He comes dashing in, as if he were late. Perpetual smile upon his face these days is accompanied by his latest companion, a very nice Hassellblad. Comfortable secured in the case, it's easy enough to say that the on-holiday Archangel of Brilliance, if one can ever have such a holiday, is enjoying scouring India as a photojournalist. He's in full regalia today, khakis and whites with a dark canvas jacket.
     "Sorry I'm late," he smiles as he comes over to see you, hand already pulling out a chair." Sol winks as he settles down, hair and him a bit darker these days from hours in the sun. "How are you?" he wonders, breathing heavily.

     One might half expect after this much time in India that he would have dyed his skin blue -- or rather, let his angelic dusky hue show through -- jewel his eyes and tongue and renounce all ties to the West. In truth, some of that transformation has begun. His hair has grown out in the time he has been here. Black waves turned to curls that turned to ringlets, and now are inky black with treatment they receive of softening oils. Scented of almonds. His hair is to his shoulders. A jewel of some sort... is that it?... has been applied to his forehead, just above the bridge of the nose. An active, glittering Third Eye. His facial hair is gone, shaved and kept thus. Smooth skinned, he seems the angel he is. His darker complexion, made bronze and brown by the sun, only enhances this.
     Kit is clothed in light fabrics, which allow both sun and wind to move freely. Light colored also, tans, khakis and ivory, with an embroidered vest of saffron and blue. His shoes are, however, quite functional and sturdy. When he chooses to wear them that is. Even as he is not doing so now.
     Eyes of grey lifted as you entered, and the smile curving... smooth and almost ribald... leaps to his lips. Interrupting a sip of tea. Cloves and cinnamon heavy in it, and honey. He sits cross legged upon a comfortable chair at a well-appointed table beside a generous window... in one of the alcoves overlooking the garden. "Ah, day is born and made complete by your arrival, dear friend. Do not worry on the hour. It begins with you..." A wink is cast, laughter sounding, and a sip of tea finished. Galadriel... for he more seems this than the Kit he appears...leans in, lowering his cup. His grin now conquers the whole of his face. "How am I? Why Lord of Leaping Sunlight, I am hungry... care you for some lunch?"

     "Lunch sounds wonderful," Soldekai nods, smiling as he takes a look at you. It is...an interesting way to keep one's vessel. The bag is hooked over the back of his seat, and polite as Soldekai may be, he cannot keep from staring. You look different. He exhales, "Each time I see you," he muses, "...you look more and more as if...you are from here." He, on the other hand, does not.

     "They have very fine bread here...naan... stuffed with vegetables, and another with fruit, meats..." He stops. He does not mind you staring. In fact, Archangel -- your lover quite prefers it. "It is difficult being an Irishman in India," he muses thoughtfully, this as he settles back in his chair, holding his tea with both hands. "Though," both brows lift, "...I rather like Rudyard Kipling...maybe I should try to become a British dandy ..." The thought is dismissed in the next moment, with the tilt of a smile. Were he not known to be an angel, such a look would be most wicked indeed. "I do not think that would go over well. But... you are strong and dashing... you make for a good American..." he murmurs.
     "You are... a great symphony, Lord," he addresses you. "I am more the sound of a single pipe played as by a child to wake a snake..." The tea is set aside and Kit sits forward yet again, voice dropping in low tones. "But tell me this," he murmurs, fingers interlacing, elbows on the table, "...do you like it? I thought... in the company of Brilliance I should become...as a jewel...to best reflect him..." A pause, a grin. "And besides... makes it seem like a costume party. I always did have a thing for masked balls..."

     "I guess," Sol says sheepisly, "I'm not sure...what to think. It is...very...exotic." A polite way of putting it. He's used to seeing the vessel with beard and curls, in students' clothing. He frowns as he looks around, wondering what it might mean...being used to seeing a vessel of a type. He smiles again at you, hands folding on the table. He too is used to seeing an American. "I like your," he motions at the vest you wear, "...vest. Who..." he wonders, brows raising, subject changing, "...is Kipling?" Eyes glance at a nearby table to see what they are having. "And that bread sounds good," he agrees softly.

     "A British writer... poet... he wrote The Jungle Book... about a boy raised by wolves..." There is quiet after and Kit settles back. "The vest was made by an old woman. She has a cart along the harbor... " He wonders too. What does it mean that you are not pleased? Can one be attached to one form more so than another? What is this that makes him want to please you? To cut his hair if you wish it cut. To grow a beard if you wish it grown. Eyes narrow a little in thought and he looks to his tea. Tipping the cup. "I like the tale he wrote of the mongoose versus the cobras. It reminds me of the balance of good and evil..." Grey eyes lift to you and then Kit turns his head. A hand lifts, fingers beckoning one of the waiters nearby. "We will have the pabla naan... and the naan with fruit and meats..."

     The attendant is a smooth-skinned Indian gentleman, perhaps in his mid-20s. Very refined. He nods and smiles. "Of course, sir." He looks to the other. "And would you care for tea to drink? We are serving cool tea..." It is a hot day.

     It is not displeasure, as much as unfamiliarity. Even in this, knowing a Spirit can become attached to how the Spirit looks. This...he was not aware of. Sol nods as you talk about Kipling, then gives his attention between you and the attendant. "Tea is nice, thank you," he agrees, then looks back to you for more storytelling. "You have spent a lot of time...reading..." human stories. Oh, well, look who you are talking to, Soldekai, and he smirks in the realization. "Well, I guess you would know them," he grins and shrugs, watching the attendant walk away. "I have not heard the story of the mongoose and cobras though, I'm sorry," fingers steepling a little.

     Humor seems reborn, though certainly tempered. Kit in a serious moment? It has been known to happen. "Words on paper come through the mind as pictures. Pictures can be dreams and so the thoughts of poets...these have been forests I have wandered through... as much as..." He pauses as your tea is brought to you. When the young man disappears again, Kit looks to you again. "...those of your Mistress do inspire the forests to grow. Children dream of such things. Adults so often forget that they, too, could be the companions of a mongoose who kills the kings and queens of snakes. Images and archetypes. These are my tools. And occasionally my weapons..." Lips curl to that. Kit lifts his cup of clove tea and finishes it. "Rikki Tikki Tavi... the mongoose, that is, is found and raised by a young British boy... and his family who live in India... the boy and the mongoose grow very close... the mongoose is celebrated for its ability to keep the snakes out of the houses of villagers. A revered animal, in a land where snakes can kill in heartbeat moments...so... it is a story of how one such mongoose saved a family..."
     A second glass of cool tea is brought, this time for himself. Smell it, taste it... it has honey and lemon and sugar and something herbal like a garden. Sweet and cool. Like drops of welcomed rain onto the skin. The bread is brought next. Hot and fragrant. And two plates and forks. The attendant moves away again. Kit's light eyes turn to his plate. "How much longer shall you be on holiday here, my friend?"

     "Oh, I have some time," Soldekai smiles, nodding as the attendant leaves again. Such scents! It is amazing how things smell here, especially warm foods. "I was hoping," he cocks his head, his grin warming at you, "...you would have time to walk the river with me?" Needing to see you less formally than the last public visits. "Maybe...you could sing?" He almost feels embarrassed to ask ... you seem a little different here, perhaps more aware of the lives and habits of humans to even take on some characteristics. "You haven't sung in a while, hmm?" Sol reaches out and offers the breads to you, grinning the whole time.

     A blink. A request. A knowing. No, he has not sung. Not in some time. Not since bidding his comrade Danes adieu for India's shores. Fingers take bread readily. Upon the tearing of the naan, such scents! Such flavors! Spiced meat and vegetables. But his favorite is the kabli naan, stuffed with baked cherries. There is an instant warmth. "I have not... in a time..." What is wrong with me? Sudden worry leaps to his eyes. And he thereafter looks to his bread. "I would like to wander. It has been a...while. Since we have... wandered groves and lived in song..." He pauses to eat. "And," comes muffled, and then he swallows, "...be... ourselves...." Kit lifts his eyes and smiles. A ready grin. More as himself. "What should you like me to sing you? Something from Iceland?"

     Freshly baked, the bread is warm to the touch. The meat is lamb and is spiced richly. The vegetables are potatoes and carrots and onions. With a kind of sensual greediness, the cherub eats across from you. The vessel must be fed, but it is the soul that tastes!

     "That would be nice," Soldekai smiles, almost nervously, "...maybe we can go later, when it becomes cooler?" He pauses, letting the silence remain for a moment as he puts the basket down. Wherein he is clearly the outsider, you...are no longer necessarily so.
     "The attendant," he smiles, glancing towards the kitchen doors, "...seems to like you. As...does everyone that I have seen you with..." he coughs, "...here." How do you do that? "I..." he blinks, putting bread on his plate, "...think the...um..." finger lifts to his third eye, "...that you put there." He's seen natives with them as well. "Does it mean something?"

     "At the first shades of night. When dreams begin to brush the cheeks of children," comes the smooth voice in poetic sing-song. "We will walk with the lotus blossoms on our feet and ... bare of pride... swim in the river...?" Upward goes one brow. Cocked, just like his smile. Ribald. Such desires. Swimming in the river... clothes... in heaps at the riverbank. The cool rush of liquid over heated skin. How would this stand with you...
     As you speak of likes and wonder on the people of this city. As you speak of the jewel that rests between his eyes. His features soften. It is Galadriel who looks out to you through Kit's grey eyes. So much fairer than his own. "It means that I am touched by God. It sparkles with our connection. It reminds me that it is with the Third Eye... that one may come to know God. Not with the eyes that see the bread at my fingertips. That become distracted by the material realm... " That is, at least, what it means to him. As an angel, it is fitting. So should it be for you as well. "Of course, I...just made that up," he mulls after. "Off the top of my head you understand..." Fingers make a slight motion, a gesture, and he chuckles, eating more of the bread.
     "As for...the attendant and the people of Chennai... I have found them to be... delightfully polite and energetic to discuss dreams and mythos.... they are into the fantastical here.... and I am fantastical..." Again, a small laugh. Soft. Kit looks to you. "They still leave bowls of honeyed milk for the gods who visit the dreams of their children." And for a snake, they say, that lives in the old mangrove tree...

     He listens with interest, but there is a hint of discomfort. "Maybe, I'm just used to...the Phillippines or...Iceland." He forgets that there too, is mythos, save it is based on natural occurrences, not so much present-day offerings to gods. Perhaps it is the feeling of old...the west philosophies he is much more familiar with. The eastern ones, some passed by his own former Lady, are more complicated. Foreign, after a fashion. "I see what you mean, though," he nods, pulling a piece of bread and chewing on it. Sol suddenly smirks, "And a swim...with blossoms...that'd be," he nods knowingly, leaving the rest of his sentence unfinished. It's a good idea.

     "Something... is the matter..." comes the murmur after. Naan is finished, washed down with sweet, cool tea. Out of a pocket, paper money, brightly colored. "We should go... get away..." Kit offers quietly, leaning in toward you. Eyes searching. You. You look uncomfortable. What is the matter? Silent thoughts to most -- conversation between the two of you. "Come... we will take our walk..." Bills land upon the surface of the table. More than enough for the food. It includes gratuity for the boy...

     "No, nothing is the matter," Soldekai grins, looking down at his hands. "I am...learning." That is all. "But, I would like...to go to the river, maybe? I don't think I've been there yet. Can we..." he looks to the bread and teas, "...take this with us, maybe?" The bread is right delicious, his hand already reaching for the basket to fold the cloth within. "I have space in my bag..."

     "Ah...the bread...yes...please take it all...it will be nice to have." As you smile, he is warmed by it. Cares are swept away. Brilliant, the smile, the eyes. "Come!" he says, rising, spreading his arms. So dramatic, your Kit. Masculine energy swelling, no matter the jeweled forehead and the longer hair. He is bold and brash. He claps a hand against your shoulder. "We will try to catch us a mongoose...we should rid our house of snakes, yes?" The grin is a flash. The gaze is a sparkle. A hand gestures to the attendant. "We are taking the bread...yes... do you have...ah...hm....portable cups?"

     "Of course, sir," the attendant says with a smile. "I shall return...one moment..." And he disappears again.

     Our house? Sometimes, even the Archangel of Brilliance can be overwhelmed by you. He just smirks and brings up his bag from the chair, unzipping a side compartment. "We'll have to carry the drinks, I guess," though he puts a finger through a bottle-loop on the side.

     Yes. Our House. All Creation. Snakes and Serpents being cast down with the demons who once took their guise. At least, that is Our Story, yes? In other cultures, the snakes are not necessarily evil. Kit stands tall, and his light clothing falls orderly about him. He looks like an Indian Prince, to be sure. Well, an Irish-Indian prince. "I will sing all along our way...have you any requests? Something special you would like to hear?"

     The attendant returns, bearing two styrofoam cups. "I have poured you fresh tea... Please...come again... enjoy your day..." A smile for both of you.

     "Something...chilly," Soldekai grins, nodding at the young attendant with a soft 'thank you', as he arranges the bread in his bag, then sees to putting one cup into the loop. "I do not know," he smiles, "...you choose." Yes, let's wander. Staying in one place is perhaps getting to him. That is the unfamiliarity, maybe. "Do...we need to get a blanket or anything? To sit?"

     "I have some silk and linen that shall serve..." His own clothing. Do you know the implications, Brilliance? Borne in the curve of a widening smile. "And I will...do my best to choose a suitable song for Your Grace..." He bows his head. But in it, a wink. He takes the other glass and sips upon the straw therein, and he turns toward the doorway. He too... has to move. Though he may in quiet contemplation sit in an hour's meditation, his energy is far too dynamic to sit in place forever. He understands if it is thus with you.

     Even as he leaves the room of the Sun, you hear him humming. A lifting and a lowering tune. Not of India. Not of anyplace perhaps than his own ears. "Upon a darkened night... the flame of love was burning in my breast...and by a lantern bright... I fled my house while all in quiet...rest..."

     As he nods at the attendant, Soldekai turns his bag over his shoulder, making short work of it. Grabbing at his jacket, he follows you out, weaving around the tables and others who might be seated. You cannot see him, but he has a bright smile, causing more than a few eyes to look at him and wonder at how lovely his grin is...

     Past Park Town and its station, toward the south and the west... a river runs, snaking its way through what remains of the forest that once covered Chennai. Along the bank, the grass is short, and vines twist eagerly for sunlight. Along the bank there is a trail, and slow is the stroll that leads you there...
     Kit walks ahead, but always looks behind. Glances that must steal upon you. Settling here and fastening there. And here in the dimming sunlight of the last hour of day, he seems darker. More like himself. The wind lifts his curly hair. Wildness returned to him. "Shrouded by the night... and by the secret stair I quickly fled..." His voice is rich and sweet and deep. Smooth, it winds about the senses like the vines about the trees. "The veil concealed my eyes...while all within lay quiet as the dead... Oh night you were my guide...oh night more loving than the rising sun..." How fitting for the Master of the Realms of Night to sing...

     "Maybe," Soldekai paces, keeping up and nearer to you as you go further, "...I should take that as a slight?" he asks softly, not really wanting you to end your song. A grin and he adjusts the bag on his arm, looking down to the path and his feet. He's looking more comfortable now, but then chimes, "Oh..." and shakes his head. "Hold a second," his walk stopping, "I should finish this roll while we go..."

     "But see... my lord," he sings, the melody kept though the lyrics are not of this song in particular. "...for lovers stealing their way, the day was often seen as an enemy...ah, the night could hide the lovers sneaking from their windows. Not so... at noon..." He winks, "...The fire twas led me on...and shone more bright than of the midday sun... to where he waited still. It was a place where no one else could come. Within my heart ... which kept itself entirely for him..." And so the first song ends... with a chuckle and an explanation. There follows after a sigh. "Ah...so long it has been since I have sung... I hardly know what to choose..."
     Laughter, soft, lifts again as along the path he wanders. "You've asked, my lord, for song... I sing for all reply..." This second song is much more lifting. In angelic tongue it lilts and quips. Rich and flowing, sensual and humorous: "Yet never sing for long. I've lost all heart to try! Where lives the troubadour? Can he sing when luck runs dry? Has love, then...turned awry?" Grey eyes flicker to you past a shoulder. Grey? No silver now. "No, better than before. Then why be troubled more?" Another sigh. "See... I need a company of drummers to do such as this..."

     "That was good though," Soldekai murmurs, eyes on the camera coming out of his bag and the bread that threatens to fall. He juggles them all, finally letting the bread rest inside where the camera was, and then rezipping. "I have been thinking," he mumbles, eyes downcast to his hands and assorted lenses, "...that maybe...I should move to another place? I know," he nods, "I said I had time, but, I wonder...maybe...I should see more?" Of this place. Where mortals exist. There is discomfort still in his lack of knowledge, and he frowns a little as lenses are sorted out, red-gold brows bunching.
     "Maybe...seeing more won't really help," he murmurs, pulling camera up to his eye and peering through it to make sure all is alright. He chuckles, "And a fife and a pavilion-carrier as well, apparently. And someone to wave palm frons," Soldekai smirks, bringing the camera down, preferring to see you.

     "All the world is yours, My Lord... to see... to know..." The singing has stopped, and yet the lyricism remains. Sing-song. He stops as you mention the fife and pavilion and his eyes go wide. "Yes...yes! And feather fans... and trays of sweets and chocolates to feed the wandering poet, and nectar, to soothe his working throat..." Then the smile takes a turn, darkening with ribald humor. "I should be a wretch were I half so spoiled...yes...better not to tempt me..." Chuckling, the sound keeping to his chest. He takes a sip of the tea and then points. "Look there, My Resplendent Friend, a clearing..."

     And so there is. A bending of trees and blossoming vines. Shaded and welcoming. Near the riverbank. An outcropping clearing. The water is clear. Cool. Promising. And so, he moves toward it, removing his vest as he goes...

     *click*
     Soldekai comes up behind where you are, still hiding, after a fashion, behind his lens. He turns to the water and stills, focusing on something floating. "This is beautiful..." he smiles, "...love." Not Kit, not Galadriel. Something his. He lowers the long lens, choosing for a moment to view it through his vessel's eyes. But his query still remains. "I don't think I know what to do with myself," he admits, looking down again. A shrug and he turns towards you and the clearing, catching up. Hands and eyes focus on the camera again as he changes lenses while he walks.

     And that moment of possession. Perhaps... it is a comfort that can only come from Belonging. It startles him but puts him at ease. Simultaneously. "It is," he murmurs, gaze sweeping out. "I have missed it in my previous wandering ...how can that be?" He looks to you. To the mechanism. And to the lowering of it and your words. "Come sit...love..." The belonging is shared. And the word is followed by the intensity of it. What began as friendship and turned toward sharing has begun to transform again. Deepening. There is an outpouring of energy. Come, it says, and join me. His vest shall be a cushion on the grass. And so shall his shirt after. This, you must realize, as he begins to untie it. "We have silk and bread, water and tea... What more do we need?" Soon, the light fabric of his shirt is also on the grass. His skin beneath is ruddy-bronze. Lean and athletic. Muscled, but none of your brawn. And then the curl of a smile. Welcoming.
     The water makes a gurgling noise as the river moves past. Rhythmic. Hypnotic. Does this remind you of Eden?

     He missed the whole Eden bit. But still, he derives comfort in being with you, like this. Soldekai strides over and finds a dry spot above you both to set his camera bag and mount. He kneels, setting camera aside to fish out the bread and release his tea. "What river is this?" he asks, turning to see you undress. Should he do the same? Bag rustles as naan is retrieved, and he twists to set it near you. "There is the...naan," he says tentatively, using the local word.

     The grass sighs as he settles, and there is a wish... that he could be himself by this sweet river. To unfurl wings and nap in the sunlight like any other Master of the Night. "Thank you..." is said quietly as fingers take the kabli naan, stuffed with its sweet fruit. He sits partly on the grass, partly on his shirt. So many shoulds, commander! Do what you will.
     As you speak of the river, Kit turns his eyes to the neighboring water. "I do not know... in truth. It is lovely...this place. Not far from the city, and yet... can you hear the city?" No, it is quite silent. Well, perhaps you and he can hear it. But what mortal could? Kit smiles to you. "I hear... in the wind... that you had a visitor recently..."

     He smiles at that. Never has he known you to be a Master of Understatement as well. Soldekai nods, dropping his jacket next to where you sit. Shirt is unbuttoned as he moves closer, kicking off his shoes. "There was a visitor," he murmurs, "...while I was...taking a rest." In one of his favorite places, to be sure. Now that is a being who can recall Eden. He shrugs a little -- parhaps that is what has his mood so. "It was...a gentle visit," Sol admits, "I was...speechless, honored." Feeling inadequate. "I listened," he whispers, dropping his hands to pull shirt from his trousers, "...I hope I learned something." And that is all he's managed to understand. It's not much, is it? But whatever transpired, it is still upon him. He sighs as he takes a seat on his jacket next to you, pulling shirt over his shoulders and casting it where your heads might rest.

     No, master of understatement he rarely is. But... on occasion...perhaps it cannot be helped. Placid is the countenance, in thought. Focused are the eyes, in concentration. Shoes are removed with a grunt and a tug. Kit casts them aside, even as he lies back. His head resting on your clothing. "What would you wish to learn? If you could name a wish and by that have it..." A pause and grey eyes lift to the canopy of leaves above. "Let us unravel that knot of thought that has you so entangled, Lord Brilliance. For... by my ears... I hear a struggle..."

     Struggle? Is that it? He quirks a brow as he exhales, taking up a recline next to you. His shoulder rests at your arm, and soon enough, Soldekai turns to his side, shirt under his head. "I should rather hear you sing," he whispers softly, enjoying your face so near. "Or...a kiss?" That is the word, yes?

     Perhaps a song will make it go away? Is this the medicine you seek? But a kiss is never denied you. Mortal mouth is warm and tastes of naan and tea and something of cinnamon and cloves as it both presses and pulls against your own. Soft. And brief. Full of love. The look is fixed upon your face as Galadriel reclines once more. "Love... do not be afraid... for God and I are with you...and so shall we ever be..."

     "I know," he whispers softly, eyes wandering at yours, then those lips. "This is why...I let it go." He ignores it. "In the end, it will not matter," how he feels, "...we know what will matter." The creation God has wrought. So how can he complain? Arm snakes over you, and he rolls you gently at your back to that he might hover and rest above. He smiles, as if he were to speak something, but instead, Soldekai decides upon another kiss, one to melt the cares long away.

     A grin erupted at that mouth, just short of the next landing of a kiss. Quite trapped, I see. But there is no debate. Nor lecture. Nor exposition. Nor hymnal, chorus -- Greek or otherwise -- or sermon. There is only the soft enfolding of the kiss and mouths joined. Doubt it not, however, that though you kiss, Kit has forgotten it. The Herald will recall it. When he is in his own form, with dark wings and orbs of hematite. Do you prefer this vessel over that one? With his dark skin and violet hair. So much stronger even than this athletic form beneath you. How I wish my wings could wrap around you.
     There is a ...chime against the Symphony... even as he begins to unravel beneath you. Beneath you. How can he help it?

     A groan that slips from Soldekai halts at the chiming. "Love," he reminds, stopping himself as much as you. His breaths are warm and he blinks to clear the heralding stars from his eyes. Such a kiss. Soldekai swallows and grins, "Sorry, just...didn't want to cause too much commotion." If so, this is not the place to be. One hand slips under your shoulders, and his other firms at your waist. A chuckle and he glances behind, down your resting legs, to the river. "Do you...want to go someplace else?" Someplace less conspicuous to symphonic resonances. "But this is so lovely," he murmurs, amber eyes returning to see you.

     He needed the reminder. It wakes him. How many could have known that the heretofore celibate Herald of Blandine -- singular in his adoration, it was said, only to Her Cause -- be so passionate? And so... unfolding in that passion as to ...forget the limitations of his surrounding plane? It brings a smile, a clearing of his throat. "Sorry...ah, no... here is fine... it is... beautiful here..." And so much for words. "Here" lands against your lips and kiss is rejoined. Dark, with its full weight of power behind it. Close your eyes... there will be stars there. Essence withdraws, his vessel yet intact -- the shimmering against the Symphony brief. The kiss... not so...
     Though... if one were nervous about commotion... should groans such as shall soon pour from him be any more discreet?

Posted by rowan at May 13, 2003 09:09 PM