Good old Commander Decker. Turned photojournalist on his time off. It is a long way from Clearwater and the passing reacquaintance that became something more. And it's still sedate, whatever is transpiring between you both. It's not the eternal story of Blandine and Beleth, or any one of a million myths that live on your Marches. One of you has just had his Hope restored, and is seeing a world that he's defended only from afar. But now, he is down here, as it were, with you, both exploring, as it were, mortality.
     Sometimes, one has to wonder on the perfection of the Symphony. Maybe it's not the frontlines of this war that your superiors are letting you get to know. A story more complex is being weaved between you, through you, and as you walk the face of the Earth, among God's dearest creatures. In that...it's an age old tale, learning about yourself and your place in His Universe.
     "Do you think," he asks as he often does nowdays, curious about many things, "...that I can get good photos today?" You seem to know so much more about This Place. "I would like photos of...plants." The word comes from him as if never uttered before. And there is a chance that it hasn't. "Plants...with flowers on them.." he murmurs, pushing some branches so you can safely pass. Not even thinking about it. It is how He Is.

     You are the central players of your own mythos. The tale that, perhaps, some young angels may tell later. Do you remember the story of Galadriel and Soldekai? Two halves of the Lord's Great Coin. Inspiration and Aspiration. Well, so it once was. Until Inspiration was turned to Brilliance. Ahhh.... children... and do you remember the last lord connected to light? Trust me, so an elder angel might say with a wink -- at least if it were up to Galadriel -- this story has a much better plot...
     Archangel though you may be, it is this cherub's sworn and...most solemn duty... to show you the other side of the world in a mirror and whisper: Dream, Sir. And it is a very satisfied look that crosses his lips at the mention of ...plants and flowers. Ah, is the Archangel of God's Beauteous Gardens and Green Growin Things weepin to hear this? Kit... for that's what he calls himself down here, guitar or no guitar... strolls slowly behind you. Smiling easily. At Peace. Arms folded across his chest. His skin quite bronze now with all this sun. Well, a bit ruddy bronze. He's Irish in this lifetime. "I should think you'd get a great many good pictures on such a day, O Cha... " hrm -- that nickname no longer works, "... Sol my... " A sigh. "Lord, I must find you a new nickname..."

     He chuckles a little as he watches you pass, and takes pointlead once more. Old habits die hard. "What is wrong with Sol?" He wonders, tromping along and looking left and right for interesting specimens. "Hey," Soldekai stops and peers at a small pink flower on a bud, "...this is nice. Do you know what it is?" he twists, holding the tendril out to show you.

     So much life around the temples. Seeds sprang once from young maidenly fingers. Even as spice hung upon the air after their passing. The plants now grow here, matrons. Even though the girls who tossed the seeds have gone...
     "Nothing is the matter with Sol. It is a very excellent name. It moves against the ear in a very nice way, you know. But... maybe I do not have to be so... hmm... what is it my lordlady calls me... ah!" Kit grins as he makes a motion with his hands, indicating something ...magical. "...Clever..." He turns then, eyes bending to the pink blossom.
     Thinking of the young girls who threw their seeds in rain puddles. Blessings to the wife of Shiva, Shakti...
     Grey eyes are silver in this lighting. Silver for you, like hematite, as he stoops slightly. The tendril offered, he tastes the flavor it leaves upon the air. "A slight ...perfume. Very subtle as a single blossom. But...as a vine... strong enough to lure bees from Africa..." comes the deep sing-song of his voice. "I believe they call it in their language 'The Blushing of Sri'. Sri is the wife of Vishnu, the supreme god of the Hindu..."

     He looks confused a moment, trying to be as delicate as he can with the green coil and flower. "The flower is called that?" Sol tries to clarify, looking wide amber-eyed at the blossom once more. Very long words for something so small. He is so used to angelic tongues...rarely does he speak to mortality. Like studying a foreign language and hardly being asked to use it. But he tries to speak 'mortal' when he is upon the Earth and with you, constantly correcting notions and concepts that are simple to the divine mind, but rather elaborate and unknown in mortal speech.
     "So, someone named the blossom after their god's wife," he repeats to himself, absorbing the information. His hair is a little longer these days, affecting a less-martial and more casual look. But his body gives him away, certainly. "I guess she was important," he nods sagely, realizing how mortals show empahsis...by giving it a name.

     "They name things. Even the unnamable. Gods Whose Names Cannot Be Spoken, or initials...but... still it is a name. Flowers, trees, people. They all have their distinctions. And tongues within tongues, such terms are tangled. The Hindu call it 'The Blushing of Sri' but to an Englishman this would mean nothing. He would call it Pygmy Pink Hybiscus or... by some Latin phrase the scientists use..." hands motioning, "...you know...pinkus hybiscus...but...what do these mean?" Brows lift and the handsome face is warmed by the discussion. And in sharing it with you. "Some languages...are more descriptive. Terms...more poetic. Others...more precise." Kit grins and leans in toward you. "It...is rather like the difference between choirs, if you think on it," comes the murmur.

     He has noticed the hair. And he likes it. But then, he should like whatever form you should take. The forms are... inconsequential to him. His adoration is assured, no matter the guise.
     A skeeptical 'hmm,' comes from Sol, but it's good natured. The information is quickly nodded upon, however, another lesson learned. For you both, 'mortal' is just a bit of a singular tongue...somehow, as with divinity, it is heard by the mere mortal in some appropriate fashion. Soldekai has never mulled upon it, but nowdays, he wonders about this 'communication.' Instant thought, instant understanding works so much better. But in the same thought, his face furrows a little, hand dropping the flower to dangle. "I guess...it is..." he looks at you seriously, "...what happened to Gabriel." How the Koran she was to give to Mohammad suddenly became an error to the judges of the Council. Language. Slipping meanings. "How do they talk...if pinkus hybiscus...means Blushing of Sri?" Now he is really confused.
     "How do you know if pinkus hybiscus means Sri?" Soldekai now frowns. This is...not good. Suddenly, Gabriel's ache becomes his own. How can one whisper inspiration...if the words are...well, they're words. Not cosmic thought. That is how the Symphony works. Suddenly, Soldekai doesn't like words, and his frown becomes more of an anxious tremor. The more he thinks on it, the more he sees this 'language' and 'words' as a trap. How unfair for his former Archangel. "I...Am Brilliance. Is that...Brick to someone else?"
     "If...she had been talking to..." someone real, an angel, "...one of us...we...would have understood her!" Soldekai looks at the flower again, disliking it suddenly. "She...cannot be blamed for that, right?" Ah, the question the Innermost Council has wrestled with since the Koran appeared. Not the catholic, small C, understanding they expected. Well, some of them.

     "They do not talk. For pinkus hybiscus... " Kit grins, "my word that. I don't think the Romans had a word for 'pink'. It's a bit un-gladitorial....but... maybe it is not so different afterall. Both... try to ascribe meaning onto an object. A ...classification. In color and sometimes species. It is Their Oldest Task on this earth. Our Father gave them this Creation -- and they, his Gardeners, are ... bound to name everything in it. Divide it by what grows best where and the like. Not romantic, but...there it is..."
     Brick. Brilliance. "No..." He sees your concern and so any grin for it is halted. "No, Soldekai. It is not like this ... Brilliance... is nothing like Brick..." A pause and Kit lets loose the pink blossom. The tendril shivers. Not so different from you. Black curls are tendrils of their own. "Soldekai, the mortals 'terms' are shards of the Oneness you know ... and ... " He exhales, trying to keep up. He raises his hands. "You are right...yes. It is true... if we had been with her... it is likely...she would not have ... been so lost in her Forest For The Trees..." His expression is serious now.

     Can you feel the ichor rising in him? It is darkness, that, tempting to spot the brilliance. It's called frustration and anger. But as it comes, he tries to dispel the emotions. Real Emotion. It clutches at him. "She...spoke as we always do," those who inspire, "..with His Word itself. So...that would be what...the mortal," Mohammed, "...heard..." question with the claim. The Great Error, as many call it, was not with Gabriel, but in the mortal incompetence, yes? Ah, such slopes Soldekai begins...

     He does not try to halt the anger. He stands by your side. His expression open. Placid. There is no fear in him at your rising ichor. There is Complete Understanding. Arms cross his chest, and a hand is lifted. A finger lightly pressed against his lower lip. Glinting, silver eyes sparkle for you. Consideration. But it falls away in the next moment. Melting. And that hand reaches out for you. "Soldekai... this is one of the oldest... dilemmas. For mortals cannot bear the Word of God in its fullness... and we do not understand the shards of understanding they speak. We ... are not them. But... in shards of dreams, or... inspirations, or... thoughts... we may nudge them in the right direction..." Soothing, his voice. "We most reach them in the Quiet, when all voices are silenced..."

     He knows this, truly. But...he has not recognized the sheer incredulity of it all. Thought, communication, language, words, understanding. All done outside the perfection of the Symphony. And in the anger, he says softly, "The mortals..." they make him angry. He does not finish this thought, not liking it even as it forms. Instead, he just sighs. Shoulder shuffles the camera over and he holds it in his broad hand. "I think...I want to go back," he murmurs, eyes to the ground right now, but a million thoughts clicking in the passing instants. You, of all, can feel him. "I need...to go," he says earnestly, knowing when he pushes boundaries he is not prepared for.

     "I am with you..." Resolute. Strong. Sure. And ever-giving. "Shall we... go home...?" Not to the inn. Not to the spice shop. Not to the temples or the Coromandal Coast. But... home. To the Oneness. To surround ourselves with the Familiar. His hand makes a sigil in the air. And against his chest. The Oneness of Love. And his love for you. It is Complete.
     "But speak it... and we shall go. But ask it, and I shall give it ..." comes the whisper. Has he not said the same to Blandine... when hurt rose in ichor for Beleth's Wrong?

     Yes, Soldekai thinks, returning to the surity of the Symphonic Wave ...home. An expectation of you coming with him. He smiles a little at the cojoined sigil you make, recalling the first time you make such a sign to him. A wintertime ago. And instead of making the trek to a more reasonable area, Soldekai closes his eyes, his own sigil's lines drawing in the fabric of the space beneath your feet. Lined in light, is it now, with a hint of the flicker of flame.
     Lush green exchanges for something more stark in its beauty. Home? A windowed cave off a northern shore of Iceland. Grass becomes onyx basalt, and tendrils here are of the thinnest kind. Ahead, rough seas of grey, black, and white, and sands barely visible. Soldekai's eyes open and his adventurer's garb is gone. He stands as angelic as he can be on this plane, wings settled behind him.

     Feathers spread. Like fingers and unlike fingers against the air of your cave. The sound like a sigh falling from the lips of the space around you. Midnight blue and mottled, much like his garb. Maps of the universe -- constellations! Patterns only those such as You could see. Order. Symphony, even in this. A breath is exhaled and after it comes an ease. An unfurling. Would I could straddle the earth as I am! Great wings lower against his back, folding, and violet brows lift. The dusky skin is warmed. He is much like your much-loved basalt. "Much better...yes...Ah, my back has been aching...my soul... aching to ...be free. Love India as I do... to be trapped in so small a form... it makes my ~old~ shoulders stiff..." Molten silver eyes glimmer in a wink. And he moves toward you. Drawn. His eyes captured by seeing ...more of you. It is this he prefers. Mortality... rather, the pretense of it... can be a trap sometimes. A weight...
     "What do you care for? A song? A card trick? I believe I may have something for you...." With the smooth winding of a smile several notches down from holy, Galadriel pats at his armor. As if searching for a misplaced pack of cigarettes...

     He agrees in his silence, Soldekai's wings stretching faintly as well. It was confining. And already some of his frustration subsides from the air. As you approach, he turns around, hands open in anticipation of your waist. "What is it?" Sol blinks, looking down as you pat yourself. "Lose something?" he wonders, hands gently at your hips, even if he does take a step back to see if he can help.

     "Ah... I shall have to look in my roost...." He looks almost dismayed. You can feel, surely, this is a jest. He is trying to cheer you up, yes? Or distract you. A hand reaches forward, fingers behind your ear. A whistle of a tune -- a captured piece of the Symphony. And when Galadriel withdraws his hand, he holds in his upraised palm a perfect crystalline form of flourite. Violet and blue and crystalline, it is formed in very symmetrical patterns. It, too, is at one with the Universe. "Tsk, lord... I'm starting to rub off on you. You're becoming a serviceable thief!" Galadriel grins, ribald. Silver eyes shine molten. Filled with shards of metallic color...

     Soldekai laughs genuinely...one day, he will realize when he is being had. You are the only to even consider using him in a humorous fashion. Hand reaches up to touch his ear, wondering where it might have teleported from. Prestidigitation...does not enter his options. As he laughs, other hand touches his stomach, feeling the sound. "That's pretty good," he smirks, shaking his head, "...maybe one day, I could learn how to do such things." A future wish. But is it not the same when he warms your bed from a distance, or flickers on your candles in the little room of yours? When the smiles are done, he reaches for you suddenly, drawing you to him. Amber-eyes sparkle and he belays his need for a kiss. "Is here alright...or did you want to go to your..." what's the word..small place of residing that you pay for to the owners.

     Apartment... But he shakes his head. No... this is ...home, Soldekai... "Ah...you do not need my magic... I pull rabbits out of hats and squirt water out of plastic flowers... you... warm my bed...make the candles in that...apartment flicker and reflect against a rock collection that would make the Archangel of Stone envious..." A wink chases his words but then... the words themselves are chased away by ...Something Else Entirely...
     Dark, the canopy that overarches. Dark, the wings that wrap around you both. Dusky, the form of the one in your arms. Warm, the mouth that brushes against your own. An invitation. Your need is shared. And a third comfort given -- first, understanding... second, humor... third, love.
      I will teach you...

     "I like...the plastic flower squirts," Soldekai smiles, a naivete about it all. "I mean, some wouldn't, but I do." He grins, allowing soldierly arms to coil upwards along your back. Feet step forward, backing you into the cave. The kiss is met with a second, then a third, his red-blonde hair falling around his face. "I didn't know...until...lately," being on Earth more, meeting you, having his very Essence changed, "...that I had...things to learn." Existence upon one Word transformed to another opens avenues to the limited paths given to an archangel. Indeed, as they are the lowest rank, they are the Highest. Such freedom you enjoy.

Posted by rowan at May 12, 2003 10:17 PM