Iceland.
     Picture volcanic vistas, rock as earth, blue-grey seas, bright green vegetation clinging onto every available, hospitable surface. A hunk of floating basalt and rock upon which a few people and a few sheep live. The mother volcano still steams, for beneath the ever-active Atlantic Iceland is still being born.
     But tucked away in that sauna of rock is a little Heavenly hideaway. One of Gabriel's little-known tethers, claimed by Soldekai eons ago, when its lava-halls would run with fire, shall it now transfer to Brilliance? What shall your tethers be like in a thousand years, when you have servitors, an 'army' of your own. What will they look like? Will they be the haloed angels of our legends?
     Galadriel has shed his skin and lies dusky-winged upon your bed, tucked in one of the many secreted tunnels formed by the lava itself, and old lava chamber now dormant. Stomach to the softness, feet lifted up, knees bent, he rests his heart-shaped face on a folded arm. His other arm is outstretched. He is looking intently upon a piece of volcanic glass. What wonders fire can make of stone.
     There are no heavenly vestments, no Herald's uniform from the ethereal plane. Dusky-blue skin appears powdered, glimpses of it visible where he has not tangled the sheets around himself. The soles of his feet are lotus red-violet. A lingering sign of his journey to India and a little gift from Krishna.
     Galadriel sets the volcanic glass upon the bed, continuing to peer at it -- as if it could be a mirror, and he could watch you ... doing ... whatever it is you are doing in heaven. His midnight and violet wings are fully outstretched on either side of the bed. What a lounging sparrow he makes.

     The Symphony does not herald his arrival. Coming to his own tether is a quiet event, a noting of his presence in the stone more than some great burning sigil that needs help him travel.
     He comes down the last portion of the hall, lest he disturbed you with a sudden appearance in the bedchamber. A kindness preceeded with his smile.
     "Sorry it took me so long," Soldekai announces, passing the overhang that marks the room's entrance. He's dressed as he was earlier today, in slacks and shirt, and he comes to a stop at the edge of the bed where you lie.
     "Feel better?" he wonders, hand touching your feet. Curious that. A finger taps the left sole twice before trailing to your ankle.

     Galadriel rises up on his elbows, feet arching beneath your touch and he looks to you, half rolling toward you. There is no modesty for there is no shame, shame is beget of sin and he, no matter what his own mind may tell him, is sinless. And so the sheet shifts and falls away. The form is one of solid cherub. Steadfast, they are. But they can be shaken. Even as the mast of a ship may be damaged in a storm. There is open relief in his face, and silver eyes take you in -- not the sight of you, for what does that matter? -- but the Presence of you. And how well you seem. There was no argument? "Better now, to see you are well and in your own power," there is a half-chuckle at that. A touch of wry humor. "Better now," he answers more seriously.
     "And I did not notice the time, do not worry. I had a piece of glass to keep me occupied, and I rinsed my feathers in the steam of the lava dome." The part of the volcano that is active. Its heart. "And...how are you?" midnight brows cock up, gossamer-like, floating seeming. "I think I ... did you a disservice," Galadriel says, and sitting up he then falls back, wings opening outward again, face to you, and to the ceiling. "And my master a disservice. I know not what I do anymore, Soldekai. Everything I touch.... seems to lose its pattern, its rightness and its way." His hands come to his face. "I was not supposed to utter any of that, and now I feel I have unravelled everything. And yet," the hamster-wheel was running the entire time you were away, you may now see, "... how could I ... not tell you? Loving you, as I do."

     "You have done nothing wrong," Soldekai reaffirms. As you sit up, his hand touches your cheek, then lowers. "Maybe that is your way," he suggests, exhaling finally. "You are a catalyst for change," he wonders. "There is nothing wrong in that. But, that is not the issue," he smiles. "Do not confuse what you are for what others have done. Can you separate these things?" he asks, deciding to take a seat next to you.
     Eyes look down as he pushes shoes from his feet. "Nothing is unravelled. I...must see if I can convince this council that its politics can be damaging." He has been thinking. "And you, you...are a separate issue, Galadriel," Soldekai stops to face you. "It's important that you do not think of their political decisions as having anything to do with the state of your Being. These...are not the same. They are separate. I think your master...in giving you your title -- and forgive me for not congratulating you on it earlier -- is trying to say that," Soldekai smiles, hand on your thigh. Fingers brush as his face falls downward. "But, what I care about," I now realize, "...is that you understand what's happened, even more than whether or not they see. A political thing has happened between them," Sol explains, "...but you...you did what you Are. Just as Gabriel did." If you know that story. "You cannot be faulted for that, though someone might try. All see through the ruse, Galadriel. I know this now."

     Hands at his face pull downward, just enough for the silver eyes to look at you unobstructed. That, the molten energy of stars; novae liquified. They rest on his cheeks, his dusky, star-dusted fingers. And there's a finger-snapping going on at his ears. Well, not literally, but there's a switch being flipped. Realization.
     Now, who was the one talking all that talk about Realization...
     The thigh opens as your hand rests there, and his hands fall from his face, his face turning toward you, violet curls lying against his cheek. "I had not... separated it," Galadriel notes. "I had not thought of Gabriel." He thought, firstly, of Lucifer. Or of a thousand others who were brought into the palace of Justice before him. He got on a logic train and bolted from the station, without having thought what direction he was actually going. And so, Galadriel listens to you, rapt attention wrapped in a beateous expression -- for in his Self, he is quite stunning. Perhaps he is beginning to see...
     "So... I did nothing wrong. The judgment... does not mean anything." That is different from Job. He looks to you a long, long while. He looks to your hand on his thigh, a wing lifts, brushing against you. Affection given freely in return. Galadriel then peers forward -- which, in this case is half on you and half on the ceiling as he is flat on his back.
     "X did not like the result of Y and Z," he murmurs algebraically. "And so, X multiplied itself by a variable of A and tried to cancel out the sum of Y and Z. Meanwhile, Z was minding his own business, when he was summarily subtracted. O, Soldekai," he exhales. "The math of politics has no rhythm to it, and no poetry. So... what happens now," he wonders softly. And he looks to you. Still a touch nervous. "I go back to... being Myself? I stop trying to make it make sense?"

     "I would try," Soldekai nods, thinking of his mentor. "Continue being yourself. Continue to serve your Word and Self...and God." A thought. "He sees All, yes? He knows the Truth."
     "Meanwhile," Soldekai smiles, "...practically...I ask the Council to remove the lions and any proscriptions. That...will take a bit, I think now." After talking with Yves. He will say what the others cannot...what Blandine cannot. Ignore them. The proof is in our actions. Politic is Nothing.
     Perhaps your eye sees the second button undone by Soldekai, his skin revealed. "Maybe, you will forgive me," he adds finally, smile slanted. "I...have learned something. About Love." It means committing to the health and prosperity of another. And it means shuffling his Malakim vows, if he can. "And I am sorry to you...for not...doing more."
     The hand at your thigh slips inward, even while Soldekai's left opens a third button.

     All of my purpose was cast in doubt...
     Like Odin's runes, tossed at a scrying pool surrounded by fire. And everything became murky. So murky, I thought myself blind. And fumbling in the darkness, I began to stumble. Or... I began to believe I was stumbling. Now I have a pile of stones at my feet, and I must reaquaint myself with them to understand their meaning. You will help me put them in order. Like a puzzle. I see that now.
     Leveraged by your hand upon his thigh, Galadriel rises, mouth finding your own, wing at your back. Your little sparrow -- well, he's more peregrine perhaps, than sparrow -- small, but strong. The thigh tightening beneath your hand. And authors who have penned that angels, choosing their gender preference, then are sterile, without function and without desire were and are mistaken. For there is desire. And there is certainly function.
     Your wandering hand finds him and he falls back, kiss parting so he may watch you. Pinions move against the clothing you wear, against the form you take, pulling, deft, at your shirt as you unbutton it. And Galadriel opens beneath your fingers, like a morning glory opening for Illumination. And is that not what he is, in a way? A flower opening for the light of the sun?
     You are more Brilliant. And he is something more than a flower.
     "I ...too... have learned something about Love," Galadriel whispers after a moment, eyes on upon the unbuttoning. "And I will...try to be a better student," and he smiles at that.

     He wants to ask what you have learned, but maybe there is time later for that. Soldekai grins, his hand having gotten across what he wished. It allows him to finish his shirt, fingers drawing it back over his shoulders.
     Finally can the vessel alter, wingspan expanding once free of the confining silk. The shirt falls to the beside, near Soldekai's bare feet.
     "I will...be...a better mate," he promises, bending over to place a kiss at your stomach first before trailing lower.

     "Ah," he sings it in a breath, his hands moving to your hair, and he does not hide ecstatic response, nor mute it. Your love makes him sing, tip his head back and cry. And there is a ...tinkling sound, soft tiny bells. There is a set of tiny chimes, dangling from a platinum chain, wrapped around the cherubic orbs, and sparkling around the root. A little gift, but not one that should be unwrapped. Every time you fill him, he will ring. And he will sing. And now he wishes he had worn his little ankle bells, too. What pretty music you would make when you and he are in motion.
     Some scholars may remark that genitalia on cherubim is superfluous. To Galadriel, it is a wonder that he only has one set for you to admire, toy with, love, stroke, grasp, kiss. Why didn't he ask for three? Why only one orifice? Why not a dozen? Filled with you, and shaken by you, why not in terms of twelve instead of one? The scholars know nothing about love. Nor about heavenly pleasures. As your mouth trails, Galadriel sings out another sigh, this one of: Soldekai. And his form moves of its own volition, hips lifting beautifully, thighs spread magnificantly -- as wide as his wings. And it is not lewd. It is marvelous.
     (Lewd would come if this were empty. But there is nothing...hollow about it. Hallowed, yes. Hollow, no.)
     The bed makes no sound as his back presses into it, his hips curling, his length seeking your mouth. The soft little bells chiming again. He moves as if he has not felt you in a year. It has been at least a month, earth-time. Probably more. And don't you know that's the same as forever?
     "You are...a fabulous...mate..."

Posted by rowan at May 18, 2003 10:38 PM