exit that will open to the adjoining greenhouse.

     Padraig only lifts his green eyes when the Royal Two have left. They look through lashes to the Irishman, as he listens carefully to the words. Is the apology meant? There's no empathy here, no understanding, no keenness on the ways of the world. Just a quiet, bookish man not sure what in the hell has just transpired. Lost in the world of banter an innuendo. He works for the two lords...he is certainly not of them, in that telepathic fashion. Maybe he has not been with them so long? Maybe the youth that seems upon him...is real. Unlike the others in the room.
     He swallows, wanting to say it's all alright, but in truth, it's not. "Y'...y'should take som'one...y' know...on your...holiday," he whispers low. "You will think...o' som'one in a day or two." But, God, he'd love to go. What would it mean if he did? Green eyes look to the two men departing, then scant at the one remaining. What does it mean...to go on a trip? He swallows, "I dunno meh sched-- I...guess I could see...but y' might...just..." Padraig sighs, "...in yer room," he begins again, "...there's th' books an' portfolio for th' trip. Y'...can see all th' info in that." Maybe you should think over it a night. Maybe he should too. Certainly not a brushoff, just...please...give me a minute to think.

     There's a nod to that. And though he looks to be from his late 30s to early 40s, he is old enough to know -- even on two glasses of brandy -- what it is that he sees in the young barrister. Henry smiles a bit and nods again. "I'll look it over in the morning," he quietly remarks. "I'll give it a good read." And take some time. And take your time too.
     "Does it have departure dates listed in that as well, the itinerary?" Henry looks into his glass. Then from his last swallow of brandy to you. He nods, smiling a bit. "I'll read it later... aye... you're right..." A pause. "...about looking over the materials. I'll have to know what to pack and when..." He sighs a bit, relaxing. The brandy beginning to have its way with him. "It will be a fine trip though...." And so you have your minute to think. You have, in fact, till the next day. Or the day after that. No need to rush it.

     In the greenhouse, the greyhound brings up the rear, following his Master and Companion into the warmth and light. Here, there is a kind of permanent spring. William exhales and lays an arm across your shoulder. Drawing you in toward him. A kiss placed upon your temple. His eyes close for a savoring moment. A moment of nothing but you and him.

     From the kitchen door comes a squeak of opening, and soft chuckling. Two voices, one male, one female. A tray in the male's hand. Their humor dies when the male sees others present, and nudges the younger female. With studiousness, they move over to where the Lords were, picking up the scotch and glass, and replacing the flagon of brandywine with one more fresh. Always attentive they are. The girl bows faintly and goes about her duties, glancing at the two men there...one she knows, the other...the occasional handsome visitor. The male, in his mid-twenties, is not so subtle. Padraig --bah-- is ignored, save the normal nod. The visitor...that one he's certainly seen before and is getting a decent review of right now. His eyes linger upon you as he bends to wipe the end table, careful to keep rings from developing. It is only a minute they wipe and pick up, turning to head out again, the girl first. Another pop of a curtsey on exit from one, just a long look to Henry from the second as they depart.

     Golden-ish eyebrows lift to all of that. Young girl and young man both. He straightens a bit, readjusting in his chair's grasp -- now it is he who is under the spotlight, aye? Henry tilts his head, his gaze moving back to his glass. The last swallow of brandy is taken. He'll wait a bit before... braving more of it...

     Padraig nods at all that is said, and looks visibly relieved on all counts. "Yes, times, dates, ports," he confirms, deciding to finish the last of his drink. It was good...Lords drink the best things. Brushing his hand over his lap, he swallows and nods, "I should...g' finish for th' night."
     No attention was paid to the servants, his senses already on overload. He rises and sets the glass aside, sure the unseen hands will return to retrieve it. "I...I guess I'll be seein' y' tomorrow...Mr. Fitzsimmons. Twas...nice t' meet ye," his hand coming out stiffly, resolutely, if a little unsteady. A shake, he believes is in order. Now...to get the hand to move. "An'...an' thanks."

     In the greenhouse, Ian smiles at the drawing to you. He sighs at it, closing his eyes for a moment to savor the exchange. "I should have refilled my glass," he chuckles, pulling off to keep busy, keep moving. A constitutional meant. His hand lingers behind as he twines fingers around yours, to pull you along. This room and you could occupy him for the rest of the night.

     Henry sits forward, smiling again. And then as he sees the hand reach out, he rises. His hand is extended this time, taking Padraig's own. "A pleasure, aye... an' you're welcome," he says quietly, his own brogue nearly matching. It has the lilt of That Other Island in it, unmistakable.
     "I ... will see you tomorrow then, Padraig. Have a good even'...." He gives another glance to the other two. But only briefly. "I suppose I should head up to my room as well, get settled in." He nods to Padraig again, his smile broadening a bit. "Who should I call if I get lost?"

     "Oh," Padraig blinks...whoo...nothing scary in a shake. Confidence returns. "Um...those two, Marisol an' Maayl," he faintly motions at. "They appear...t' be on th' watch. They can get y' start'd. An' I dunno what hall y' be on, but there's someone t' see t' yer hall too...an' they can help ye there."

     In the greenhouse ... Even as you express your desire, William lifts his glass in offering to you. And with a smile, he allows himself to be pulled about and led. Quiet time in the garden. It brings out the romantic in your knight, as you well know. Free fingers skim the tops of flowers, as you have his glass now.
     "We will have to end our journey in the kitchens then," he murmurs. The grin is momentarily lopsided, claiming that mouth of his. The beard returned, he looks quite the Norman prince this night. More so than the last evening. He smells of cinnamon and patchouli, brandy and bathwater. Oh, and dog and leather, but that can't be helped. Macsen noses the area behind you both -- and you are watched. In between other distraction...

     Henry nods and grins again. The twinkle returning to his gaze. "Thank you... good night, Padraig..." And he turns, setting his empty glass aside and heading toward the two in question. Or in the direction they were last seen... No nothing scary in the handshake. Nor in the smile. He'll leave it for now...

Posted by rowan at January 08, 2000 01:09 PM