You can feel the arrival of spring. The wind has changed directions. The climbing vines upon the trellis are beginning to bud. There is music in the air. Birds. The light pick and strum upon a guitar. The inhabitants of Ca'Tre Sorelle and the neighboring building begin to loiter in the courtyards day and night. There are lights that have been strung across from one building to the next, paper lanterns that give a reddish and a golden glow. And he finds that has done something to his world. More than he ever would have expected.
It has given him a sense of hope...
And so there is a young man on a third floor balcony, his hair dark and curly and wild, left to its own designs. He sits in a small wooden chair dragged out for this purpose, and he is cradled by it as surely as he cradles the guitar in his lap. The midnight blue guitar much played, much loved.
The song is slow and sweet, more plucked notes of pleasant tonalities than true strumming. But his voice is sweeter still, a lovely tenor. He sings in the Venetian dialect, its tongue now his own. And downstairs, his neighbors loiter in the courtyard again tonight.
The air is warm...
Already the air is warm...
And Kit closes his eyes, his fingers knowing the way. He sings of Love. And for him, and for his neighbors, there is something of Love that materializes...
Bells ring, but sound is localized. The chiming of the Symphony. It rings in the minds of those who are attuned to it, but to the rest of the World, there's nothing but a breeze, voices, and the strumming of a guitar.
There is a light from your apartment behind you, Kit. Non-visible light, but it is the celestial in you that can see this. It swirls from a point deep within your living room, growing and glowing yellows and oranges. A spiral of fire that gives off no heat.
Eyes open and his head lifts. Past unruly, dark curls his grey eyes open wider with something he can't even pinpoint. It's more than interest, it is something stronger than curiosity, and in that instant it begets the smile that follows, brings an end to music, and at the abruptness his neighbors call out:
"E troppo in anticipo affinche la musica si arresti stasera, Christopher!" And a young woman says: "Gioco qualcosa che possa ballare a!"
"I have a phone call," Kit shouts down to them. "I have to take it, Isabella. Dance to the music in your head until I get back..." And the guitar is set upon the seat of the chair that he has abandoned. Kit steps in through the arched window and closes it behind him. "Spring has come early," he whispers. And there is a light that comes from his eyes, and with it emotion that makes the corners of them krinkle. "Buoa notte a voi, angelo bello..."
Suddenly, the head of Kalinda pops through, verifying she's gotten the right place. A smile is given to you as she chimes, "Buoa notte," then chuckles, disappearing back into the swirl.
The room is not large. It does not take him long before he is sitting cross-legged on the bed. "Kalinda," comes his own chiming, a trickling against The Symphony in his own, angelic response, "...wait! Not so fast!" And then he sighs...
He had so hoped that the golden glow would be You...
But where Kalinda is, can you ever be far behind? The idea snaps him up and Kit leaps off his little bed and begins to straighten up. You see, it's a bit chaotic with discarded clothes, socks and undies, empty glasses and a couple of bottles of wine -- very empty. Essence burns behind him like the trail of a comet as he races downstairs, then up...
Then around...
Then back upstairs...
Kit pivots in a mad little circle. Anything else?
You have your time. The next is the impression upon the world. The swirl elongates, extending to the floor and growing to the height of its passenger. The flaring spiral opens darkly, and from its center, a being comes forth. Tall, broad. Black. The shape of the Malakim.
Yet once the being crosses the swirl's perpendicular, breaking the plane of the corporal, the darkness becomes visible light, a man of light brown hair, green eyes and well-constructed build. Some six foot tall, or a brush more. He sighs unfamiliar, then reaches around to grab his shoulder. An itch? Annoyance.
And the pivoting ends into a gape...
It began before you crossed the plane. It began, even though he Expected and Hoped for such a view. It has been a while, yes? And, archangel, power and brilliance being what it is...
And then it congeals into a ...new figure. Kit blinks -- and who knows how long it took him to do this? It felt like the passing of an hour, Archangel. Behind him a large arched window, a scattering of very colorful votive candles, all of them lit up like the explosion of a rainbow. Drops of it everywhere. The bed is unmade and rumpled from this morning, this afternoon and this evening -- he sleeps a lot -- and there are still the Odds and Ends of a very lived-in room. The gaping angel in Italian's clothing is barefoot, wearing a dark blue button down shirt unbuttoned over a white undershirt, untucked around dark blue trousers. He has taken to wearing... his colors again of late...
"Ciao, mio arch-amore," Kit whispers, gaping of his mouth halted by the words, but his eyes krinkle again. And you can see the birth of a broad smile. "Avete cambiato i vostri vestiti un piccolo..."
Changed your clothing, he says. That's one way of putting it...
"Gah," Soldekai laments. He steps forth, waving his hand so that the portal disappears. Soon enough, there's nothing unusual. A young man in the room with you.
He massages his shoulder, as if it's sore. Then, the smile grows. "Clothing?" he wonders, then realizes it. "Oh, well, that," voice toned more towards the tenor than the basso these days. A sigh follows, and he steps forth to receive you.
"It happened a few weeks ago," he offers, his comfort level with you unchanged. Smooth hands reach out to take your arms, sliding downwards to your fingers. "I am sorry for being so late, raven," words intoned the same. The pacing. The lilt of it. He immediately leans to place a kiss upon your lips.
The True Voice is unchanged. It does not matter the shape the Being that owns it takes. And even though he yet has his vessel, the very form he had in America, in Ireland, in India, he is also much changed. For he absorbs the land that holds him. The wise-ass Irish tenor is nowhere to be found. The witty American lead singer of The Mad Danes also gone. The sitar-strumming, lotus picking brother of Krishna, too, is a memory. He has become Venice. Modulations made for the place of reality that holds him.
And in your arms, he is always The Herald. No matter the surroundings...
"It was on a Wednesday," he says at your mouth in that sing-song way that Knew. Even though he had not been told. He did not need to be told. Resonance and attunement were all the messengers he required.
The kiss... trembles...
But it finds its footing soon enough. It has only seemed like a long time...
You can feel the calluses of much guitar playing as Kit squeezes your fingers. Are your newer fingertips more sensitive than the last? "How can Archangels be late," Kit wonders, a moment for speaking, though he does not move out of your, still, taller shadow. Dark eyebrows quirk upward and grey eyes round in slight widening. "I thought you could only ever have impeccable timing?"
"I do," Soldekai whispers, finger tugging at his bottom lip to remove something. Ah. Feather. An eye narrows as he tosses it over a shoulder. "I am always where I am supposed to be." And right now, says his smile, that's here.
The second kiss is no less sweet, lips touching as breath passes between. Soldekai winks and sighs, greenish eyes glancing around. "Well, you have made some headway," he observes, lifting from your mouth to see the room in its entirety. "Are you sure it is big enough?"
"I am ever your opposite," he smiles, a tug of that mouth -- familiar Herald's ribald, self-effacing grin, even though it isn't midnight blue and edged with constellations -- pulling warmly, "I am never where I should be. I have missed you. Oh, that's right... you knew." Because You Know. He catches himself in almost mortal folly and sighs for it.
The sigh that finds itself shared in the second kiss. He stands in that for a moment, for a while. Turning to look around his little bedroom only after you have already done so. Moments after, in fact, your words trail off in silence.
"It is a mansion. A palace. Too big most days and nights. The bed is big," he offers, "...that is all I need." And if he were any other than who he is that might sound scandalous. But well, Angels of Dreams have certain requirements that only sound lascivious...
"It is... feeling a little more like my space," Kit adds, ending his survey at you. And then, he makes a second kind of study. Learning the new look. "I like the green," he says of your eyes, "... I shall have to come up with new nicknames..." Ah! Something to fill the time! Something for amusement. "And it must be spring, and I must be at home in my skin, for I have been thinking of ... sunny days lately. Longing for warm air. Hoping for a ...dash of summer..."
"In Oannes' glade, it's always summer," Soldekai responds, finger pulling skin beneath his left eye. He shows the orb. "Real green too," he laughs, as if. "Marshall Evans," he explains the role, "...special ops," he smiles, "...for no one in particular." He steps back, twirling to offer you the view. Indeed, slimmer than his former Marine, but only just. Perhaps a loss of fifteen pounds, but this time with more definition. "Though, I get calls from the Rangers, SEALs, and a few other groups that governments tend not to mention they have arrangements with."
But enough of that. Soldekai moves towards said bed and plops himself down on it, as if he's tired. In the rush of air around him, a feather lifts. Seeing it, he waves at it, then sighs again, head falling your direction. "Why would you need to have a new nickname?" he wonders. "For me, that is. What's wrong with the old ones?"
And he? The same lean to wiry musician. Healthy -- he does a fair share of walking and running around -- but there's nothing near the definition you have. He has his strength, of course, but well... it's nothing like yours. You don't seem to mind, and really... what does it matter? There is strength in the arms, a natural shape that would speak of labors worked or soccer played or some active life led. Maybe it's all from the walking around...
When you turn your head toward him, he is there, settling on the bed beside you. It is a spacious bed, you have to give him that. It takes up valuable real estate in this tiny world. "I don't need one, I just like to make them. And you're not a chamberlain anymore," he whispers. "O, Chamberlain my Chamberlain doesn't have the... ring it once did. There's Your Eminence. Your Resplendence..." He rattles off a few and then exhales. He doesn't have the mind for it that he once did, but there is something greater. "I like Archamore, I think best. Arch-love for an Archangel." Another sigh and he turns his head upon a cushion, reaching up and narrowing his eyes at another feather. He captures it. "You're leaking, Archangel..."
And Kit beams. "I could call you He Who Leaks Feathers. My Favorite Pillow...." Alright, so he hasn't lost the knack. Kit rolls on his side, and his breath moves over your shoulder. A kiss there, and it moves. Wanders. Capers. Skips. Lands lastly at your mouth. "So... you are here for a while, say yes..."
"Yes," Soldekai chuckles, squinting in amusement. His hands are already at your hips, encouraging you further. Not beside, but upon. "I am not sure about archamore," he wiggles his nose. "Chamberlain...no not anymore," Soldekai hesitates, "...but still doing the same work." Archangel and Archangel-in-waiting at the same time. It will be a long transition.
"But pillow works," he offers, adjusting to something comfortable, while fishing a pillow from the collar of his knit shirt. He rolls his eyes, flicking that one away. "I was on a farm before I came," he explains, hoping to leave it at that.
You swing the barn door that wide and expect it to end there?
"A... farm." He pauses, settling on you, a mixture of blues and whites, cottons and linens. Layers of softness, and beneath that the lean form you've come to know. "Un podere, come con i polli e le mucche?" he lilts in Italian. And he laughs. It has been a long time since the laughter has been that rich, that gutteral. That pure. "E che cosa stavate facendo su un podere? Niente nella speranza del fieno I!"
And though he teases, his curiosity is palpable...
Pillow, he whispers at your mouth. In English. In Arabic. In Bengal. In Italian. Lastly in chiming angelic. "I am glad you are going to be here for a while, I have much missed you. I... am so..." Kit exhales, he makes a motion with his hand, the corners of his eyes. "...happy." He lets that linger.
Have you ever seen him so... moved by Love? Even in the beginning? He closes his eyes in it. He leans forward in it. You feel his weight in it, all one-hundred-and-sixty pounds of it. And you feel the warmth of it in the kiss that follows.
And do you hear the silent prayer? Please, Lord Creator, let my Guard not come on duty tonight...
Happy. That makes Soldekai's green eyes shine. When he smiles, there are no lines...he has the fresh face of a man in his mid-twenties. "Nothing in haystacks," he whispers, hands greedily massaging now. Pulling. Come this way. "I promise," he chuckles, ending the laugh in your kiss.
If your guard should come on duty, he'll be dismissed. Michael...will take it up with me. In that, and for this, I fear nothing...
How long has he been in this form? How old was the form he chose when he chose it? Twenty-seven once it was, or twenty-eight or thirty? Time comes and goes, he doesn't really pay it any mind. Just the few little krinkles at his eyes pay witness...
Hands and fingers, and linen and cotton. Soft fabric and warm skin, it all becomes a tangle. Like the fluttering of wings numbering in the hundreds...
Blue and white lift and lower and something bronze is left behind...
Blue and white slip from shoulders, from arms, from fingertips, down to a bed that soon becomes a firmament. Your lover, the Herald, a Master of Realms of Night and Dreams unfolds around you, and uncaring of chimes Symphonic and Not...
He sits up in his straddle, kiss broken. And the drapes slide over the windows, blown by a cool, evening breeze. And midnight blue feathers rain down...
Lightly landing where pants lie pooled at his thighs...
...These are the breezes that he knows. Strong and crisp. Filled with the spray of water. White upon black, it is, a world colored in primary tones. The blue-white of sky. This is the place the Archangel of Brilliance loves, a world sharp and in focus.
This is where he comes when he wants peace. His own time. When he's looking to enjoy his own mortal form. Not in the heated battles of day in and out. Not the humid jungles or the arid plains. Soldekai retreats to the foam of Iceland, its jagged volcanic rock that's cool, its cool, wet air. A dark cave that holds little more than Celestial light, human books, and small reminders of time spent on this plane. A bed. He can sit back at the end of a small maze and hear the music of the Symphony with the rush of wind and water.
Days are bright or dark. There is so little in between.
Once more, we've ended up here. When a small room in Venice no longer sufficed, Soldekai closed his eyes, his sigil lighting the floor until it was impossible to see. Visible darkness, unassailable Brilliance. When the light vanished and the Symphony quieted, bodies rested on a bed still, one in the dim light of an Icelandic cave.
The sea keeps the measure to the oldest Song. We are notes, and earlier.. yes... we were rising and falling against the score. The sea kept the rhythm after I had alreadly lost it. The world is quiet again, the Symphony hushed. I open my eyes...
I can hear it again...
It is comforting. Strange that I should need comfort. When did this happen? But it is comforting. Secure. Steady. Unending. And, moreover, it is You. Coolness that is never truly cold, like the fire that never truly scorches. Bright and Dark all at once and no grey. Well, no grey until I open my eyes...
His hand has started moving again, just lightly. Learning its way across a new form. This one will have different modulations, it sings differently, it will have different things that it responds toward, sensitivities. Not unlike a flute. Each flute is common in basic construction, but air moves differently, there are... new touches.
Curls move against your shoulder and your chest, his musician's fingers at your stomach. And he looks at you, he breathes you in. He realizes how much he had missed you. Your company. Your laughter. Your whisper of raven at his ears. How much he loves. And even he did not realize how greatly.
There is a constant strumming of the Symphony...
Kit lies bare in the furs of your bed, a tangle of brown and Becoming Venetian body around your own. You, His Archangelic Pillow. He has christened you thus, if he might use that word. "I believe I needed you more than I thought," he whispers, and Kit lifts his head. You see Galadriel in the mercurial eyes. The little lift of his mouth in the start of a smile. Self-aware.
What divine understatement, following such an ... well... angelic ravishment...
"Hmm?" Soldekai chimes, rising from his half-slumber. Arm remains across his face, pressure to distract him from the World. Ah, wait. He did understand. "You did?" he grins, his arm lowering to his side. He looks over to see you, other arm wrapping around you again. "That's good to know," he grins, brows rising and falling. His gaze wanders to his new knee that bends high above the furs that wrap at his waist and leg. "Maybe I should stay away longer," Soldekai wonders, green-eyed attention to you again.
Much softer his face is now. Rounded cheekbones, less-defined features. The look of a man who was once the pride of his fraternity. Folks were surprised when he went to the military, though the rumor had pegged it as the NSA. No one ever really knew. And now? He speaks not of his work. Marshall goes 'home' and discusses travelling, but little more. His mother hugs him, feeling the softness of a young man of a middle-class life, while also sensing the rod of steel that runs through him. Whatever he does, he's stronger for it. Prepared. Ready. Dangerous. But always her gentle son.
But now, when she sees him, there's Brilliance in his eyes. A knowing smile there. But mother...you know the Truth of it. Marshall and I...are One. He is the boy from the Northwest. I am the Divine.
"I couldn't stay away much longer, I'll just admit it," Sol chuckles, not one to offer untruths. He sighs then, finally letting the past weeks filter from his muscles. "I knew I had to come," he whispers, eyes to you again. He knew you needed him. And he wished to be there for you.
When Christopher Marlowe...
Not that one, but this one...
...was conceived, well, no one remembers it really. Maybe he was a dreamy little boy, with a penchant for reading the wrong books but learning the right things. Or was he even ever really born? Mother, father? Or was he shaped out of aether, carved of measures, the figure of ballads, the face that seems comprised of verses and Virgin Queens. Maybe it was that. He doesn't go home. He is home wherever he is. Christopher Marlowe, called Kit, is Of No Particular Place and with No Particular Occupation, but Liver of Life.
And occasional scholar... teacher of children, even if it is only the occasional disappearing lira trick.
"Ah, sweet charity," he almost-quips, almost sounding like the pre-trial him. But for the softer sound of Truth upon it. "I am ... I think I am... beginning to feel my way again," he whispers. I don't want to talk about it, but I do. "I spend most of my time on The Marches. Even annoying Blandine. I seem to be good at that. I'm not as gracefully naughty as once I was, but I juggle now with real distinction. I'm the best in all of Heaven. Marcel Marceau has nothing on me."
Kit shifts so that he might look to you and see those new eyes. Green. I find I like green. I will find green glass. "Well, since you've confessed, Most Divine Cushion, I will, too. My little house is too large when you are not there to fill it. I missed you very much..."
"House!" Marshall exclaims. Soldekai laughs. When did we become so...married? The bachelor reels. The Divine ponders. "I guess that's good," Soldekai winces, "...maybe you should get a smaller house?" Fingers tickle your side with that.
"I'm glad though, that you're working, sweet raven," fingers in your hair, at your ear. "And you're on the Marches and Great Blandine still holds you in her company." There comes a nod. "That is valuable work, raven," his tone serious, "They need you. We need you," just in case you forget, we work for the same cause. "I need you." Your help. Your way of weaving dreams in those we try to reach.
"I was hoping to see that you had expanded your collection," Soldekai explains. "I love to see your sparkles and gems from everywhere." Indeed, the Archangel of Brilliance loves shining things now.
"I have found a few baubles, but... it is all glass these days. I do not collect as much anymore," he sing-songs quietly. "I work, I sleep, I sleep, I work. Or... Michael's Men and Lions keep me busy, though not half so well entertained. Jonathan makes me climb mountains and rooftops. I think he thinks I am afraid of heights, but I am not. I would make a sad angel were I afraid to leave the ground. But I do not see the relevance."
His shoulders roll and with that roll Kit lies back upon bed, against you, his eyes given to the ceiling, then you, then the ceiling again. "A smaller house and then I shall be living in a closet or a shoebox. But maybe you would like it if I lived on one of the little boats?" He laughs, liking that idea of a sudden, and his eyebrows waggle with sudden... not-quite-mischief. "Cats don't like the water," he mutters with conspiracy and thoughts of losing lions...
No, the raven is not a bird that likes a cage. Real or Imagined.
"I shall have to give thought to it. I can row myself around the city, visit all the shops..."
"Row?" Soldekai blinks. It hadn't crossed his mind. He nods, letting that sink in. "Well, maybe Jonathan thinks...you need exercise and expended energy to get your...mood....improved. That is a common notion," Soldekai compromises. It's not unreasonable. "You get more energy...when you expend it."
"I walk around the city," he says as if to say: I get exercise! "I know I am being kept busy, kept busy to be kept out of trouble. It takes the fun out of it when it is less adventure and more... obligation. Besides, how can one be spontaneous and under protective custody at the same time? Everywhere I go, there is a processional. I am going to put in a formal request for one of Gabriel's Trumpeters. I want them to play Hail To The Chief when I stroll along the fondamenta..."
He speaks so grandly, like a true Venetian! His hands moving and his inflection lifting and lowering, lightly and warmly, and darkly when it is held in his throat with smirking humor.
"I like my little apartment. But maybe... maybe I will dream for a little boat too... a gondola of my own. I will move along the canals at midnight and listen to the dreams as I pass by," he murmurs, his tone softening a touch. And he looks to you, and then away. Earlier tirade reflecting back on him in chagrin. "How are things with you, Brilliance? I have not heard anything of the Things That Have Come To Pass for you since last I saw you."
Let's not talk about me...
Soldekai watches you go on; he rather circumspect. "I am good," he smiles, embracing you again as a reminder, "...but I would rather hear about your gondola. I would like to ride in it. I have never been in a gondola..."
Even Angels of Blandine need to have dreams...
Having never thought of doing that himself, having only the dreams of others as his concern, perhaps this... and not mountain climbing... is the missing piece. Shall he become the project of some other angel? If so, where will it all end?
The embrace was met by a welcoming body, enfolding form that melds where it is held. "I would paint it blue, with swirls of violet and indigo, with green trim along the edges of the bow. And I would move it with a carved pole, painted in spiraling purple and silver. And on the bow, there would be a crescent moon instead of a lion or winged horse, as is the custom. I would move it along the canals and give free rides to lovers. Answer a dream or two... maybe sing with the gondoliers at midnight on the new moon..."
Kit sighs against your shoulder, against your throat. "The gondolas slide like black swans. They are amazing things to see. Come back to Venice with me and we will take one to Murano. I will show you where the best glass is made..."
"That's a deal," Soldekai murmurs, holding you tightly now. He has been known to hold you with such intensity for hours. This will be one of those times. "When you're ready," he says softly, "...we'll go back. We can build a gondola and I will carve a pole for you myself. And we will have coffee near a canal."
"Later, then. We will go later." He has no intention of going back so soon. He will linger here. He is still when you hold him, relaxed. At ease. And, yes, comforted. Your hold is intense -- his is strength in lightness. Airy and earthy all at once. Kit closes his eyes and Galadriel that breathes through him swirls.
I feel like heavy clay...
"And when the paint dries," he continues the dream, his voice soft sing-song again, "...we will take it out onto the canal. I will hang a lantern of gold and green glass," colors that fit you, "... from the stern to light our way..."
He is quiet for a moment, then you feel a little smile. "It is a good dream." And with it, he will ride from thoughts of captors and guards. From thoughts of leashes and cages and flesh and clay. It is a good dream.
"It is," Soldekai smiles too, closing green from the world. He will be like this for hours, dreaming of building something with you and sailing upon canals.
Posted by rowan at May 17, 2003 11:54 PM
