I have walked the city a while now, ducking out of the rain when I could. It comes and goes here. I think I walked around your building about ...seven times. I was watching people in your parking lot. There was a couple having sex on the hood of a car, other people gathering around looking half-bored. Or maybe that's the look they were going for.
     Or maybe they were immune...
     I watched it for a while myself and started noticing the ripple effect. The closer to the actual club they were, the more likely the were to be in some state of blissful sin. The young man on his knees giving felatio in the shadows. The underage girl in a vinyl skirt getting fucked by some guy she just ran into, on the hood of her boyfriend's car. Her boyfriend is too busy getting blown while he eavesdrops...
     Or maybe... it's just Me...
     What did you do, Julian, when you were stopped and in that moment realized how empty it all was? What did you do, Julian, when I laughed at you for feeling just... sick of it all. I'm lonely. That's why I left my temples. It's why I am walking around in the rain as a no-name musician who's never going to go anywhere but in circles. I'm alone, Julian, even when I'm standing in a crowd of punks, goths and freaks watching two methamphetamined teenagers humping on the hood of a Ford Festiva.
     It's something worse than boredom...
     The lights and music assault the senses. And dancing forms moving on the various dancefloors, catwalks and cages. Simulated copulations and actual screwing around. Women and women. Men and men. Men and women. Whatever. It's sundown in The City and no one's in a hurry to pay Time any mind.
     A young man, say twenty-eight...is moving in and out of crowds. Past a woman in leather leading a man around by a leash attached to his codpiece. That's some fucking perspective, Daughter of Eve. Lights landing spectral against equally spectral hair. It's some time before he makes his way to the bar. It's a full night. It's a crowded night. The party's on full steam.
     "Hey," Dei says over the music to the bartender, "...can I leave this with you?"
     There's a guitar case with him, looks to be acoustic maybe or something along that shape. Nice case, too. "I didn't know it was going to be this fucking crowded..."

     The bartender quirks a moment, then nods, "Sure, just come back and get it," he calls over the din of the night's entertainment.

     He's there, Prince. There is no mistaking one of your own knights. One of your own captains. Somewhere, above it all, he walks, content not to engage. His pulse is solid, his Heart yours.
     "Don't worry... just... try to make sure it...doesn't grow legs..."
      As if you're paid to babysit, but hey...he leaves it anyway, stowed back behind the bar, where he sees a collection of purses and other belongings. "Thanks, man..."
     He turns around, getting swallowed by the crowd in front of the bar and the crowd that packs in tight -- even if in motion -- as one heads to the dancefloor. And he sees it again. The ripple he makes, even as he is trying not to make it. The girls he brushes up against as he passes, that end up in a tangle when he moves by. The PDA quotient spikes.
     God damn...
     And yes, He does, and frequently...
     The young man with lavender hair moves to a booth, out of the way. Maybe... no one will notice. Maybe they'll be too busy getting it on to care. Maybe I shouldn't have come at all...
     A drink appears on his table about five minutes after he sits down. "Girls at the bar love your hair," the waitress grins, her purple and platinum bob going near neon in the light, "My name's Lido and this beautiful creature," referring to the lavender drink, "... is what we here call The Purple Jesus. One sip, and you'll be all ready for the second coming. Watch out now," and she moves away, grinning purple in her glittery black PVC.
     Oh Really. Now, wouldn't that be amusing...
     Dei looks shocked, overwhelmed but then nods. "Thanks," he calls out, and he looks at the drink. "The second coming, eh. I bet..." He sets it down. He doesn't drink it.
     I wonder where you are, Julian Kane. I feel you everywhere. And I wonder if I can be felt by you, me with my anonymous and not so anonymous face. I cannot hide. I am finding out that I cannot hide...
     But he does slump down in the booth, fingers touching the crystal-clear glass, turning it around, but he doesn't lift it. He just watches amber flames move within the lavendar alcohol, the echoes of his touch. Not even liquid sand is immune...
     Julian Kane...
     There is a masked presence here...
     And a strong one...
     Look there, down from the catwalk, at the edge of the dancefloor. Delicate fingers on a purple drink. But maybe you don't see that, maybe you notice instead the couple on the catwalk gyrating to their own tune. There are flashes of purple between their bodies.
     And though it is going to great lengths to disguise itself, though there is great subtlety, the room is affected.

     "I gotta go," Julian says to the man nearby, one of the floor managers. "Tell Sam...I'll catch her later," he finishes, suddenly at attention. A hand lifts in a wave, and Julian Kane moves down the catwalk towards the stairs.
     This is a business night, he dressed in slacks, shirt, and matching black blazer. He's Club Owner tonight, not an example to follow. There are others for that. He shakes a few hands as he heads downstairs, but they are be acknolwedges...he cannot stay. "Thanks," he calls, another compliment on the club. "Come back tomorrow next week," he points, turning to keep on his pace. A steady descent.
      "Absolutely," he says. Samantha James is spending her time upstairs, tending to the exclusive when she is not tending to her dancers. The last shift-change was at midnight. The next won't be for another two hours. So... in the meantime... she is schmoozing with the wealthy, the influential, and those who know what they want but just not how to ask for it...

     "Julian," your name is now on everyone's lips. Her name is Dahlia, she's wealthy, she's a regular, she's a leech, "...amazing what you've done, amazing," her arm loops in yours. She, with cherry red hair, cherry red mouth, cherry red leather, her breasts fully exposed by the cutout bra, "...I want to... talk to you," she breathes, and by talk she means fuck, "... about a ...joint venture," she runs an agency in her spare time, but maybe that's not what she means, "...can you... fit me in?"

     Fingers twirl the drink around, a slow but steady rhythm. Circular. Amber flickering against the lavender. And still he does not drink it. And in its turning, there is a spiraling on the dancefloor, the ambiant trance music thudding and swirling endlessly. No beginning. No end. And he closes his eyes and he frowns, as he hears a couple in the next booth, panting.
     I can't escape...
     Dei opens his eyes and his fingers stop. A setting of his face and he lifts the drink. The woman in the next booth orgasms. And the drink is swallowed whole. I am empty. There is Nothing anymore. It goes and it goes and it goes with or without me.
     The glass sounds against the table. "I've got to get out of here," he whispers...

     "I'd love to, sweet, but..." Julian notes in a hurry, already peeling her hand from his arm, "...but I have something to see about now. How about later? I'll have Angelica call you and set up a time?" Nope, not right now. Shining black shoes tap against the metal steps, sounding more hollow once he hits the ground floor.
     "I will talk to you later," he spins, now facing away from the booth. A wave, and he turns back towards the booths, moving even faster, making his walk through the crowd known.
     Don't go. Not yet. I'm almost there...

     Dahlia watches you go, and you miss the desperate eyes. Then the mask of a cool, confident smile and she waves. "Right-o, darling! I will be seeing you!" And seeing you and seeing you. She has her dreams. She has her wants. She has a goal in mind. Amazing thing, women. Some can climb while lying on their backs...

     There is a young man in the booth, with his eyes closed and his jaw set and his lavender hair still shows the evidence of the last rain shower. The glass is empty now and his fingers are still...
     Still on the glass...
     He opens his eyes. His dark brown eyes, eyes that in this club just look black. And the face that would be beautiful is just drawn. Maybe it is because he is at a table alone while the couple in the next booth are tangling in the afterglow. Maybe it's the drink he just downed, spreading through him with narcotic tendrils.
     Dei opens his eyes, and he sees you. And he's still for a moment. And then you see it. Resignation. Recognition. There is a brief softening of a vessel's hard, Nordic features.

     "Hello," comes Julian's voice, his face angelic. Do you remember such a look? He smiles as hands settle on the booth and the table. "Welcome...friend...to my latest work," no real pointing out of the club. Just a status. "I'm glad you're here," he smiles still, extending one of his hands, palm up. Come with me.

     I remember it painfully well. How beautiful you were. One of my greatest Then, one of my greatest Now. Oh why did you come with me. Why did any of you come with me. And why did I come with Him...
     That is what I don't remember...
     I don't remember Why, Ramariel...
     Come, I said, Come with me. We will create such wonder when we are free, I said. Is this, at all, what we have done? I do not think this is what we have done...
     "Nice club..." and he takes your hand. A shake, to everyone else it'll be a greeting. He does this all night, right? Blue eyes flicker with momentary gold as he hears the rising pants again from the booth next to him. "Is there somewhere we can go," Dei says, "... a little less..." Noisy. Mindful. Me.
     The vessel isn't obviously extraordinary, but in the tiny elements, in the small, subtle features, quite a bit so. The more he tries to go unnoticed, the more he affects the things and people around him. The more he grasps at simplicity, the less simple he seems. He stands in jeans and t-shirt, looking modern and plain, but epic tall.

     "Yes," Julian murmurs, encouraging you from the table. He leads you onward, fingers twining with yours. "It just opened," he says, ignoring the stares as you two head towards a door behind the bar. "A couple of weeks ago. It's going well," he simply states, just so you know. It's not the focus of things.
     "I've missed you," he says, looking back over his shoulder. "All of us have. We have been worried," Julian smiles. "But I'm glad you are here now, safe."

     "Wait," he whispers, and for the first time it has been His Voice. And as you move behind the bar, he pauses you both and he takes his guitar case. You hold him. He holds it. Stickers all over it telling a story of travelling. Mortal weeks are individual eternities. How could he have been years one place and weeks in another, and how long have his temples been quiet.
     Do you remember me before my Fall? Do you remember the platinum locks scented by the air that Loved me and holding the lyre and the luito, the first intruments of love. I hold the case that holds the first luito. An artifact to a happy past, symbol of loss more than love now. I hold it to me as if it were my broken and dead child. I cannot part with it...
     "Missed me," he says. He just echoes it. And his shell eyes the way you are making. Where are you taking me? Oh, let it be to someplace soft and quiet. "I am sorry, Julian," Dei whispers. Out of the main club now, his voice is warmed and soft, not lifted. No need to lift it. "I am truly very sorry..."

     "No need," Julian smiles, holding your hand tightly. He does indeed move to a corridor, then to an elevator. "We're going upstairs..." he explains, the sounds of the club becoming more and more distant.
     The elevator door pings and opens, a private accessway.
     "Are you alright?" he wonders once inside, letting your hand go. "I mean...you're okay?" Nothing's happened, yes?

     Freed, his hand curls around the neck of the guitar case and he holds it to him. He looks at you and his eyes soften. "I'm tired, Ramariel," he whispers when elevator doors close. "I woke up with former angels on my lap and on my face," his vessel sneers and rubs his eyes. "I ... am sick of it all. But it is all there is..."
     He looks at you, eyes locking on you -- sky blue where they should be metallic bronze and gold. Do you know? Don't you know? "I could hear the reverberations across the universe. It was not difficult, my Existence being hollow as it is the sound of it reflected quite clearly." He pauses, eyes to the glowing numbers of the elevator. "Quite brilliantly," he whispers.
     "I just had to get out..." And then I realized I am Me and there is no... out. No escape. No end to this. "I am sorry, Ramariel, if I worried you." And then he stops. "Who... came to you?" Who sounded the alarm...
     And how far has it travelled?

     It is not so long. The door opens and Julian steps out, turning to face you. He understands it seems, hair and collar blowing in the air conditioned breeze. He must be near a vent.
     "Pharzuph," Julian shrugs. "I don't think too many know," smile growing again. "Don't worry about it." He's not quite sure what you're talking about, but he knows he wishes to comfort you. That much he's aware of. Reaching into his pocket, Julian presses something, for a wall opens up, revealing a living area inside. "Come on," he murmurs, the club inaudible now, "...come sit down for a bit."

     How he wants to peel off the layers of the Self he has become and show himself as he once was. Who would that being be? And how he wants the skin and flesh of this mortal creature he is to fall to the floor like so many garments.
     It is quiet here and there is comfort in that...
     Dei sets the guitar case down gently, slender fingers trailing along the neck of it for a moment. Some great attachment is encased there. And he pulls off the t-shirt, and the thermal shirt that lies beneath that. And he begins to pull off the shoes as he sits down. Elbows press into his thighs above his knees, and lavender hair is spectacular, raked by those slender fingers. A flash of magenta. A streak of blue. But you'll notice perhaps that the lavender is the color of your eyes.
     "The beautiful imbecile," he exhales. "I weep for him, but he is fortunate to have so small a mind left that he knows not how truly tragic he is. Ignorance is Bliss. It is the only salvation..."

     Julian closes the door, moving towards a bar. "Do you want a drink?" he asks, needing one himself. He'll not comment on Pharzuph. It is too easy. "Have you eaten?" Well, at least follow the rituals.
     A cabinet opens and closes, and tinkling ice falls into glass. Julian fishes out a bottle of something and immediately begins to pour. Campari. Bitter orange.

     "I had dinner with a nice Italian man. Good looking. A magician. And I left him alone. It ..." platinum eyebrows draw together, "... was enjoyable." He really has slipped down the slippery slope, hasn't he. "A drink, Julian," Dei drops back into the familiar, "... I would like that. The drink that one of your girls gave me... it has made me too... prone to speak. She said it would... make me ready for the second coming. Have you ever heard of such a thing," and he laughs, for there is no crying where he comes from. "I did not even want to go through the first, let alone a second...and coming just... isn't on my mind..."
     You've been there. How did you get through it? By coming? And wasn't that His idea?
     "I will have what you are having. You look very good, doing very well. You are... beautiful and strong and in the fullness of your Word. I would be proud of you, Julian, except that we are both damned. It is hard to be proud of that..."

     Julian moves steadily, reaching up to pour a second glass of Campari. Ice is dropped into the second, and he turns about to offer it to you. "I'd be complimented, save you might be right." Humor, truly. He can't be serious. But he shrugs and gives a smile. "I am what I am and I might as well do my best and enjoy it." Honesty there. "What else is there for me to?"
     He seems not so worried now. Not like you saw him those years ago. "Some days, it is shallow. Some days, it is glorious. I guess now," he holds his glass to his lips, "...that either is subjective. It," whatever this life is, "...changes not. It has no quality. It simply is. And thus, it is myself, each day, that feels it differently. Bad or good. That is my filter," last words followed by the sip of orange.

     "I have never been as I am now," his lips give the lie, and his mortal eyes close at it. A twist of his mouth and his hand comes out for the drink. Taking it, he looks upon the orange and thinks of a certain nebula, long ago seen. "That is untrue. I have, but... moments, glimpses only. Until I found the next cock, until I filled my mouth and, like Pharzuph, conveniently forgot. Oh, how I envy him, my once bold general. How I envy him that he does not remember. God..." the mortal's voice trembles, "...must love him..."
     Campari is sipped, orange tasted, and the glories of field that were this drink's birthplace. He drinks Campari, and he tastes the Beginning. Eyes open, and dark brown peels away. Slowly, so slowly. Piece by piece, he comes undone. Until it is the large, dejected form of a Fallen Prince taking up a spot on your private sofa. His wings, gone. They were once the most beauteous in Heaven. To look upon Andrealphus was to Know Love. Now, Lust. Love turned upon Itself. Inward, Wanting. Lavender has left his hair, the platinum beneath half-coiled. His form encased in white fabric that just may as well be nothing. So sheer, this silk. His form, Lust's Own.
     He smells of every exotic, aphrodisiacal incense. Suddenly your chamber is filled with it. Though, far more subdued than usual...
     "It... is me. What happens if I change..." He, being the embodiment of your Word. He, the actualization of the Concept. Andrealphus finishes his drink. "Lust..." he looks to you, golden, molten eyes wavering with palpable heat. "What is it, but emptiness? Why did I trade Love for this... how," his eyes narrow and if he could cry he would weep, "...duped was I..."

     No one would say that Julian was capable of compassion. Yet two know of it. You and Samantha. His lips purse and he looks down, quiet for a moment. "Philosopher I'm not, my Prince," lover and erstwhile compatriot that he is, "...but love can come from desire. That is where it begins. And you are the father of Desire. Love is but a secondary manifesetion. It is not...opposed. Complementary. We...love..." Julian says uneasily, referring to nothing in particular, truly. Maybe. "That has not gone away."

     He looks to you, then to some space of Nothing between you. "I owe you amends, Ramariel. You have found a particle of joy. I was wrong," he holds upon that term, trying to find the meaning in it. The demonic tongue leaves him in almost tangible flames. "...you will never hear me speak ill of it, reprimand you for it, wonder at it. I envy you, too." He rises to the full of his frame, mighty presence and the form that Presence uses to show itself. "Thank you for the drink."
     And he speaks as if he shall be taking his leave...
     Can I truly have both? Is that... is that the secret to it all? Would God allow such to one such as I, who betrayed Him and all He built? Can I serve them both, Heaven and Hell, in some grey middle? Can Love and Lust ... be One Thing?
     But even as you might think he is about to leave, to take up some form, either guitarist or column of copulative fire, Andrelphus holds. "And if He appoints another to ... to take my place... there will be no need of Andrealphus. No need of anything. We ... will have lost. And in perturbed and confusing darkness... thrown." And then his visage is bathed in golden light. Anger. And he turns, returning to the sofa. "Love is in the world, whether I do anything or not. Perhaps Lust ... does not need me. I can become... irrelevent."

     That he does not like. "Less irrelevant," Julian says, stepping forth at your arm, "...than your servants will be," he confesses. This he knows.
     Hand slips into yours, drink still in other. "Stay with me," Julian murmurs, a kiss placed at your shoulder.

     You will never hear me ... rail at you, Ramariel...
     You will never hear me chastise you...
     You will never hear anything but...
     Love...
     There is a blink. A brightening. An easing. An aching. As you slip your hand in his, as you kiss your Archangel. He enfolds you. And he whispers his Promises. Promises that... maybe you still think they are lies... but they are vows.
     "My Most Loyal," he murmurs. And you feel the arms of Lust sliding around you. "My Most Beloved," though you do not hold the highest rank of all of his decadent choir, you hold the highest position of all, "... be my temple, be my altar, and hold my spirit tight..."
     And wherever he touches, there is the heat and tremble of pleasure. The burn of Want. The writhing insinuation of Desire.

     It is what I do best, yes? Confessional. My specialty.
     So easily I fall into this. It is a circle...my choice, my Desire, your Gift. We will share it for a while, along with comfort. Another of my handiworks. How shall we complete each other....
      The drink is set upon his nightstand. Julian can come back to it later. With free hands, he embraces you in return, sure that in the morning's essential light, both of you shall feel better.

     It is through you, loyal Ramariel, that I have found my way...
     Lost, then righted upon a renewed course. Have you been dining with angels? Have you supped with Gabriel that you have come upon Inspiration?
     You, only you could I entrust with such a thing as Our Existence. Pharzuph... trustworthy for our Past, I do not doubt it, but of no help in the future. Tell him your secrets, and he will forget it. Or trumpet it. Ignorance... is a double-edged blade, too.
     But you, you will be held in the essence of what formed us all. The Desire of Our Creator. In the fire of Creation itself. The Lust of the universe to constantly procreate.
     Of all things, Andrealphus, in Hell... you are the least evil...
     And perhaps, Old Heart, that is as close to salvation as one can hope to be...

Posted by rowan at May 10, 2003 02:12 PM