For one earth month, he remained in the Seclusion of Contemplation. In the twinkling stars, if you can hear them (and he is never sure), you would have heard a message or two for Yourself. I am thinking of you. In meteor showers -- that is how angelic desire best expresses itself. In the false fall of bodies, gravitationally and cataclysmically... but oh so beautifully...coming together.
     He let his vessel have his own dreams for a month while he roamed the Marches, occasionally answering a dream for Someone Else. Mostly, he thought. He thought of Blandine's challenge. He thought of the risk. But mostly, he focused on what his feelings were, his very own feelings. Of how he stood at this moment with God. Of how he stood at this moment with Heaven. He pondered his outcast state.
     And then he returned to Venice.
     For two weeks, he prepared for his departure. He met with Fra Spero. He met with the children. He led them in a summer concert with the newly fixed organ -- how Vivaldi would weep to hear that organ now. Someone should tell him that Kit has fixed it. For the past week, he has been in a secondary seclusion, shared by his neighbors. He will miss them all.
     For, you see, he is bound to leave Venice now, even as he had arrived, with a bittersweet consciousness and an aching heart.
     His apartment is the tidiest it has been in a year. Packing will do wonders for cleanliness, and you know what they say about cleanliness. It's been years now since he's been this spotless. Boxes hold the candles that he will take with him, the wrapped Murano glass, all the pictures made for him by the children. The children. He loved each one and every one. He spent his last day entirely with them. They gave him pictures and drawings and macaroni mosaics in the tens. He has a box full of nothing but art. Crowding the kitchen counter and every available counterspace in the small living room are covered dishes of food made for him by his neighbors. They will miss his spring and summer concerts in the courtyard of the Ca'Tre Sorelle. He will miss them. Each and every one. The parties, the trellis, the roses, the small gatherings that had helped lift his spirits when he was so low, so very low. He will miss the ballet dancer and all of his other friends.
     And he realizes as he stands on the balcony now, shirt undone, barefoot and in threadbare jeans, that he has become a part of Venice, and Venice has become a part of him. They absorbed one another. They sank together. Like Venice, he is propped up by the posts of Loved Ones support and by the fondamenta placed there by God. Like Venice, he has some good days and some bad days. To him, it will always be the place of his despair and the heart of his redemption. Redemption that is not yet done. Redemption that is forever ongoing. He understands that much now. There is no beginning and no ending. There is no alpha and omega to his repair. He is an outcast with an enduring faith. And he always will be.
      Kit leans an elbow on the railing of his balcony, a glass of red wine held lightly in his grasp. His heart-shaped face is surrounded by curls and he is the very picture of cherubic loveliness. The large-ish eyes. The small mouth. He has become Raphaelian. Even in an undone red shirt and jeans that have seen, quite frankly, better years.

     Meteors are but rock and ice, celestial metals and cosmic dust. They are, in many ways, the very essence that forms Everything. Stars, galaxies, fire, cosmic wind, black holes, and DNA. They fly away from their comet homes, leaving a freezing trail that explodes in the atmosphere as trails of brilliant light. Streams fall towards the Earth all of the time, burning up in flight like spectacular fireworks. Most never notice them in day or night, save those few times a year when the flying sparkles from the stars and heavens are too numerous to count. The Earth spins through a comet's freezing, dark trail and the sky lights up with streaks of fire.
     Would you ever notice, dear Sentinel, that one of those streaks finds its way to the lower world, through the shallowest clouds? Not lost in the troposphere, like most of its friends, this one flies into mortal space, into the world of heaviest air. The colors beam and seem to flame more as it approaches, caught in the dusty pollution of Venice. A comet's remnant, finding its own path.
     "I'll miss this place," Soldekai says, not there...and then There. His voice expands from your living area, he only some ten feet behind you. "I'll miss the secrecy of it. It's not...the North," his place, "...where seclusion is the only way possible. Here, we are secreted, because we choose to be. Not because nature demands only magical access."
     "You are beautiful in red," he goes on, content to talk. "But then again, in truth, you are beautiful in anything." Shall you turn to see him, as you are one of the few who still do so easily.

     Wine is swallowed, and in it all of the thousand bursts of meteors and berries and vineyards past, the culmination, in one glass, of the best of a universe. He has come to love wine. Never more will Guinness pass his lips.
     Of course, that is easy to say when one is nowhere near a London pub...
     Cupping the glass, Kit turns. He began to turn when he felt the electricity, the essence of you and of your will against the surface of his mortal skin. Cherubic face to you, Kit smiles. "I will miss it, too." Kit finishes the rest of his wine and turns, setting the glass aside. He faces you once more, arms folding against his chest, his skin -- gone bronze with several Venetian summers and staying that way -- visible among the red fabric. He lets his eyes be burned. He lets the brilliance of you, Brilliance, move against his face, move against the dark brown ringlet curls that surround his face. Kit steps toward the You of you, his smile wide. His eyes are full of all his love, so much the mortal eyes can barely contain it. They glimmer on the edge of ringing the Symphony with it. "It has been a good home, Venice. I have come to love it, and this apartment, though it is small."
     He blushes at your compliment, eyes drifting to his bare toes, peeking past the denim, and glances up at you, grey eyes startling. One would expect to find brown there, coffee or cinnamon. But it is grey, reminding the world that he is not what he seems. Kit smiles. "I will be sure to wear it more, as you like it."
     Around you are the boxes and piles of his impending departure. A chaos befitting Kit Marlowe. And Galadriel. "I am so glad you are here," he takes another step toward you, close enough not only to brush you with his eyelashes, but to be in your own presence. "How have you been? You must tell me ... everything ..." Kit pauses. "I've missed you." And then he smiles. No matter how bittersweet the overarching moment is, he cannot wear a shadow with so much Brilliance before him. "We will find a new secret hideaway. I'm good at that," he grins, waggling dark eyebrows.

     "How many times have we moved?" Soldekai grins, arms instinctively slipping around your shoulders and brushing down to wrap at your waist. "I have already lost count. And..." Soldekai adds softly, "...you also look marvelous in nothing."
     How far have you both come since the days at Clearwater? When you passed in the Mucky Duck, he in a uniform, delivering messages and Gabriel's inspiration, you, passing the time, perhaps looking to be inspired. He'd only come to touch Urfiel and Jonathan and give them some support. Instead, you and he found something else. It seemed that it was a chance by two beings. Instead, members of the Symphony were watching.
     "Everything," Sol grins, brown hair glinting in the light. He's in a creme silk shirt and chocolate slacks now, simple eveningwear that any proper Venetian male would be happy to dress in. "Well, everything about what? I don't think you want to hear about council meetings, walking around by myself, talking with...my new servants," that brings a little blush and smile of pride, "...or about more council meetings. Politics," Soldekai says easily now, not so worried these nights that he's The Littlest Archangel.
     "But, if you want to hear such boring things, I...can...impart them to you," he teases, dipping his chin and raising an eyebrow.

     "Do we have to count Turkey?" he wonders, he smiles. He was not happy then. He was lost then. There was Heaven and then there was the Void of his Misunderstanding. There is still, and will always be, a gulf between him and the Celestial. But he no longer looks at it as a fault of his to bear, and certainly not alone.
     You like the color red; therefore how you must adore his face, for it is ruddy with the motion of mortal blood, inspired by You and by the wine. But he does not hem or haw in bashfulness seeming or being coy. He revels in the heat and in the motion of mortal corpusles and cells, his smile tilting. "Nakedness is my best side, this is true." Smoky resonance to his voice and smolder to his eyes. Memories of volcanoes linger there, and of the thousand things you and he have done within them. Oh, the heated pools. "But I think I look my best when I am on you." Kit grins, will you blush now?
     Clearwater seems so distant. He, so different. He stumbled on you, an acquaintence from the past, a known entity, but not known very well. Heavenly bodies cloaked in this clay, attracted to one another by a greater gravity, began to revolve, the one around the other. And once the collision of heavenly bodies occurred, Destinies were sealed. Even the Destiny that brought him here.
     He longed for the days and nights of Clearwater when he first came here. Of carefree, dreamy days, grown more misty and sweet with the addition of his chains. But then something changed. You reached to him and in his fog he found your hand. You held him Upright and he became more aware of the great love he had found. Your ascension, his miniature fall. This, too, was seen.
     He is thinking about the night he attuned to you, that he admitted it to you in the forge. You dip your chin, he stands on his toes, and your are kissed, your mouth known and past that to the soul of the Archangel he loves.
     The kiss is ended with a touch of his hand upon your face, a light touch of his palm. Kit smiles, eyes drifting to your mouth. "I would like to hear about your servants. You are becoming a Host? Ah," the smile is broad, "... one day I will be able to say you are the Host with the Most." Kit leans in. "You can skip the council meetings. I am already heart-wan for leaving my arched windows and my little house on the water. Politics will give me a bellyache."
     He leans back, his hand taking your hand, and he draws you to the bed. The smile, that ribald smile, it curls upon his mouth, stretching like a cat in the sun. "Unless you have decent gossip..."

     "Gossip is never decent," Soldekai says, tumbling behind you in your lead. His shoes sound against the wood and stone of the balcony, then against the tiles of your floor. "Didn't they ever teach you that? Hmm. But for Blandine," the choir he means, "...dreams are but the cream of gossip." Wow. Wisdom.
     Soldekai's free hand touches his lips where you kissed. "I don't think...I have a choir yet. But yes," he smiles, he can't help it, "...I...have a few. Urfiel among them...I think I have said that. Caelmon...has come. Some of Uriel, some of Lawrence," he counters evenly. "They come...they say...because they wish to serve." Me! Me and my word! It still amazes him.
     "I'll spare you council. But, I hear that Barnard and Merieth have been given permission to...create." Make an angel. "It is not formal in council yet, but that is what I hear."
     So, he's learned not to mind storytelling.
     "Let's see," Soldekai ponders, his steps gentle and wandering. His hand remains coiled and moving around yours. "Anything particular you wish?"

     "Creation..." He thinks of it, his eyebrows knitting together slightly. "It is a curious thing. I ... wonder what it would be like." Then he laughs, flaring red. "Not that I am asking to find out. Ha... I do not think such would be allowed." Not that he has ever spoken of it, or even wishes it. But that the improbability (if not impossibility) of it makes it interesting.
     The bed is small, it can barely fit the both of you. Such intimate quarters you have known here. The bed bounces with his weight and he leads you to himself, lying back, scooting over to give you room. Some nights, there has been nothing but soft conversation in here, among the twinkling colored lights of a Kit-made universe. "That is a good story, though. Barnard and Merieth, Creation. I like Creation," he says, looking from the ceiling (and Heaven beyond it) and back to you. His smile is gentle.
     "Dreams are the cream of gossip," he says, eyes widening and Kit laughs. "It is good to hear you speak of dreams, Soldekai," he drops into the familiar, "... it reminds me of where we have been, my love, and where we may go."
      "And of course they wish to serve you," he murmurs. "You are the promise, you have restored hope to Them, just as you restored my hope. Without you, Soldekai, I would be roasting marshmallows over a very hot fire..."

     Soldekai smiles, a blush growing for the compliments. He's still trying to get used to it all. "I don't know about Promises," he offers, "...except my promise to you." Between the two of you, he can handle. The bed creaks again as he comes to lie beside you, kicking off his shoes in the process. Soldekai goes barefoot in his leather, like many other Italian men.
     He exhales, sending the weight of a universe dashing to bits. When he is with you, the rest is somehow insignificant. Soldekai is quiet a moment, thinking on creation himself. The two of you have never really discussed it. "I think it'd be allowed," he offers softly, sheepishly. "If we asked."
     Suddenly, Soldekai rolls to hover over you, needing a change for the deep conversation. His hand comes to rest at your hip, snaking beneath the edge of your shirt to touch skin. "Do I know where you are going next?" Soldekai smiles. "Oh, wait. Maybe I know this..." he teases. "Do you have a place yet?"

     "To another city with a river, for I can never be far from water." Element of dreams that it is. You as a sky, who needs a better heaven than this? I am content. "I am going back to Kit's ancestral home. Well, close to his ancestral home. I am going to England, to London. I saw it in a woman's dream -- she wants to become a singer and not just some aging exotic dancer," he catches himself in a tangent, "...anyway... I thought of it... and it is where I need to be for now. Blandine has given me a task. It makes me nervous, this assignment, but... I think London will...provide me plenty of opportunities to get comfortable with it."
     London. Is everyone going there? What is going on anyway? Well, you may know. A front of a battle only beginning to make itself known. Kit. Going to London.
     "I don't have a place yet. I haven't been to London in a while, and my vessel hasn't been to London in seven years. I will have to find an affordable flat. It will not be as nice as Ca'Tre Sorrele," he breathes, a little wistful. "I will be seeking out Salem... I will ask her. She's bound to know."
     Kit looks at you for a while, marvels in his sky. His smile pulls, wandering in his thoughts, and his desires. Desire is not wrong. Love is still here, though the Lover is long gone. He doesn't speak of the promise between you. He keeps that locked tight, held for himself, something between the two of you. A treasure greater than any of his other treasures. Kit closes his eyes, he leans up, and his mouth moves over yours again. He tastes of wine. "I will find a place that you will like," he says there. "A place for secrets. Maybe I can find something with a good view. Maybe something with a belfry."
      When he had his raven totem, how he used to love a good belfry. "Maybe there is an old church there... converted into apartments. That would be a good house. I would like a small round window and a bed in a loft. I like to sleep up high..."

     The kiss is accepted with drowsy eyes and a warm smile. "If you...need more money..." Soldekai murmurs, "I have some. For a flat for you..." It's not as if he uses such earthly things. "Just let me know..."
     Another kiss. He's ready for one. Soldekai's gaze switches from the broad view of you to a specific stare at your lips. But you have brought up a couple of things, and he must talk to you about them before he gives himself to you. Soldekai sighs, letting your lips alone for now.
     "London's...a dangerous place, sentinel." Soldekai's expression turns serious. His brow knits slightly and his eyes glance away. "I don't know what you are being sent to do...well, other than what you have said of the dancer, but you...need to be careful. It's waiting, Galadriel. Waiting to explode."
     "Salem will know these things. You should talk with her, yes."
     The wish to feel more of you subsides for Soldekai. He shrugs, shaking his head. "Keep close to Salem," he adds. "And be sure to see...Urfiel...as well." He has sent his own. What to make of it all, Soldekai doesn't say. He exhales and falls from you view, onto his own back, hand at his chest.

     "Poor Marlowe," Kit sighs, kissing you before you move away. "... he only earns a teacher's salary." He thinks about it for a moment. "I do not want anything extravagant. But... comfortable would be nice. It will help to offset the weather," he teases.
     He knows you are worried. How worried you would be if I told you what I had been asked to do. "None of us may escape danger, Archangel," though title it is, it comes with endearment. "...not when we are all parted as we have been." A hint. "I will speak with them both," Kit exhales as he rolls over, "...and I promise to you that I will be as careful as I can be." Kit puts his chin to your shoulder then rolls over to lie upon you, straddling. "Soldekai, I will keep close to Salem. I will listen to what she says and heed her advice. I can't imagine Urfiel will be pleased to see me," Kit kisses your chin. "I give him headaches. Is he still a she?" he wonders suddenly, eyebrows cocking upward.
     He tries to lighten things, but how to lighten what is the heaviest thing of all? The war itself. "Sol, I know I have not spoken of it, the thing Blandine has asked of me. I do not ... want you to worry. I am not going to leap into the fray. That is not what We do. I am just going to answer the dreams of those who... need it most."

     Soldekai looks up to you, his face skeptical. "I know that. That's...exactly what worries me." Who needs it most? Who doesn't need a dream fulfilled?
     Soldekai's cheek comes to rest on the pillow, his hands at your hips. He looks to a wall, then up at you once more. "He's a she, yes," Soldekai confirms. "I'll let him know you will seek him. Jonathan, Radamanth...there are several there that will help you."
     "And let Karinda know where you will want your funds sent. I'll see to that. Salem...can have someone find you decent accommodation." And why not for one of the supreme angels of David, he of cities and civiliations? Another sigh. It's all just stuff. He...cannot help you where it matters most. "Conveniences," he whispers, disappointed in what he can provide. "That is all it is."

     "Your love is the very rope of my salvation," he counters. "The hands, yes, are my own, but without that rope, conveniences would not much matter. It is kind of you to be able to make me comfortable, Soldekai, it is a loving thing you do, but your love is far greater. As is mine for you."
     Kit sits up, his hands on your chest, your shoulders massaging. Your perched cherub -- it is one of the best views of him, perched on you like the cherubim in all the paintings. His curly dark hair in a halo of ringlets, shining. His hands knead and caress, roll over and against you. "I will do so, sweet soul," a play on your name. Kit sighs. "I do not like to see you upset... or worried...I am sorry to be the cause of it again. I guess I am destined for that. To be the sand in the oyster that becomes a pearl." His fingers ply and spread, from chest to shoulders to arms.
     "I will be careful, Soldekai. I will not be capricious, flaunting. I know it is a hotbed now. And if I find that I am not ready for it, love, I will leave. I promise you."
     His skin is dark, it exudes a feeling of warmth where it is visible in the opened folds of his red shirt. As he slightly rocks back and forth in the massage, the shirt moves back and forth, the shadows of the motion caressing.

     How quickly his thoughts turn to more earthly pleasures. A learned habit. Soldekai's eyes close, he soothed by your hands and moving body, your words of safety. It calms him, and in the relaxation, desire exists again. There is no smile, just the allowance of bathing in the energy created between you. As you move, so does Soldekai's hands as they are affixed to your hips.
     "When...will you leave here," Soldekai asks softly. Karinda is the great mover of the Host. "Karinda and I will come help..."

     "I was thinking a week. I have said my goodbyes. You should see all the food I was given. I will not have to shop for months and still eat like a king. I could be emperor... if only Michael had not taken my chariot away..."
     The lions that guarded him, those most ancient of cherubim who never take a form other than themselves, have returned to Michael's citadel. Your words reached him at last. He did not do it immediately, but he did eventually call them back.
     Kit smiles as he feels you mollify beneath his fingers, the roll of his hands. "I would like it if you helped... I would like you with me when I first move into our place," he calls it that purposely. "We will make love in our bed," even as I wish to do so now. "We will make it our private sanctuary, since I cannot go to the grotto with you." No, that is in forbidden territory. To get there, he would have to take the forbidden form, his own, his first form now barred from him. It does not sadden him as it used to. He has accepted it. "We will make our own grotto. Convenient that you have a servitor there. This means maybe I will see you more often," he teases. Since you have become Archangel, he has seen you quite frequently. More than he imagined, at first, that he would.
     "I have already packed most of my things. I just need to meet with Salem... find a place... then I will move." His hands pause and he removes the red shirt.

     Soldekai nods, getting the timeline fixed in his mind. "I will be here." Granted, it will take not much more than the blink of an eye, the wave of a hand. But still...there is something in moving together to a shared place.
      "A private sanctuary..." Soldekai whispers, watching you remove the shirt. "Iceland isn't enough, hmm? I guess two places are better than one, hmm?"

     Iceland...
     Cool on the outside, steamy on the inside. Heated pools, caverns with sparkling rocks. "Iceland ... I love most of all. I can stretch out my wings there," he grins down at you, the first smile in ages, his eyes sparkling. "I think of Iceland and my toes curl," he murrs beneath his breath. "The things we have done, it is a wonder there is any ice left in Iceland." That tickles him. He flares red and laughs. "You know... I will be even closer to Iceland. The closest in ages. It will be better for Kit not to have to go so far." His vessel is more than a shell. It has a life of its own when he's not there.
     "But there is nothing wrong with having two sanctuaries, I do not think. One is a private heaven, the other will be our little secret."
     Kit exhales, a soft and mighty breath. "Iceland...I become easily spoiled by the big bed, the shiny rocks, the pools of heated water..."

Posted by rowan at September 14, 2003 02:08 AM