There's a harvest moon overhead. It sits heavy and low, its light and mirror image bouncing off the glass of the buildings. The light makes a thud if you are accustomed to paying attention -- or listening for it. And to the west there are storms, clouds rolling off the Irish Sea and drenching Cornwall and Wales. They can be seen upon the far, dark horizon, turned silver with moonlight...
     Haymarket is the junction of the New City and the Old City. The old bones of kings rest here, and commerce, now multi-national corporations. But there are places in between places, and here is where one of these ...cracks... exists.
     On one side of the universe, Davydd is an undead fae-blessed former prince of Wales, living in his country with his woman and friends with other undead types. On the other side, he's a famous dragon trainer and teaches magical children about the wonders of shapeshifting. In Tir Na Nog itself, when he's in the Dreaming, he guards the Realm from the back of one of Arianrhod's stallions. Funny, wot?
     But he doesn't have as many 'lives' as some. He's thankful for that...
     There is a shimmer in the air. Most won't notice it. The vast majority of humanity just feel a breeze -- and maybe the moon's a bit brighter. They miss a bronze-haired man slipping out among the buildings, never seeing him stepping out of the reflection of one of the many glass buildings....

     It comes falling from the heavens: a whorling mass of glittering fabrics and shifting cloaks. A comet of gold and blue and scarlet silk. As it plummets, nearing the ground, arms stretch wide from the bulk and stretch the cloaks into a moment of wings -- slowing the descent, and letting a creature stand firm upon the ground.
     A creature that is translucent against the night air, and glittering in the finery of a thousand king's royal weavers. Beneath heavy hoods, it scans its head back and forth, but no hint of its face is seen. It seems to sniff the air, and raise a hand to test the wind. A hand with too many fingers, and too many knuckles.
     It moves forward, leaving eddies of fabric toned wisps in the air, and sparkling smiles upon the faces of those it passes through. Unseen, it moves, unnoticed save by the fae eyes of the dragonslayer, Davydd.
     It isn't here, and yet it is. Solid enough to walk along the ground, and yet immaterial to the touch of walls and pedestrians. And where it walks it leaves a trail of shimmering potential: the colours of the pavement brought bright and lively by the swish of the folds of its cloaks.
     It fell from the moonlit sky, and the darkness on the horizon, and now it stalks along the streets to occasionally reach a misshappen finger to touch the forehead of a passing stranger.
     Once, maybe twice, it even removes one of its cloaks to drape invisibly upon the shoulders of a person standing lost on the corner.

     You don't see that everyday...
     Davydd pauses in the lighting of a cigarette, forest green eyes narrowing at the swirling fabrics and cloaks. But then there is fire, lighting his face bronze incandescent, and then there is billowing smoke. On one side of the universe, he slays dragons; on the other side, he becomes them. Two halves of the same coin. Smoke spills out of his nose and his mouth as his Mars-march stride carries him toward the entity of swirling silks and brightness.
     It touches the lost and the foresaken? Doc Martens thud on the street, stepping amid the fallen shimmers of colors, following the trail that it leaves behind.
     Davydd moves among the pedestrians, minds the traffic, but follows it nonetheless. It's the oddest thing he's seen in London for aaaaages.
     He's not about to pass this up...
     And this gleaming comet of fabrics is not the only thing to shine in the night. He gives off a resplendence of his own, a white light that turns his complexion oddly golden. And wherever there is a tattoo etched in his skin there is cobalt light. Swimming dragons of cobalt light to be exact.

     It is heedless of the traffic, and ignorant of the street. But of the glowing, gleaming light of Davydd, it is not. Stopping and turn with fluid inhuman joints, it twists where it stands so that it can face the one that follows it.
     A great red doubledecker motors past, and half-way through the creature, causing cloaks to ripple and dance in the wind. But the creature doesn't even flinch, just remains to watch the approach of the knight.
     And yet still its face does not show, hidden beneath a dozen hoods and more. From here, though, Davydd can see the curled-toe persian slippers adorned with tiny mirrors, and the jostling of jewelry upon the creature's misshapen hands and wrists. The hands: the only uncovered part of this creature.
     There is a silvery cascade of bells, as the creature twists again and begins moving in another direction. Swift, jointless motions carry it back onto the sidewalk and through a throng of sightless tourists. Stopping for a moment there, he takes a cloak from off the shoulders of one of the tourists, and replaces it with one of its own. Then again, it continues, towards where roads divurge around a traffic circle.

     Boots skidded on concrete, halting his march before the bus halted it For Good. The mouth around the cigarette cuts a grin as he is faced with this... Creature, and as he watches the Entity moving onward, distributing cloaks.
     Sounds a good job reallly...
     Davydd waits for a break in the traffic and crosses the street, turning to continue following the Being as he heads for a roundabout. The next comet to show itself is his cigarette, meeting an early death in a trajectory toward a water-filled gutter.
     A look to the right... a look to the left. The air shimmers when the coast is clear, and the man in black becomes a black bird. A raven, more specifically, that lifts and lowers on the air current, following the drifting, swirling, whirling dervish of delightful cloths...

     This creature seems to play the mouse to the cat, as it takes a corner with fluid suddenness. So quickly this change in direction came, that some of the cloak fringes continue their forward motion before dancing in the air, and swirling afterwards down the narrow side street. A narrow alley between gleaming glass monoliths.
     And through all this, a cascade of bells like laughter and singing. A thousand silver bells, hidden within the folds of this creature's clothes. Or, maybe, the cloth is the creature.
      It teases, almost. Down the alley, nothing is seen at first, but then a thin curl of cloth rustles and beckons in a new direction. Leading ever onward.

     So quick the turn of direction that the raven overshot it and had to ascend to turn and follow. There was cawing for that. Laughter is shared, it seems. The bird follows the sound of the tinkling bells, and is sharp-eyed for anything remotely shimmering.
     ...Down an alley...
     Black feathers spread and stroke against the crisp air, summer becoming autumn -- swiftly now, this change of season. The raven drops to the ground briefly, hopping once...
     ...twice...
     Thrice before lifting in the air again to follow the thin curl of cloth. The air is so narrow in the alley that flying becomes a challenge. The bird lifts a little, croaking voice tossed to the night.

      And as the raven comes around yet another corner, a too-many-finger hand lazily reaches out and playfully misses the feathered knight. It had not been trying to net the bird, but merely pretend. Bone white skin, iridescent with moonlight, passing by blackest raven feathers.
     It -- stands -- crouched upon the side of the glass monolith that the two have been stalking around. Its feet somewhere upon the glassy surface, its hooded form turned to watch the bird wing and dive. cloaks dance, and fabric swirls, in the air, unhindered by the wall behind.
     And as it watches, it slips to the ground, to stand properly in the manner of a man, though it most definitely is nothing close to such.

     The bird makes another sound. In English, it might have been something along the lines of Shite! If it were English...
     The raven plops back down to earth, a shadow tumbling in a half-graceful landing and Davydd springs up from the earth as if Cymri grew out of the ground. He looks up at the Entity of swirling fabrics and cocks up a fiery eyebrow.
     And I thought I was the weirdest thing in this city...
     Arms fold casually against his chest and he watches. He wasn't trying to 'catch' it per se as he was... curious as to what it was doing and where it was doing it.
     You know what they say about curiosity. This is why he never shapeshifts into cats...

     Perhaps it doesn't realize the bird can talk. Perhaps it can not talk to birds. Whatever the case, the being is silent. Fabric rustles, and bells shift, as it stands there and the unfelt wind carries its folds around.
     Perhaps it is just waiting for Davydd to make the next move.
     Arms hang at its sides, with no need for body language. Bracelets of a hundred different styles clog its wrists, and rings dot its numerous knuckles.
     Perhaps it has no concept of impatience.
     The empty-faced hoods stay turned towards the bird, as if watching intently.
     Perhaps it just feels like waiting.

     Davydd tilts his head to the side, a not-so-odd-bird-like motion, considering he was just taking the form of one, but he stands on his own now, booted feet to the concrete. One would say firm-footed in this reality. That is, if he weren't standing across the King of the Floating Tent People.
     Normal modes of telepathy won't work, but he uses the same voice that he uses with inanimate objects (actually, there is no such thing), trees, stone, automobiles and brick walls. It also works on warm and squirmy creatures as well. Hail and hallo there. His arms uncross. I saw you passing, I hope you don't mind. I've never seen anything like you.
     And he's seen a lot of shite in his day...

     Hands unfold from sides, to reach for Davydd's hand. To shake his hand. To greet him. "Davydd ap Gwynedd," It has known you as long as you have dreamt. "Has you life been all that dreamt?" To his telepathy, it responds with voice. A voice like sand sliding, and shifting. "Do you wish it could be?" It is a voice that dredges up memories. It reminds you of your youth, and all your triumphs and defeats. All the times you said 'I wish...'.
     Blue and mirrored slippers are seen again, as it stands, and greets the knight. The cloaks uncovering them for the moment, as they continue their motions.
     "I am pleased to have met you this night."

     Fiery eyebrows cock up and Davydd looks surprised. That's a question out of left field if he's ever heard one. Has my what been what? My life? All that I ... dreamed it would be? "I actually never thought of it," the voice is earthy but musical, lilting over a language most wouldn't know. But odds are you can translate it. It's the tongue of the fae who live beneath the mountains and trees and moss, silver-running streams and beautiful men and women painted blue-ish. But also understood by those who dwell in the shadows of sand dunes -- he's had occasion to meet them, too.
     Do I ... wish it could be? You have to be careful what you wish for. One falsely slipping syllable and you could find yourself in a world of hurt. Davydd presses his lower lip between finger and thumb, oddly smiling. But then, we're both odd things, aren't we? "I have a good life," he says finally, hand lowering and head inclining. "I have my health, a grand family, good friends, a pair of dogs, and the love of an honest woman. I guess I'd have to say... aye... life is all I ever dreamed it would be." Not that I dream much, mind you. But when talking to floating canvases dispensing wishes, it's best to err on the side of thankfulness.
     Hands slide into the pockets of his leather coat. "I'm pleased to meet you, too. I feel at a bit of a disadvantage. You know who I am but I'd think I'd remember meeting you..." And I don't.
     Triumphs and defeats. There have been plenty of both. Most often occurring simultaneously. Life ... and Death. Love... and Loneliness. Davydd blinks at the voice, blinks at the thoughts, and wonders.
     Do I have everything I ever wanted?

     The voice spills from the folds of cloth once more, carried on the back of a dozen bells this time. "We have met only in the lands of slumber, Knight." Who is this being? It doesn't bother saying, or maybe doesn't know. Some concepts are beyond some beings.
     "You are a fortunate man, then, to be so content." The hoods turn, as if it were cocking its head to one side, as the sand-fall voice continues. "No dreams of a better life to pull you down. No dreams of different circumstance." It sounds almost like it is smiling.
     "A fortunate man indeed." Idly it draws a hand up, regarding it stark light of the street, turning rings and bracelets in the streetlamp's glare. "There are many who yearn for such a life. Many who dream of dreamless lives."

     "I do not know that being dreamless is a virtue," Davydd counters, hands coming out of his pockets and arms folding around themselves, a hand to cup each elbow. "Maybe I'm too old to dream." He grins. "I do not know. I suppose the dreams will manifest themselves one day. When they are needed. I used to wish for love," he notes, "...like everyone else. But, lucky I am... I got what I wanted. Not many do," he nods.
     The Lands of Slumber. "I used to wish that I could return to the things of the Day," he notes, "...when I am in the Lands of Slumber, the sun is always shining. I feel the warmth of it when I wake so..." Great shoulders roll, "...what need have I to want more than that?" He seems, in truth, to be talking to himself...
     I love my woman. She's a good woman. I love my children. They are good children. My dogs are awful, but still... I love them. Love abounds, it seems. But what of dreams?
     "Is a dreamless life a better life? I should think it would mean we would not cross paths. I can't imagine that being very interesting..."

     "The dreamless call out, though they may not know it." Wide, dozen-fingered hand unfurls palm up, offering the response. "They call for the change of youth." Its other hand unfurls only four fingers. "Or they seek a way to have never done this, or that."
     "Even the dreamless cross my path, Davydd ap Gwynedd. Anyone who has ever dreamt, and everyone who dreams of dreaming." Hands move briefly under folds of cloth, and then return bearing a brilliant sash of scarlet and gold. "I have bartered with you all."
     The sash flutters, its fringe dangerously close to Davydd. Remember when you thought could -- No, that memory is gone now. Just at the edge of your mind. You remember remembering it.
     And then the scarlet cloth is gone once more into those innumerable layers, and the half-memories with it.

     Okay, he was right the first time. This is some shite. Some really weird, peyote-like shite. Like he had toadstools on his Wheaties cereal.
     Davydd watches the ribbon of cloth come toward him and a thought, at the same moment, a memory stretches to reach him. When the cloth recedes, the memory wanes.
     It's like that moment, when you knew what you were going to say, when it was on the tip of your tongue and then you forget it. And you can never retrieve it.
     "I have no other dreams, fewer regrets," Davydd notes. A half-bow of his head, but his eyes remain on the Entity. Forest green with moments of periwinkle. "But if you speak to the Dreamless, then you shall see me again no doubt."
     His arms uncross and hang loosely. And then he transforms again, a black raven with blacker eyes. A cocking of his head is as good as a wave of his hand. With a bounce, he lifts into the air. I will see you in the Land of Slumbers, my Many Coated Friend.
     But I'm going to damn well keep my thoughts to myself...

     It straightens, raising from the half-slouch that seemed so natural, to what might be its real height. Taller than any man, and willowy with billowing cloth. Then it bows. "As you wish, Knight. May you find what you are stalking this eve."
     A copper ring falls from its hand, fading to solid and ancient as it strikes the ground with a clink. "Should you change your mind, or desire to speak, you must merely wish it." It then recedes to its original height.
     "But never on the new moon, Knight. Never then." And with that, the folds of cloth turn inward. Folding under, and under, until there are no more cloaks at all. Just an old tattered piece of rags on the pavement.
     And there is just the raven, now, circling away into the air.

     The shining bit of copper catches the raven's eye...
     As he knew it would...
     The bird lands with a bounce, takes up the ring and heads into the dark air, disappearing. Hazards of the form, you see. No raven could resist it nor, by extension, he...

Posted by rowan at October 26, 2003 10:40 PM