Dawn...
     A moment of time when even The Thames seems beautiful, something to look upon from afar but never to drink. The view out of the porthole windows has all the elements of a painter's canvas, sweeping colors of salmon and bronze and aquamarines blending with the glass and stone structures of a modern metropolis crowding the banks, the span of nearby bridges.
     It is beautiful...
     But it is not Venezia...
     Coffee swirls in a cup where it was stirred, milk from the market frothing like the white caps of a disturbed ocean. Steam rises from the surface of the hot liquid, breathing against the skin as its drinker lifts it for a sip. It is tasty. But it is different.
     Sounds of the South Bank are starting already, even in the early morning it is busy. Shops will open soon, the Starbucks is already opening (rarely missing an opportunity for commerce), and there is traffic on the bridges, the hum of motor vehicles. The stirring of London from its brief slumber.
     It is not the cry of fishmongers, the roar of the water taxis, the snapping of laundry, the arguing of impassioned neighbors which invariably ends in an operatic aria. It is not the church bells, the songs of wandering gondoliers, the smell of baking bread.
      It is not Venice...
     Kit sits in his living room, all portals that can be opened are opened, the hatch leading to the deck, so the sounds of morning may move through. His coffee, his paper, wearing his robe -- a very comfortable light blue terry -- his grey t-shirt and grey shorts. Clean-shaven, his dark hair curling from his shower still partially damp. Another dawn in London...
     London...
     Not Venice...

     Hello?" comes a voice outside, barely audible over the waves, the street noise, and the wind.l "Hello, anyone home?"
     "Kit, are you here?"
     Only then is the deck graced with the sound of footsteps.

     Sometimes, though, he has sat upon the deck of The Dreamcatcher and he has played for the wandering tourists (even those from other parts of England), the ambling townies, and the staff of Starbucks. It reminds him of sitting on that cramped balcony, playing for his neighbors, his familia, his friends. The courtyard parties with the colored lanterns. The carnivale. Had he taken it all for granted?
     Kit stands when he hears his name, he takes his coffee in hand with him, stepping around his coffee table and heading for the hatch. By the time feet are on the deck, he's perched on the ladder-stairs that lead above. "Bon giorno!" he calls out, his accent stubbornly clinging onto Venice like the last fingertips -- never to let go. There is a question lifting.
     And he also wonders: How could I have forgotten to raise my plank?
     "Down here!" he says again, and he is coming up the stairs, robe trailing behind him, coffee balanced all the while.

     The person does not go far, one foot slow to step on the deck. "Hi, it's Grizelda," she calls, making herself known.
     Grizeldemer, angel of dreams of clerics, has been in her post for Ages. Known for her extensive travelling, her sleeping words given exclusively to those men and women who serve tribes, shamen, communities, churches, and cathedrals.
     "This is nice," she says with a smile.
     Even she is in London now.
     "I heard you were here..."

     A very busy person in Australia, it's a wonder she's not there now...
     "Oh!" he quirks up, he smiles, and the cobwebs of homesickness are brushed away a bit. Homesickness is a funny thing. Venice isn't his home either. His home... if he has one... is at the throne of Dreams, nestled in the fabric of the dreams of the universe and its Creator. But Venice is as close to the celestial realm as he could get, can get, may ever get, and maybe that's what he misses.
     "Please, please! Come below," comes the voice from below, Italianate to a fault. He really needs to examine his stubborness. Maybe that's a cherubic thing. "I have coffee and tea, please... make yourself at home. This is a surprise," he continues, expecting you are coming behind the sound of his voice. It is lifted, projected, but not completely shouted.
     The yacht-styled saloon is both bar and coffee house. He is heading there to pour, whether you want a cuppa or not. "I had no idea you were here, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised." London is ... London. And we are all here. "Cream? Sugar?"

     "Yes," Grizeldemer replies, stepping gingerly down below. Dressed simply in slacks and blouse, the blonde, older woman looks up and around, interested in them items you surround yourself with. "Thank you, Kit," she grins, watching you. "You look well," she offers, nodding. Hand comes to rest on a chair, as if she's slightly unused to this form. Rarely is she on this plane.
     "I have not seen you in so long," ever in this form? "And I was to come here," to London, "...and I had heard at home that you were here now. So, it had...been a while." So, her first manifestation was to you.
     Her brown wrap that matches her trousers slides from her shoulder. Once more, Grizeldemer's eyes pick up a glinting silver candle on a shelf.

     Whimsy and water, two prime ingredients in dreaming. Everything about the ship's interior seems to be directed to water and whimsy, to dreams themselves. And shining bits. Lots and lots of shining bits. "It is good to see you," he says it warm with affection, with meaning, with coffee. He sets a cup upon the coffee table for you, bringing his own -- refilled and resugared -- along with him.
     Kit's not as well put together as you, having only rolled out of his vessel's bed (if it could be called that) about an hour (and a shower) before your arrival. But he does at least look comfortable. In the skin. In the environs. Of course, now he's quite the veteran of material plane travel. One of the very few of You who are. "It's been ages, and my mind hurts to have to think of how many ages, Griz." And never in this form. Where were you last when you met? Much has happened in that long interval of time. "I am honored for your visit," he smiles it out. "And really and truly surprised. And you recall, I am sure, how I love surprises." Silver eyes twinkle as he smiles at the rim of his coffee cup, settling on his couch, sitting cross-legged.
     You are in London. This is significant. What it means, I do not know but I do know that it is significant...
     "And ... thank you..." he tacks on finally, for the compliment of 'looking well'. No matter how he might sometimes, like now, debate it. "I was just about to dip into some lovely homesickness and ...poof! You appear, like magic. So... what on earth," he grins at the term, "...brings you to London?" And somewhere in the corner, way at the back of his mind, he hopes it's not to check up on him.

     "To bring you this," Grizeldemer smiles, fishing a box from the folds of her wrap. It is silver, perfectly shaped, and patterened with bas reliefs while also carved with delicate lattices. The thickness of the silver latticing indicate that it is the depth of the silver of the box itself, but if there are contents inside, they are not visible through the latticework.
     A celestial gift.
     "I do not do this so often," Sentinel, "...but I was glad for this task. It is..." she smiles, sitting down, "...the stuff of Dreams." Himself, literally.

     It is his second time to quirk in surprise in almost as many moments. Head lifts up, held by a straight neck, and his recently refreshed cup of coffee is going to go cold it appears. Kit sets the cup aside as he looks to you and looks to the Gift.
     He is not so gauche as to ask what it is. He smiles, though surprise does linger in his expression. "It is beautiful," he says, tilting his head as he admires the box's exterior. That is a gift, in and of itself, and he studies its detail.
     The stuff of Dreams...
     Creation, before it takes shape. Love, before it makes itself known. Music, before the first note is played, heard. Destiny, before the first action is taken. Before stones move, money clinks in the palm, before cities are crafted and civilizations are built there are dreams of each and every one of these things. There are those who have forgotten this now... on Both Sides...
     Silver eyes look at you a long moment, and then the box again. "How is Our Master and Everything That Can Be Imagined? I feel like I have been gone for a hundred years." On The Marches, there is Time but there is no Hour. There is motion but there is no measurement. He has only been gone for a short time, but ages have surely passed somewhere.
     When were you on the Marches last, Galadriel? When you gathered the falling numbers of a repeating string... and before that... when you saw the flickers of flames that caused doubt to spring in your heart. Not since.
     And it was not Venice he was missing at all...

     "He is as He is," Grizeldemer smiles, nodding her slightly-graying blonde hair. There is no need to give his greetings, wishes, thoughts of you, or his love. They are the box.
     Griz smiles. "Are you not curious?" she wonders, motioning at the box. "I will say that I am, but..." Griz smiles again, "...maybe I should be on my way."
     And not a taste of the coffee so nicely prepared.

     "Oh no, stay," his eyes lift to you and he takes the box. "I am curious too, just... savoring." The smile spreads and he takes the silver box into this mortal hands. Such detail. One could get lost in such detail. And he takes each portion of the gift into his being. The structure. The weight. The detail.
     And then he opens it...
     "I could not live with that curiosity hanging over my head, but then... this is why I am not a cat..."

     Grizeldemer watches you with a smile, but as you go to open the box, she notes, "No, I should leave you with it." There is respect for her Superior, and her charge was clear. "I will be in London another day, and if you wish to see me, simply think of me as you do your work," later tonight. "I will find you before I depart."
     She stands, twisting to pick up her wrap. "It is good to see you again," Sentinel. The word is not said. Not on this plain. "I hope the stars continue to shine and dance for you," she says politely.

     He stands, his eyes going from the treasure to you as he does. "Oh, I should like that. Please come again and we will have tea and talk Old Times. You must tell me how you have been and the work you have been doing," more than what he hears just generally speaking. "I am so thankful for your visit. I ... will think of you." He smiles.
     And it was good to see you. Is good to see you. "May they likewise for you also, Grizelda," he whispers, still holding the item, though it is closed again -- closed, really, before he was able to take a look inside. Or to have it take a look at him, as the case may be. A hand lands upon the woman's arm and Kit leans in for a kiss upon her cheek. "You are welcome upon The Dreamcatcher any time. It is so good to see you..." Kit leans back, preparing to see you out. So gentlemanly.

     He stands in the center of his living area below the deck of his dreamy torpedo boat. The trailing off of Grizeldemer's steps -- if there were any -- are quickly swallowed by the louder sounds of The Thames lapping against the sides of the boat and the lifting sounds of morning rush hour.
     And there was a silver box...
     He goes to the gift now, taking it up where he had only briefly set it aside to show Grizeldemer out. Two cups of cooling coffee sit by, the wisping steam only memories of flavor on the air.
     What could this be?
     Smiling, Kit sits upon his sofa, upon the edge of his sofa. Knees wide, he leans in and he opens the box with two reverant hands. What, My Lord of Lords, God As He Reveals Himself To Me, what have You surprised me with today? This day of days, day of all days, that I felt I was missing something. And here, when I just started to feel a lacking do you show up to fill what was missing...

     The silver latticework gleams. The box's contents do not spill out, despite the fact that ambient light and shadows move normally through the lattice. Is it a surprise that it is of Home? The perfect dimensions speak of otherworldliness. However can it be stored safely?
     Opening the box reveals a universe within. It is crafted of your Superior's hand -- no other could have done it. His Forces bind it together, his Word eminates from it, and his Essence pours through it. An artifact of Celestial origin.
     Heavens swirl within. Blackness and brightness exist simultaneously.
     Isn't it spectacular, Sentinel? So asketh the stars.
     Floating within is something silvery. A bobbing tiny ball within the universal dust.

     Light leaps to his eyes, the brightness and the darkness skim against his cheek like the touch of his Love of Loves' hand. Kit smiles and water covers his lashes, falls from his eyes, smoothing over the crest of each high cheek. Home.
     "Hello," he whispers in angelic to the box and to the stars. "It is spectacular," the tones trip from the mortal's tongue. "A thousand heavens My Master has," he murmurs in song, "...each one of them a marvel..."
     Something silver floats, held in suspension like a cradled star. Gentle fingers, musician's fingers, reach within to touch it, to take it, to lift it for a closer look.
     And he notices after a time that the sides of the box are very like the sides of his Master's Tower of Dreams. Very like, in fact. It is of Home. Home. And you were homesick... do you not remember that you can go Home whenever you want?
     Silver eyes latch onto the silver ball, even as his fingers reach in to take it...

     The ball lifts out easily, bits of dust, stars, and blackness falling off. Indeed a Dust. Dream Dust. You know this....
     The ball lifts, a length to it. But it stops, with the smallest of rounded ends. A silver spoon, a tad longer than the 2x2" box.
     Other celestials wish for it. Demons destroy for it. They say Beleth can no longer create it...
     The dust seems to defy Natural Law. Instead of falling out as the spoon lifts, each fleck knows its way home, back into the box...

     Hallelujah...
     The Dream Dust drifts back to the box, drifts and sparkles, shimmers and slides back Home. Kit smiles, the water leaking from his vessel's face -- he always finds that extraordinary -- but he doesn't reach up to stop it. Through Kit's eyes, Galadriel watches the Dream Dust drift into the box. The box is every bit as remarkable...
     Remember those who have forgotten or have lost their way. This ends A Great Conundrum, Master. And You Knew it would...
     Very carefully Kit sets the spoon back in his box, one Relic within the Other. He closes the lid with a last look, and with it he rises. It must be secured, held safe where none would find it, none would dare trespass. There is only one place I know, besides the hidden compartment of my Master's great chair, who would dare to go there, but no... some place even more remote.
     The heart of a volcano...

Posted by rowan at September 20, 2003 09:14 PM