By the line of Cyprus trees...
     At the edge of the town's garden...
     He wanders, as he has wandered since his arrival in this place. His arrival on earth. How was he to know what Fate had in mind for him. From the first moment he mentioned going to earth those years ago...
     That he would be sent here, as he has been sent here now...
     The white garments he wears warm him now, even as they cooled him in the sun before. And the sky is full of stars. Stars that he knows are Blandine's eyes. Clouds that he knows are Blandine's garmets. Even as they have been his own. The dark-skinned Kit folds his arms against his chest, his headwrap turban unwound and now his dark curly hair is freed to the evening breeze.
     But where he goes, these days... he does not go alone.

     The musical stylings of Louis Armstrong might come to mind. Skies of blue and clouds of white as it where. Jack even plays pretty mean brass. Which instrutment is his favorite his various friends from over the years argue about. For his part, Jonathan figures that he's perhaps he stopped dawdling and found his charge. Fortunately he's pretty attuned to the comings and goings of trouble so he knows when he can give Kit a bit of space. He's got alot on his mind.
     That being said, Jonathan discreetly exits the carpet shope. He had been so determined to seem aloof and not into these 'arty' things before that he didn't want to be seen when he came back to get the carpet he wanted. So with it safely rolled and tucked under his arm he starts back for a rest. But something changes his mind. No feeling of danger but perhaps one that his charge could use some checking up on. And with that he starts through town tot he city til he comes to the garden. "Evening..." he says adjusting the rolled carpet beneath his arm. "So..." He suddenlty realizes he's not sure where to start, "How you doing Kit?"

     Grey eyes -- they are grey on this plane, in heaven they are molten silver -- glance from the stars sidelong to you. "I am hoping that by getting into a staring contest with The Almighty, that I might win back my clever tongue," how the Angelic tongue can sound like Arabic given the right locale. You know the difference...
     There is an exhale, a turn and he sits on a rock. His legs fold easily beneath him. His garments spread and give, like the robes of The Prophet. "I don't quite feel myself without my winking eyes and my ribald wit. Poking jokes at the Divine, and holes in logic. But... it just doesn't seem... funny anymore."
     Though Aspiration is still with him, he is not yet back with It. And the separation is evident. Hope seems to have taken some sort of holiday. "Can I see it," Kit gestures to the roll under your arm. You bought a carpet. Michael would be so pleased.
     Michael has quite a few nice carpets in his holding quarters you know...

     Actually Michael would like this carpet very much. "Sure..." he holds it out to you as it unrolls. The style is perhaps a bit more iconic that arabic. A style some say some rug makers adopted from Crusaders some thousand years ago. "It'll make a nice travel mat to sleep on, and will look great at my tent back home." The scene it depicts is one of axe wielding northmen battling Tartars. "Wit isn't something you can loose kit... It just gets tired and needs a rest sometimes..."

     That makes him laugh. It is not a sound that many have heard... in how long?
     How long was he in Michael's comfortable prison? Guarded on all cardinal points by the four-headed lions of gold and brass? How long did Dominic's questioning last? How late did he sleep in Blandine's quarters before he decided he could not sleep to avoid it forever...
     Maybe it does... need a rest... isn't that how they say it in Clearwater? Give it a rest...
     Kit leans forward, cross-legged, his hands on his knees, eyes narrowing, following the design. "I like that. And you are right... it will soften the stones of our travel. Wherever it is we shall go." We, and you are in that We. Soldekai is in that We. God is always in that We.
     "A most unusual rug," Kit whispers. "But... no doubt it was here for you to pick. A battle story for a battle cherub..."

     The big dusky skin man chuckles as he starts to roll the rug back up. "The rusty battle cherub that is..." He is being a bit modest... He had recently overcome some of his past problems and sent a few of Beleth's servitors screaming back to hell when they got their meathooks into his charge. Jenny is now a loyal soilder working out of Seatle as one of Michael's best propoganda artists. "Some travel will do you go I think. This plane has always been good at restoring perspective."

Posted by rowan at May 14, 2003 11:34 PM