Isn't this a picture for future illuminated Bibles and holy scripture plaques. A short-sleeve, jean wearing cherub, with dark and wild-curled hair, lounging in a chair at the devil's own coffee shop. Starbucks. The rest of his attire consists of ship sandals -- his torpedo houseboat 'The Dreamcatcher' is docked within sight -- sunglasses and a blinking neon sign that only appears on the ethereal realm and says: Don't Bother Me, I'm Living Happily Ever After.
In other words, Kit Marlowe aka Galadriel Cherub of Dreams and Sentinel of Aspirations is on vacation. A stay at home sort of holiday, with an iced latte, overlooking Gabriel's Wharfside, his boat, and all of London's teaming tourist traffic.
And he's smiling. And he's unrepentant. As far as his mortal guise is concerned, he looks like he's in No Great Hurry To Do Anything, Least Of All Anything Important.
Kit puts down his paper -- the Arts section of the Times -- and points to an advert. "We should go to this," he says to the man at his side, his accent still slightly Italianate. "You know how long it's been since I've been to the musical theater?" In this case, he's actually talking about the opera at Covent, but regardless it's been centuries.
And even then, it consisted of one old drunk druid singing off-key and then falling off the stump...
"Hmm?" the dark-haired man next to Kit murbles. In dress slacks and white shirt, he seems the very element of professional. The square, soft-sided back beneath the table probably helps. Slumped in his seat, Starbucks venti in laced fingers at his stomach, Soldekai - titles too long to mention - people-watches. High summer in London means a panorama of beings, languages, habits, and skin-colors, and he watches the parade with fascination behind Serengeti sunglasses.
"What theater?" Soldekai asks, sipping from the teeny slot at the rim of his venti-something-or-other. Despite Ages with mortals, Soldekai knows little of their behaviors. Perhaps that's why he's so taken with watching them. Simulacra for later.
"The Garden," Kit says, sitting back with his venti iced vanilla latte with several dashes of cinnamon for good measure, always unable to leave anything simply as it is. How he (and this narrator) could go on for hours about that character trait of his. But some things simply aren't in one's nature, perhaps. Perhaps he has come to some amount of peace for that.
Whether Heaven has ... this is a different story and not Kit's to tell...
"It is a little done work by Monteverdi. I love the spectacle." Used to be one had to go to the Roman Forum for that much brutality. Baroque opera is little more than gladiatorial events made up to look like musical theater.
Kit looks to Soldekai over the rims of cherry red lenses, a shock of silver-grey eyes, and he smiles to him as bites at his straw. For that moment he takes his attention from the panorama of existence around them both. "Balcony box seats, and I could get those little glasses on the stick," opera glasses, "...and peer at the people in the first row... all to the accompaniment of heavenly voices," and God knows (of course!) that that is as close to heavenly voices as I'm likely to get.
I can't exactly show up to the heavenly cotillions, now can I?
"That's fine," Soldekai says, smiling at the peering look given to him. "Opera it is," he assents, brows furrowed behind the Serengetis. Not that he's ever seen one, but what's to stop him now?
"Do we dress up?" Soldekai asks idly, sipping his drink and watching a woman in peach sequin top go by.
Nathaniel has been wandering the streets of London for some Time now. He was supposed to go somewhere in particular on an errand from Rachel, but he got somewhat distracted. Nate can't help it: the tide of humanity is candy to his eyes. Talking to random strangers is a drug which he can't give up. He doesn't even realize he's lost, and he doesn't remember he even is in London on a purpose.
He always has his head in the clouds, dreaming while awake.
Rachel is going to be pissed. 'You are so unreliable!' she will shout. 'Why can you not get anything right?' Unknowingly, Nate already knows the words she will use. If he lets it occur that way. No doubt, moments before he leaves London, his past will burble forth a message that will remind him of his chore.
A pebble from Buckingham Palace. Why would Rachel need such a thing? Not even any pebble, but a specific pebble. You will know it when you see it, Nate. You of all people will see its difference.
It isn't Nathaniel's fault that he is supremely aware. Well, actually it is, but he is recovering from that little hiccup in his past.
It is that awareness that brings him up short, as he walks and beams a smile at random passers-by. Like a hand on his shoulder, or sudden changes of weather in the movies, he knows that something is beyond the pale.
His forward motion arrested by this premonition, he comes to a total stop not far from the starbucks. Now he stands, letting his eyes slowly make a sweep of the store fronts and people. He doesn't know what to expect, and so he expects danger.
"Oh," Kit says with Pure Delight, "I do hope so. I want to go as a pirate." He smiles. No, not that kind of dress up he expects...
It would do well for one to remind oneself of London's dangers, for there are many and they like to walk about the town. Frequently. Beneath the veneer of teaming tourism, there is another of risk, of danger. It is much like a deceptive cool crust overlying a boiling river. Or maybe that's just because it's summer.
Kit isn't so much aware as he is undeniably curious, inquisitive and sharp-eyed. Which is not to say that he instantly spies Nate and thereupon instantaneously feels an intense draw to him. He is simply a sudden new arrival, someone not stared at in previous moments. He smiles a little, just at the corners of his mouth, silently enjoying his pirate comment. Privately enjoying the sudden thought of dressing up in other costumes for the Archangel's amusement.
And so he stares at Sakir with that little Mona Lisa smile, looking every bit the Naughty Cupid...
"Um, I don't think you can dress up like i>that," Soldekai replies, looking ahead of his upturned cup. There's a shake of his head at the peach sequins, but then a family yelling at each other catches his eyes, and he follows them along the walk.
"I guess I need a suit? A...tuxedo?" Soldekai wonders aloud, voice trailing off into the distance with the argumentative bunch.
"Where would I get that?"
Nathaniel's mismatched eyes sweep the crowds as the premonition fades like a mischievious sprite. A goblin tapped him on the back, and now he is hiding under the bed.
He chuckles to himself. "It was one of you, wasn't it?" He says to no one in particular, as nearby watches step back a second. "Well, I'd appreciate if you didn't."
Then he seems to be listening, and as his expression changes others would be certain he can hear something. "You didn't?"
"Coffee?" He switches topics, forgetting his previous worry entirely.
"Yes, I think so." He replies to himself. Perfect place to people watch.
Walking towards the Starbucks, his yellow eye seems brighter than usual. His passage brings about memories of mornings in the sun. Lazy days of relaxation. The smell of fresh cut grass, and tea biscuits.
Kit is looking in the other direction, still Nateward, while Soldekai turns toward the argumentative humans. Humani argumentati? Well, if it isn't, it ought to be. He looks through his red lenses, lenses that turn the world into the shade of Kool-Aid, sips his iced coffee and tilts his head at the man now talking to himself.
Normally you have to go to America to see that sort of thing...
"The vanilla lattes are good, even if the vanilla isn't from Mexico," Kit announces, smiling warmly as the gentleman passes by, trailing summer in his wake. Of course, he doesn't have such memories of summer. Time is inconsequential. Mostly. "Fortunately," he seems to say to his tablemate, "..,the cinnamon is from Madagascar..."
Kit the Cupid smiles around his straw and settles back, his head turning to watch after the Man Who Moves With Morning At His Heels. Hmm.
"Madagascar," Soldekai's American lilt comes. Just another of the tourists. "I haven't been there in a while. Quiet since the Wars," he observes. The ones two centuries ago over spices. "Finest cinnamon there was...is..." the archangel corrects. He sighs for the family gone over the street and further down the Bank.
"I don't get...why they argue like that," the archangel adds. Soldekai shrugs, setting his venti -- smells of some strong roast -- on the park table. He bends down to open the bag that sits at the tablepost beneath the top, fishing out a camera as prize. "We could," as if to open another subject, "...gret you Mexican vanilla, if that's what you want." Soldekai bends, futzing with lenses as he puts the world behind him for a moment.
Vanilla Latte. The words trail after Nathaniel, and reach his ears. With a smile, he nods to the suggestion and then to the person who made it.
It doesn't take him long to enter the building, and return with his order. Any regular would be surprised at the sudden alacrity of the staff. Vanilla latte, and white-chocolate biscotti
Now a place to sit himself, and wait out the eventuality of what will come.
Unless he was just sensing himself. It wouldn't be the first time.
Ripples on the pond rebounding when they hit the edge.
Kit smiles broadly, a stretch of a pleased look. "You would fly," and he means it literally though who'd think it, "...all the way to Mexico just to sweeten my coffee." He doesn't say it as if he would be surprised by this. For he isn't surprised. He says it as if he knows it is true. For it is true. The smile takes a certain fondness on. "Maybe we will go to Mexico tonight," he states a grand thing, a fantastical thing so simply. For it is that simple. "And we could still be here for the opera. Ah, oh, and yes... a tuxedo. We should go shopping. I wonder how I would look in such a thing?" Kit lolls his head against his shoulder, looking to Soldekai as he takes out his camera and pops behind the veil, as it were.
The air feels like it would collapse with a single pin-prick. Anticipation?
"They argue like that because they do not always realize what a colossal waste of time it all is, how small a thing the argument is, as infantessimal as an atom, a part of an atom even, when compared to the totality of everything else. In short, I think they do it because it's what they know. An experience of toil, loss, sacrifice, selfishness and expiration." And Kit's not actually cynical, nor does he mean such words to seem so. His voice is soft, his tone is light, his delivery casual, as if saying: Hello, how are you?
"I guess," Soldekai begins, sitting up with a lens in hand. He begins to wrench it onto the body of his camera, then asks, of out of nowhere:
"He's somewhat here."
Perhaps the insanity of talking to one's self has also hit the Archangel. But it's not likely. Soldekai inhales and sits back, camera up at chest-level. He smiles and looks dead-on at Nathaniel. Soldekai must have eyes on the side of his head.
"Strange, isn't he?" Soldekai smirks, staring at Nate openly now. "Not quite sure what he is, but..." and Sol's voice trails off. "I'd say a magic-user, eh..." it doesn't fit the Archangel's Sight or symphonic resonances.
As if a divine celestial figure should look normal to sighted eyes.
Watches clamber back a few more seconds, as Nathaniel lets his feet carry him to a bench nearby. He balances the biscotti on one knee, holding his latte with both hands. Sipping it gently.
With a startled expression he looks towards the Starbucks. Deer in headlights. Then he scowls, and looks at the biscotti. Rolling his eyes, he sighs. "Well, Nate, that was bound to happen. Next time, put it somewhere sensible."
The Archangel then mentions Nathaniel, and Nate feels the gaze upon his neck.
He twitches, turns with an expression he bore but moments ago, and the biscotti falls from its perch on his knee. The scowl, as before, is turned momentarily upon the biscotti as he sweeps the pieces out for the birds.
With a sigh he rolls his eyes, and mutters to himself.
"Rachel is going to kill me." Are the only words that escape his immediate area.
Coffee. Bring her coffee, or bring her death. Well, preferably not death; Fiona isn't really in the market for that right now. She's dressed down, for her, having gotten off work after 36 hours in the studio and in her office, working, revising, working some more, and finally everything's been signed off on. She's wearing a vastly oversized blouse in emerald green Chinese silk with white cuffs and collar, coiling Celestial dragons embroidered in slightly darker green silk thread all over save for the white, paired with a pair of black jeans. Her hair's still cornsilk-blonde, but today is worn in a slightly dishevelled braid down to her waist. Sunglasses rest on the bridge of her nose, and since she's been working on the set, her old Doc Martens are coming very much in handy.
"Sunlight. Guh." That's her reaction as she stumbles out of the Tube stop, heading for the Starbucks more by memory than design, smothering a yawn with her palm. "Christ, I feel the way I did when I worked the clubs..."
She heads in the direction of the coffee shop, glancing with hyperexhausted nervousness around, and comes briefly to a halt. Wait - did she see... no, surely not. Fiona pauses, one hand gripping a light pole, frowning in the direction of the bench.
"I like card tricks, or do you mean the sort that likes to make me pop up in weird places unannounced?" Kit looks at Nate with a bit more study. He doesn't have an archangel's sight, or a seraph's truth-wringer. He has his gut. His gut is telling him that the vanilla is tasty, that Soldekai is damned cute, that it's hot, and that he's hungry.
** growl **
See?
"How can you tell?" Kit asks seriously. He suddenly wishes he had the knack to tell the difference. That could come in handy. He's no one I Know. As in really Know. He sips at his latte -- it's nearly gone now and he's quite caffienated. "Should we invite him over?" he murmurs, dark brown eyebrows crawling upward.
But then he catches a golden geisha. He blink-blink-blinks and then goes placid-faced. Mouth curling around his straw, he begins humming then is heard to sing the words: I'm being followed by a moonshadow, moonshadow...
An elbow comes out and nudges the archangel-cum-photographer softly. Psst. Psst. Speaking of magicians...
"No, definitely not card tricks," Soldekai begins, about to explain the ripple in the Universe that he feels and sees. But then he's nudged with intent, grimacing as he grabs at his side. "Ow, stop that..." The camera and lens sit perched upon his broad, open hand.
"Ixnay-on-the-oway," Kit murmurs out of the side of his mouth. Then in a hushed rush of Venetian: "That girl... she's the prognosticator I threatened with your holy ire after she pulled me from your bed." I'd know her anywhere.
Magicians, magicians everywhere and not a rabbit in sight...
Kit sets his coffee on the small round table and drags a hand through his wild, dark curls. Surrounded. "It's a little convention then?" Grey eyes return to Nate, returning focus there. He looks back and forth then, rather like following the volleys at Wimbeldon...
Nathaniel is oblivious to all this that is going on around him. Nathaniel is supposed to be the Eyes and Ears of his little cabal. Nathaniel perceives in ways that can't be fathomed, and yet he misses those things hidden in plain sight.
He infuriates his friends, because of this.
He once almost got hit by a car, and killed. An ignoble end for one such as him, to be sure. But that is a story for another time.
For now, he sits and enjoys his latte despite the crawling sensation of knowing people are talking about you not far off. Instead of being sensible, he simply tries to ignore it.
Maybe they won't bother him, if he pretends they don't exist.
And now, since Nathaniel isn't paying attention, the watches skip forward to make up for lost Time. They do hate it when Nate is around.
After a long pause, Fiona shakes her head, walking crablike, sideways, keeping a wary, worried eye on Nathaniel. The last time she saw him, he and an Italian appeared in her living room while she was quarreling with a faerie (self-proclaimed) prince. Granted, that was an amount of time and three dye jobs ago, but ...
"Is oddness happening in my life again? Oh, god... what will it be this time?" Dread and a curious anticipation both serve to quicken her pulse for a moment. There are some beings she would not mind meeting again - and might have some pointed questions for. But this isn't them, and biting her lip, she turns away with a hint of a scowl. "Coffee. Coffee first."
Going to one of the other tables and utterly ignoring the pair of angels with the obliviousness of one who has no idea she is in the presence of greatness, cloaked or otherwise, Fiona slouches down and massages the dark circles under her eyes, waiting for a wandering waiter or barista. It'll be the triple espresso again; television business is turning out to be alarmingly like the punk business. And this way, she can hopefully be out of range of falling Italians and bleeding wizards.
The camera's set down near his venti. Soldekai stares at the young woman with intent.
Well, save the tick as a wave moves across him. He sometimes hates these mortal shells.
Soldekai narrows his eyes at the woman, then exhales. "That's a magic user," he declares. At least in some conventional sense.
"What ever happened," Venetian returned, "...to the alchemists?" The good old days, when the Purity Crusade stamped out the mortal magician minions of the inferalists? Soldekai sighs and picks up his venti, abandoning the camera - his vision's fine, apparently - to watch the two beings.
"See if he'll come over," Soldekai says about the man nearby. "And, well," Sol offers about the woman, "I'll let you decide that. I might, well..." Suddenly, Soldekai feels like teaching lessons. He shakes his head, letting those thoughts go away. She's probably a nice girl. Maybe.
"Whatever happened to card tricks?" Kit softly bemoans. He looks to Soldekai and in Venetian continues, "I'll leave that," her, he means, "...to you. I think she was sufficiently terrified at the time. Maybe." Then he stops to wonder. Then to shrug. Yes, even I can be terrifing. Lo, mortals, tidings of heaven and all of that. Not that I've seen Heaven in a few earth years now...
Kit turns about in his chair, grey eyes peering with a grin above the rims of cherry red lenses. The smile held by his eyes is seconded by his mouth and he leans against the back of his chair. "Did you try the vanilla," he wonders to Nate, and yes that comment earlier was meant for you, Nathaniel. It wasn't a conversation in mid-stream like the rest of the conversations you step into. It was meant for you.
The cherubic faced young man bears the accenting of Venice, the vestiges of an Italian tan, and the curled hair of one of her children. He bears her bright smiles, the easy laughter of those for whom laughing is everything. Second after wine, perhaps. Right ahead of soccer and opera.
Ever have the sensation that those who were talking about you behind your back now want to talk to you directly?
Nathaniel stops in mid sip. The one is talking to him, and now he can't go on pretending they don't exist. Apprehensions melt away, as Nathaniel lets his personable side take hold.
Turning, he smiles to the Italian. "Yes, I did. Quite good." Standing, he approaches with the light of the sun in one eye.
His approach is fluid, moving as he does between the ticks of the clock leaving memories of midsummer to swell and dance around the bench where he sat.
Fiona's watch loses almost ten minutes, as Nathaniel passes by. He doesn't seem to have noticed her, or perhaps doesn't recognize her in her knew attire.
Nonetheless, a pair of changable eyes watch Nathaniel's progress suspiciously from behind the sunglasses. Fiona's triple espresso arrives, and she mutters a thank you, eagerly seizing upon it with both hands, burying her face in the whipped cream to get to the caffeine that lies below it. Black gold.
She's oblivious, really, to the change in her watch, though the hackles on the back of her neck go up. Get exposed to enough oddness, you develop a sensitivity - rather like an allergy to raspberries. In this case, exactly like an allergy to raspberries. Fiona sneezes, and whipped cream ends up on her nose. "Kchf!"
"Hi," Soldekai says, suddenly at Fiona's left side. "Oh," the brown haired, six-four man says at the sneeze. His hand appears from his side, laden with a handkerchief. "Allergic?" he asks, smile rather radiant, his eyes greenish.
The cherub is nothing if not gregarious and personable. It's just part of the package -- and part of his inherent charm, easily mistaken for Italianate hospitality (even if they are in Britain). Even if he's squinting at the light of the sun coming from one eye.
He squints, even though he knows the sun very well. First name basis, in fact. And has Brilliance Itself as a partner.
Kit nudges a chair out slightly -- a silent offer to Nathaniel, coupled with the continued greeting of his smile. "It is hard to beat aromatic spices, particularly the woody ones," cinnamon, vanilla, among others. Clove. Nutmeg. And so on.
Kit takes up his coffee again, mouth pulling on the straw, sipping at the last of it. He may need another. He tilts his head, he wonders if Nathaniel can 'see' him. He wishes, suddenly, that he could stretch his wings, become Himself and just... spread. But he doesn't give that wish much time to breathe. Kit's smile chokes it off as he speaks, "No sense sitting alone when we have chairs idle... Kit," he says by way of introduction. No, Nathaniel, he doesn't know you. No In Media Res this time. This time, you're at the beginning.
And silver-grey eyes sparkle toward Soldekai and the Other Magician.
"Huh?" Oh, yes, very intelligent and erudite, Fiona. She has the grace to blush, hesitating only briefly before accepting the handkerchief. "Oh, thank you." She wipes whipped cream off her face, clearly still a bit embarassed, but there's a faint metamorphosis as she shrugs it off. Well. Things happen.
"Not allergic that I know of - but I suppose there's a first time for everything, isn't there?" Looking up over the rims of her sunglasses, she half-peers, half-frowns thoughtfully at Soldekai. "I'm sorry. Didn't splash you, did I? I didn't see you come up." She folds the handkerchief neatly, offering it back with a half-sheepish sort of look.
Is she a magician, or is she more of a ... conduit? The last time she willed something into occurring, she summoned a cherub into her living room, only to find out ... wrong number ... and since then - she hasn't done anything directly, herself. But she's been thinking about it - well, about Dei, more, really - but she's been thinking. And sometimes, that's all magic needs, isn't it? But for now, she's still oblivious.
"Orchid seed, actually." What is he talking about?
"I love the spices. They take me back to other times. Even the subtle ones like saffron." Nathaniel smiles. "There is nothing like sleeping in a bed of saffron and persian carpets."
"Nathaniel" He offers a hand. "Or Nate, if you prefer. And if you really have a hankering to call me by some other name, just tell me. I'll respond, not to worry." Infectious smile catchs, and now Nate is smiling too. People do this to him. Even Kit's type of people.
"In indonesia, they grow clove trees. They weave the clove stamins into boxes. They smell beautiful, though they lose their scent after a few months."
"I quite agree. And, yes, vanilla is the orchid seed," he smiles. "You are quite right. Though, for sleeping, I prefer lotus blossoms and pillows of the raj," his sensibilities wending toward India. "But saffron is a delight. Honey." He nods and then the smile slants, "... clove and nutmeg. Two former wonders of the world," how often is it one gets to talk of the spice trade over coffee? "... they ruled the world once." A pause. "To some degree still do." He grins. "Nate. I tend to shorthand," preferring Sol to Soldekai, Kit to Christopher, Nate to Nathaniel.
"Now," he sets his glass on the table and sighs, "... we can get everything in a bottle at the local market and no one has to lose his or her head in the process. Ah, for convenience we lose out on a lot of good storytelling and daring-do." A pause. He studies the man for a moment -- a moment not too long to seem too rude. "Here for the tourist watching? It's a tourism all its own these days..."
The cherub-cum-coffee-sipper glances over to Soldekai and the young woman for a brief instant. I wonder what he's going to say or do...
"No worries," Soldekai smiles, waving off the handkerchief. "Keep it," he says, extending a hand. "Solomon Decker," he announces, extending a large hand. "Pleasure, though it's funny, it feels like we've crossed paths before."
American flirts. Perhaps they can't help it. Tall and broad, with perfect teeth. God's gift to --
"Care to join us?" Soldekai asks Fiona, motioning over to the near table, currently holding a camera and a venti.
"Bottle stuff just isn't the same. I always prefer my spices fresh." There is a witfulness to Nathaniel's eyes. "It is such a pity that I spend much of my time in these colder climes. I used to spend so much of my days watching the spice harvests."
"You neglected Allspice. At one time, with its power, the Dutch ruled the waves. How things change." They may be talking about spices, but really, they are talking about history. History and Nathaniel are lovers, and Nate knows every inch of her body.
The tourist watching? Why am I here...? Nathaniel is momentarily foggy-eyed, trying to remember why is in London. Those with Sight see clouds pass before the sun in his eyes, as he thinks. As the clouds pass, and sun shines through, he smiles once more. "Oh, just an errand or three. I drop by when I can, and pick things up for my friends."
"Yourself? You aren't from around here." Not a question.
"...Thank you." Fiona is more than mildly surprised, smiling back up at the American despite herself. Her instincts are always to be suspicious - but where Drancy would be rude and crass, Fiona does not have that choice. "Just a moment, then." The handkerchief is brought up to her nose for a cautious sniff - no more sneezes, yet - and then deposited in her tote, and she rises to accept the offered hand.
Her own hand is small and unornamented, devoid of rings or polish, though she wears both Cartier watch and a small silver charm bracelet, her grip firm but not even attempting a contest of strength. "Fiona Arundel. Have we? I suppose it's not impossible. I've done a bit of travelling, though I've typically stayed on this side of the Pond." She pronounces her name clearly, the break between FionA and Arundel made prominent, but she leaves off title. Americans get so silly over a title.
And picking up her cappuccino with her free hand, Fiona shoves at the untidy braid, not so much in self-consciousness as casual replenishment. "How do you do?" She looks over to the indicated table, a hint of wariness aimed in Nathaniel's direction. How long can a lack of recognition hold out?
There's a moment's pause as Solomon Decker tries to find the appropriate word.
"Things are perking up."
His shake is firm, and the smile turns into a bemused grin. American are so self-assured. "I'll introduce you," Solomon offers regarding his table. "He doesn't bite. We're...people-watching...today. It's rather nice out," he explains, moving back towards the seat.
"I know what you mean about sunnier climes," a glance to Soldekai, a smirk soon follows. "I was relocated. Work," he notes. "From Venice to London now. But at least the sun comes by for a visit now and then." And then the smirk becomes a grin. And sleeps over, lucky me. "Not often enough," Kit concedes and holds back a chuckle.
"Ah, right, Allspice. I knew I was missing one. Strange that the Dutch should rule the waves with things so wonderful and tasty and yet have been some of the worst ravagers of mankind. Fragrant business, unsavory business practices." Kit settles back, then glances back as if he could make a barista materialize with another coffee for him.
Oh to be a magician!
When he turns around, that young woman who made him materialize out of thin air once is at the table and about to be introduced. Grey eyes peer over red lenses again and the Italianate mouth pulls in a slanting grin. I don't look the least bit familiar, do I? When you last saw me, I was midnight blue with enormous wings, a huge standard and some ten feet tall.
"Venice!" Something taps Nathaniel on the forehead. He pulls a piece of paper from a pocket, and reads the handwriting. "That is where I'm off to next. I have to meet someone." To travel around the world, guided by the hands of others. Nate will continue in this way until he grows bored of it.
"I haven't been." Lately. As far as most people relate things.
And then more introductions are soon to be had. Two more people Nathaniel hasn't met -- that he knows of -- and this suits him fine. The more people he knows, the happier he is.
"Are they?" Fiona blinks at Soldekai, reclaiming her hand and allowing him to escort her to the table. "And people are sometimes worth watching, I suppose." She's not entirely comfortable, mainly due to the strangeness of it - being led closer to a magician she hasn't seen in a year. Well, at least he isn't bleeding this time.
Kit gets a polite smile, but it's one utterly lacking in any sort of recognition. Well, why would she recognize him? Skin a normal hue, and moreover, she has never been angelologist or demonologist... if he had concentric blue tattoos, Fiona might - possibly, barely - hold some recognition.
"How do you do?" is this time offered in a general sort of way, to the men at the table, and she glances up over her shoulder at Soldekai, quizzically. The Fountain of Trevi never had it quite so good, did it?
"Kit," Solomon says, "Fiona Arundel," accent on the last syllable. He winces a little, feeling it wasn't quite right. Sol twists to bring up another chair, while the new gentleman is introduced.
Arundel. Sounds official. Regarless, Kit rises from the table, old manners showing themselves. Men rise when ladies are present, don't they? Even in the 21st Century? "Hello there, bion giorno, bonjour," Kit replies smiling grandly. "Isn't this becoming the unexpected party. See? That is what is good about big cities. Please, join us..."
Us now includes two that it didn't before. Isn't that interesting? The glory of being Among Life, Life then happens.
"I think I want another," Kit says to Soldekai, still standing. As if he should have more caffeiene! A hyper Kit? If he had his own guardian angel (and some feel he should), Starbucks might suddenly close due to an emergency. But no such emergency occurs.
Everyone is standing, and so Nate does too. He was born in the age of so-called equality, and doesn't always quite get some of the rules. "Nathaniel." He fills in, with a warm smile, as Kit fails to introduce him.
His smile goes to both Soldekai and Fiona. A smile that lacks any recognition what so ever, but is friendly enough.
"Nice to meet you, Nathaniel," Sol responds. "Solomon Decker," he pronounces, extending a hand to Nate for a shake.
Sure you want to try that?
The plan to quiz Nate has dried up. Soldekai's now stuck in the rigid vise of normal human relations. "This is Fiona," Sol adds, motioning to the young woman as he sets the chair before her.
She accepts this unapplauding ovation of standing gentlemen as though it were her due, the product of her class and her schooling, smiling nonetheless in a sort of unspoken gracious thanks. "Fiona Arundel, yes. Good afternoon to you as well." There. The stress is placed back over the u rather than the e, and with the accent replaced, she continues, "But please, do feel free to call me Fiona." Just not Fifi.
Seating herself daintily in the chair provided, she glances up with a small smile at Soldekai; perhaps she is not entirely pleased with the role she's been shoehorned into herself, but ... patterns recognized are harder to break, in this skin, with this hair colour.
"Thank you," Fiona answers the gesture, folding her shoulderbag in her lap and taking a long, thirsty draught of her espresso. It isn't as polite a gesture as the rest, and leaves behind a mocha-coloured mustache of whipped cream, which she neatly licks off. "You're looking well," she adds to Nathaniel, eyebrows drawing together. No accusation in her voice, please, let's keep this friendly.
"Sorry... Nate... si..." A slight blush at having missed that. Kit clears his throat, he glances between all involved and then pivots slightly, gesturing to the coffee counter. 'I'm going in for another' was about to leave his lips when Fiona looks at Nathaniel.
Oh, well. That stands to reason. They know one another...
Kit looks to Soldekai. Too bad we're out here in front of God and everyone. I think there is more to say than that which is being spoken...
"Ah... old acquaintences?" he wonders aloud, though still quietly. "Wait, wait," he smiles suddenly. "I need another coffee. Does anyone want anything? I will go for the table..." Polite as well as gregarious...
Nate takes the offered hand and gives it a good shake. But, at the touch, his eyes go a bit wide. Song rushes up his arms, and dances along his hears. Damien's songs. The songs that brought the universe into being, and laid down its path.
The songs that the Kundalini dances to.
"Oh, uh--" Nathaniel pausing, a moment, choosing words. "-- You are not whom I was expecting." He smiles once more "Not that really is much of an issue, I guess."
He is looking well? "I'm sorry, Fiona." He does seem a bit confused. "But have we met? If so, I'm terribly sorry! I have a memory like a seive, when it comes to people." He looks quite aghast, really. Nathaniel hates it when he forgets people, even though it seems he is doing it all the time.
To Kit, as he heads for more coffee "No, I think I'm apparently impaired enough as it is."
Posted by rowan at September 20, 2003 08:34 PM
