Summer nights are just the extension of summer days. The sun lingers long, and past the round, porthole windows, Kit can see and experience the coming sunset in all its pinks and magentas, yellow and oranges. Surrounded by blues and waves, sea colors and sparkling mosaics, it is very like sitting on the sea coast of the Adriatic, Aegean or Mediterranean -- or like the coast of Iceland...
     It's a lot like that really...
     It makes him smile. For the first time since being on this planet and in the material realm, he can honestly say that he is very, very happy. Barefoot, Kit Marlowe turns in the center of his main living area, his new home. He doesn't even blush to think the following thought:
     I wonder if this is how The Lord felt after creating 6 out of 7 days in a row...
     The painting is dried, the final touches put on, two weeks of solid labor all around him. And yes, it is Good.
     Kit exhales merrily and strolls toward the saloon. Yes, a saloon! He taps a Guinness and fills a blue glass full of dark beer, the blood of his vessel's country!
     Like on his last day and night in Venice, he is clothed in a red shirt and faded and worn jeans. Once again, he wears the basalt at his throat, proudly flashing and advertising his attachment. No other rock of his rock collection is visible. Just the one, Kit would say, that matters most of all...
     His guitar, the blue acoustic, rests near the sea-colored cushion sofas. And that is to where he goes... Guinness in hand...

     The tiniest slit in the fabric of time and space draws down like a line in the middle of the room. In truth, eyes see nothing. Just the faintest glitch in perspective; it's like looking at heat radiating from asphalt. From the vertical skip, there comes a dark shape. Once it slices the shimmer's plane, there's a leg in green slacks, an arm of black ash become hand and arm of flesh, a short sleeve tight around a bicep. Fitted, ribbed. A half face, of soot, soon warm and human, with hazel eye.
     Behind the gash in the world, there's darkness and nothing.
     Soldekai sighs as he moves fully into this plane, the rest of him in perfect mirror of the first part. His backfoot lands on the floor, and the misfitted plane fixes itself, like a shirt sewn up perfect once more.
     He is in green slacks, and the white shirt looks like something a bicyclist would wear. It leaves little to the imagination. The archangel's human form is quite defined beneath the thin material. He looks up and around, wondering where he's landed.

     Well, first thing's first -- thank the Lord for the clearance! But wherever you've landed, Archangel, your head nearly hits the ceiling. In fact, it brushes it. If you were to stand at military attention, you'd bump your head.
     Then, well... it's spacious... it has a bar... it has an undeniable sea motif. The space is broad and very, very long. More than a little spacious truly. And there is the smell of water, the sound of a vibrant city all around you.
     And most importantly, there's a Kit Marlowe behind you, midway to sitting on a comfy cushion and taking up his guitar. "Soldekai!" he says, a bright sound, your name from his lips -- could it be anything other than brilliant? Soft song sounds as he sets the guitar aside and Kit stands, barefoot beside you, in no danger of bumping his head on the ceiling.
     His face erupts in a smile, his eyes beam it forth. "Welcome to London... more specifically, welcome to The Dreamcatcher..."

     Soldekai is slightly disoriented. As the boat lurches, he blinks and steadies himself by slightly parting his feet. His face jerks at mention of his name and your sudden arrival. "A boat?" is the first thing that comes out as he regains his sea legs and arights himself again.
     "Thanks, though," Soldekai tenatively murmurs, the smile finally coming to match yours. "You didn't mention a boat..."

      "I wanted a view of the water, but then...well... the flats were a bit pricey," after a couple of weeks in London, he's starting to lose his Venetian accent. It still lingers, in part, lilting oddly, sweetly, now and then. In a few months, it will be gone altogther.
     A strong but a slender male hand, a musician's hand, slips into one of your own and he directs you to him. He takes a moment to look at you, all of you. "I did most of the painting myself...in the bedroom too... here, sit... or would you like a tour? Want something to drink?" Kit waggles his brows, "It came with its own pub! Can you believe it?"
     How he looks. Vibrant. There is a halo of brilliance around him, your effect on his personal space. He resonates You, from his heart...where he keeps you. The red shirt is unfastened. There is the musician-soccer player's build beneath. A bit more definition noticeable -- he's started running again.

     "Wait, wait," Soldekai grins, hands both in yours. He frowns and then looks up at the ceiling. The ceiling immediately looks back. Indeed, not much space. "Wait," he smiles, looking around. "Let me see here, first." A grin, and Soldekai leaves one hand in yours as he twists about. The sailor's stance comes back quickly.
     "Interesting. This isn't as expensive as the flats?" he asks, a little surprised by that. "Where are we? I mean...what part of the city?" He hasn't been outside to get here. All he had to do, was to fix upon you.

     "In the long run, it'll be cheaper..." In the long run. "I bought it, not rent it. And it was only sixty-thousand-pounds. The gentleman was involved in a divorce. This was the boat he bought his mistress..." he explains. Of course, it was a bargain! "Ah... we are on the south bank of the Thames," he grins, "...literally...in the Gabriel's Wharf area. It is tucked between the Waterloo Bridge and the Oxo Tower Bridge. Nice part of the city, lots of tourists and artists." And dreamers.
     Kit calms -- he was rather Ofanite in excitement -- standing beside you, hand laced in yours. "I could not imagine a better place for us in the City," he murmurs. "Here... it is like an Iceland in miniature... on the water, like in Our Venice. It is perfect and it is ours."

     In another life - if ever could happen for an angel -- Soldekai was an ofanite. However, it's the malakim that is with you. Very little belongs to him, in his world.
     "It is nice," he nods, hearing the story as he turns about. "And...a bar." But it's bigger than a bar, in its way. Another nod and Soldekai looks around more, as if judging.
     "Is it safe?" he asks, making sure you've considered everything. "Secure? What of your mooring fees?" Soldekai moves over to see the cushions, bringing you with. "Will what I gave you cover all this?" Concern, concern. He cannot help it. "I'm sure you will like," he looking to see a porthole, "...tourists and artists," eyes staring at you.

     "It is safe...and sea-worthy. There are patrols. If I'm really worried, I'll pull up anchor and head to the middle of the river," he notes quietly. It is mobile -- that it has in spades. "The mooring fees aren't so bad. I will have more than enough. My salary at the church should cover that and food and ... your generosity. Sol, I have not a care for the world. The mundane world anyway." Grey eyes sparkle silver.
      He tilts a smile at the saloon. That was a huge selling point. "It has an enormous kitchen, gourmet... it's larger than my last apartment. And there are other rooms still, I may convert into a music room." Silver eyes look to you and then to a blue door at the other end, past the saloon. "There were two bedrooms, now there is just one large suite. I called in a favor with a couple of angels of creation for some of the renovations..."
     He comes as you lead him, fingers twining and intertwining, grasping and clasping. Warmth. Desire comes behind it, and a wave of Love. "It is safe, and in a very nice part of the City. I met with Salem, she gave me plenty of information."

     Ah, Salem. That gets Soldekai's attention, and the energy of his questioning and investigation withdraws. He stands upright again, glancing at the ceiling above. "Good, she knows you are here." Your fingers get a squeeze. "So, I'd like to see more of this," he admits, "...but first..."
     Soldekai grins as his arms slip around your waist. "A proper greeting, my Sentinel." The words end as a whisper, and Soldekai bends for a kiss. "I have missed you," he admits, his eyes closing as his nose touches yours.

     There is a universe at your mouth, a cosmos that opens outward as his mouth opens. Warm clasping seas, the water of your Icelandic shore, flying carpets, Venetian sunsets, the softness of lotus flowers and the tang of eastern spices. All this is in the greeting kiss -- he greets you with his entire being, and with all the places you have together known.
     "I have missed you," Kit says at your mouth, his mouth plying again. It is like falling into the arms of Eden, of perfection and completeness. It is heaven. It is all he knows of the celestial. "You must see this," Kit says, and through his grey eyes are Galadriel's own, the molten silver you know, like liquid hematite. The ribald smile, utterly feline. He places a hand to your face. He smiles to you. He brushes his mouth against yours again and then he leads you toward the blue door, to the bow of the torpedo boat.
     "The Dreamcatcher," the boat's name, of course, "... belongs to us both. I... worked on this very hard. To think of what would make us both happy." Dark curls surround his face in a halo as he looks to you. "I want you to visit... often... for as much as I miss you, I would much rather see you..."

     Brows arch as Soldekai lingered at your lips. But soon, you're talking again. He exhales and follows to the blue door. "You know I will visit as I can, sentinel," Soldekai replies, his hand firm. Other hand touches his lips and then scratches behind his head.

     "I know..."
     Kit says nothing as he leads you past the blue door. He says nothing as you and he come to stand at the horizon between Night and Day. Sun and Sleep. Brilliance ... perhaps that is it... and Dreams. There are collections of Venice and India and Turkey in the chamber of the Sun. The other?
     The centerpiece is the bed, an enormous bed. It could hold the two of you comfortably -- very comfortably. It is the bed of a dreamer. And a lover.
     "It is not a corner bedroom in the Ca'Tre Sorelle," Kit murmurs, looking to you with a smile, "... but I ... hope you will like it."
     There is quiet as he turns to look at you, to see your reaction. "And I know you visit as you can. I ... could not ask more. You will forgive me if I seem greedy..." He expects it is an easy thing to forgive...

     Whatever was in Soldekai's face disappears into arching brows and widening eyes. He laughs suddenly, stepping away from you to stand at the archway. Turning left and right, Soldekai's shirt pulls at the torsion, threatening to rip from his body. But it does not, and he peers and stares into each room, investigating all of the details.

     "I wasn't sure what the bathroom would be like, I was a little frightened, but it is more than a closet," he grins. "It has a shower and a tub." On a boat, one may never be sure. "Oh! And... watch this..."
     Kit grins, backing toward the bed. He presses a hand to it. It ...shifts beneath his weight...rolling. Filled with liquid? Like magic. Kit sits on it and it ripples beneath him. His eyes open wide and his smile spreads. "Better than one of the flying carpets," he whispers. He's never been able to convince you to make love to him on one of his flying carpets, but hopefully the bed will tempt you...
     Kit leans back, he watches you. How handsome you are. Beautiful Brilliance. "Beautiful Brilliance," he says out loud.

     He seems a little surprised by it all. Soldekai nods, moving into the room where you sit. Attention returns to you when you call his name. Familiar smile appears.
     After an inhale, Soldekai says, "I have not seen a boat as this. With a large bathroom? I guess...it was made to hold a mistress," the surmising an attempt to understand.
     "You'll...forgive me, huh?" Soldekai moves over to stand at your knees. "I've never been in a place so...." elaborate. He twists a bit again, looking up and left. There's a snort as the waterbed ripples. "It's not...fire, or mats in a volcano, or a barren rock of igneous rock." That's the comfort he knows. Your apartment in Venice was the most lavish in an Age. "It's nice, sweet sentinel," he finally admits, slinking down to sit beside you, your shoulder at his chest. "I know it will make you happy and thus...makes me happy. As long as you are there, it matters not where we are..."

     "No matter how nice this boat is, it is no heated volcanic pools," Kit murrs, leaning in toward you, grinning. "There is nothing that can compare to that. But... when we are not there, this will be a comfortable place to be. And... it is not so small... it is bigger to give my Archangel more room.... the apartment was small," as you used to point out everytime you flew in.
     "It does make me happy," Kit murmurs again, leaning in against you. He settles back, stretching out on the bed. It rolls slightly, shifting beneath you both. How soothing. A rocking motion that easily lulls rest. How tempting. A rocking motion that easily inspires thoughts of more rocking. That is the wonder of it.
     "Settling in London... it is different than Venice. I came to love Venice, I always shall. But ... London does not bear the mark of ... punishment, real or imagined." He rolls his head against the surface of the bed, looking to you, smile softening. "I remember in Venice... you were there for me to hold my head and my hands. To help me hope. But here.... we are embarking on something new. New experience, Soldekai. Another time of firsts." He grins then. "The first time you hold me here. The first time we make love. The first time we sit on the deck. I am breathing new air, it feels like..."

     As you move, so does he, falling and rising with the outgoing ripples. Strange it is, or so the expression on his face indicates. "I'm not sure -how- to do anything on this bed." Physics and all. His hand reaches out to push the mattress and gauge its response. Soldekai shakes his head and returns to the talk at hand.
     "It's new, and the same," Soldekai notes. "And small was not bad, sentinel. It was...just noticable to me." When you are used to infinity and 'space' not existing, squishing a physical body into a box, well, was terribly present.
     The shirt gleams at his back. Soldekai's face turns up to see the ceiling's painting, then looks ahead to the opposing space. "It is you," he nods, hair at the lip of the fitted shirt's nape.

     "When we are fitted," the one into the other, "... it will become clear, Brilliance. No motion you make will go ...unfelt...it is not quite the same as blending souls in Heaven, but it.... will be close," he teases.
     He has given up his melancholy on the subject. What purpose does it serve? To wish for more than what you have is folly. And a short trip to a very long Fall.
     The bed rolls as he rolls, the bed brings him to you and he warmly sprawls. Kit rests his head against your chest, his hand moving along your side. He speaks softly celestial, a murmur of angelic, followed by the warmth of his mouth at your neck. "So... how long can you stay, to speak in earthly terms?"

     Soldekai twists again, this time to extend his arm around you. The top yields to him. "Two days," he responds softly. "I am expected at a meeting...and must see to the Others." His servants. "I visit them when I can now." They are so few, that such is possible. But there is no sadness in his small host. "Later," Soldekai observes, "...there will come a time, when I cannot be with them like this..."
     "But for now, I am yours," Soldekai whispers, closing his eyes. "In your boat. In your new city, hmm? And everything is new..."

     "It must be ... it must enthuse you that you can visit your host personally. You are right, this will not last. But even when they cannot all have a personal visit, they will never be far from you. They will belong to you. They will be... You... out in the world and in the universe. Wherever they are, You will be." He pauses. Kit is very still.
     There are times when he forgets you are an Archangel -- and what that means. He speaks it, he uses the title as an endearment, but it means more than that. Kit looks to you as you are his canopy.
      "I must sound like Heaven's greatest braggart to say that You are mine," he whispers. "For who am I to be able to contain one as great as you," he smiles. "Archangel of Brilliance... am I keeping you from those you need to see?" he wonders it seriously. "Not that I want you to go, I never want you to go..."

     "When I go, I don't wish to leave either," Soldekai half-chuckles. "And you are no braggart," he says softly, "...but yes, I...belong to others," he confesses. Mankind. The Host. To his servants. "For as I am lifted higher, I serve only more." Thrones, Dominions, Powers all, yes, but Archangels are, in truth, just Angels. Being an Archangel not a rank or title. It's a service function. No special abilities come with 'archangel.' No parties, no symphonic call. Those are as they have been. No responsibilities lightened. For among those who are word-bound, the 'archangel' is the most yoked of all.
     "But, as I said, this time is ours," Soldekai smiles. "And we have this new boat to christen, don't we?"

     "Two days," Kit murmurs, "... that should be... just time enough for a christening." A pause. "If but just barely," he notes. And then he smiles, a curl and a curve of his mouth. A curl and a curve of his body, his hand presses to your cheek, directing your face toward him, your mouth. A curve and a curl of his tongue, and he kisses you.
      And in the curve and curl, he creates a wave... the bed lifts him on a swell, to your mouth, to where his parts beneath yours. A warm, beautiful ocean.
     Do you mind it, Soldekai... do you mind that this physicality is all we can have? Having it, I treasure it more. That it is the closest I can come to you, I find I want it more. But does it please you? Is it enough for you, Archangel? Can you feel how much I love you, though heaven itself wishes to limit it? It has placed a bond upon the boundless. But can you feel it? Even still? Here I am. Mouth. Hand. Skin. Material. This clay. I am beneath this. Here, that flame. Kit has a soul. It is there. It is there with him. Beneath even that, Soldekai, there is the song of Transition. There is the lick and the holy fire. There is Galadriel, lighting a dream, holding a beacon... a beacon of your own Brilliance that I hold upward for others to see...
     I am here, Soldekai...
     Kit's arms surround you, they enfold you, he rolls with you and the bed rolls with him, adding to his flexibility, easily lifting legs for them to likewise surround you. Thrice held. Kit opens his eyes, smoky grey. The flat of his bare feet moving along your legs and then back to the bed.

     He knows what is inside. The beings these vessels hold. Soldekai gives in to the constantly-moving bed, embracing in like kind. When your eyes open, he is already there, hands seeking to remove your shirt. Eyes lower to see the motions of his hands and the slip of shirt over your skin. That will be his first pleasure.
     "I love you," Soldekai whispers softly, nose at yours. He shall not say much more until you are done with this first joining, save the occasional calling of your name. Soldekai stills to hear your response, even if he knows what the response will be.

     Red moves over the skin still bronzed, easing from several Venetian summers to an English one. Soon, this too will change. His body will undergo yet another transition and transformation. But for now, the bronze remains, flushed living in living ways...
     ... Everytime you say it, sparks of it fly. Every time that Love manifests, a breath eases across the embers of an abandoned temple, stirring fragrant long extinct resins. These embers he feels beneath his skin, in his borrowed blood, crackling against his own Being.
     Kit lifts a little, the bed shifting, rolling left and right as each arm twists itself free of the red fabric. His build is athletic, muscular through activity renewed. He lies back, a hand moving up to touch your hair, to press your nape. "I love you," the words are spoken at your mouth. Eyes open, he will be a witness to your pleasure. Pleasure in and with him. His, in and with you. Eyes open. Fully aware. Absorbing each ticking moment. Kit tilts his head, watching, smiling, as his fingers pull up the shirt that may as well have been painted on your skin. His eyes widen and his lips curl as his fingers steal beneath your shirt and touches the skin and physique beneath.

     The shirt easily slides at Soldekai's skin. Around the more angular parts of him: scapulae and shoulders, the material wants to stick, but with a squirm of his form, the top releases. Soldekai holds his position, hands leaving your shirt to finish pulling at his own. Over his head, the electricity pulls at his dark hair, which falls once the top falls onto the bedding with yours.
     At the bed's edge, two shoes thud onto the floor, sounding loudly upon the hollow beneath.
     If you ask him, Soldekai would say that no, he misses nothing, loving you in this form. But after a moment, he'd recall what celestial mingling was like. They are different, he'd agree. And both please him. For different reasons. He has become politic, your archangel, but always there is truth there.
     The movement of the bed beneath his sudden motions sends Soldekai off-balance. He tries to bring his feet back onto the bed, while lowering his arms, but instead falls onto your chest, wobbling in the now-heaving waves. There's a sigh as he tries to anchor his hands to push up, but his arms are like wobbling jello, not finding solid ground to push against...

     Floating boat upon the Thames, floating angels on the bed. The sensations mingle. It is no different than mating mid-air. Do not treat it as earth. Treat it as clouds...
     Kit rolls, the bed giving way beneath him. He rolls, and he sends you on your back, a wave cresting beneath you, and he rises in a straddle like Aphrodite from Zeus' froth. Denimed thighs grasp yours and he holds still as the bed begins to settle. Hands upon your chest, Kit smiles down at you, his halo of dark curls like Cupid tendrils. Smoky eyes look down your chest, from your mouth to your neck, your shoulders, down your chest to your torso. The partial pucker of his mouth is the start of a curl, the start of a grin. He sits up, fingers trailing from your chest to your stomach and then to his own. The rest is for you. The unfastening of jeans, all buttons.
     If asked, he would say the same. They are different ways of achieving the same closeness. Sharing space. Yours. His. Co-mingling. Whether it is the bursting fabric of the cosmos, or the sighing, sweating physicality of the material plane, in the end... it is still you and he...
     Kit piles into you as he squirms out of the jeans. There is no balance mid-air! The things one forgets! His laughter is soft and it sounds against and into your mouth in the kiss. The bed teases, bringing him close, deepening the kiss, and then interrupting it. Ah... there is something to be said for it...perhaps... once one gets the hang of it...

Posted by rowan at September 14, 2003 10:34 AM