It'd be nice to relax. The scenery is pleasant, the air is sweet - everything is as God made it to be, if one ignores the backdrop of noise and confusion that is humanity. But who has time to relax? Everyone is in a hurry. Noone can stand still, not for long. Taxis and 'buses rush by on the street, people hurry and scurry as drops fall from the sky. Only a few people ignore the rain entirely.
     One of them is Madian, though Madian is not any less quick to move. He is tall enough that the top of his head brushes the archways of many of the buildings he enters, curly reddish-brown hair presently tufted and in disarray, being smoothed down to a cowlick only by the presence of the rainwater. Blue eyes are rather fierce, as are the tufted eyebrows as he glowers his way down the street, kicking an empty bottle of lager with the toe of one heavy boot as he goes, until it spins wildly off the edge of the curb to shatter in the gutter.
     "A world," Madian mumbles to himself. He shrugs his shoulders inside the greatcoat (charcoal grey, picked up for a song at a military surplus place) and spins on his heel, stamping his feet as he heads from the street towards a modest pub. He mightn't be terribly interested in food, but it's necessary.
     A table's attained, a menu's glanced over and an order placed - "Ploughman's lunch, ta very much - pint bitter," and he shrugs, twitching slightly as he drums his fingers on the edge of the table. One foot taps. Too many places to go, too many things to do, too many answers to find, too many questions to ask and too many questions to try, God, try not to ask, because we can't help but to do Thy will, and God...

     "A Ploughman's lunch for an honest servant of God," a woman's voice softly remarks, and not without a due amount of humor. She's a new waitress. Just filling in for the day, as it will turn out. Irish to a fault, with dark-dark hair and large blue eyes, fair-fair skin, a swanny neck with a beauty mark on her throat and freckles here and there despite her fairness. She's quite young, but her eyes are very old.
     "Afternoon, Madian," she says, "I'll be back with your pint and lunch. You'll need it in a moment." She gives you a look, the look that a certain seraphim of Dominic's is wont to give you when he/she delivers certain news, or certain tasks, down from her/his own superiors, those which sit most closely to Judgement Himself.
     El-Azryl. The fiery crested serpent with the many and sharpened gaze.
     Your waitress smirks, she puts the ticket up on the spinning wheel and gives it a turn, heading back to where you sit with a pint of Harp. Get it? Ha-ha! At least it's a seraphim with a sense of humor. She pulls out a chair and joins you. "A hearty lunch will do you well. I have a slight change of venue for you."

     Madian's gaze shoots up from the menu as if galvanized, narrowing in on the waitress; he nods once, curtly. "Thank y'," he mutters, his accent as Irish as any - a Dubliner, by the sound of him. Not that the one who inhabits the body has any care for what others think of his voice, roughened by whiskey as it is.
     Elbows rest on the table, nothing out of the ordinary to make anyone watching give this Irish delivery-man a double look. He watches you move, from here to there, from there to here, from there and back again. He continues to thrum his fingers on the table restlessly, though his gaze never moves - he could be a stalker, for the intensity of that gaze, or just a shy young man who doesn't know how to admit his feelings.
     How often are the two one and the same?
     In this case, though, sexual lust is far from his thoughts. He is occupied by if anything, thoughts of 'now what?' You return, you sit, and he nods curtly once again. "Afternoon," he mutters as you sit. "Change of venue? What's it to be now?"
     He doesn't like to talk. Talking leaves him open - and talking is time-consuming. Better to do. Better to act, not speak, act, not think, act, not brood.
     If only it were impossible to act and brood at the same time. Madian watches you, the fingers not stopping their incessant though quiet drumming against the wood, the fierce brows lifted in perpetual question. What now...

     "Don't look like I just gave you some bad tasting medicine," the waitress smiles again, with sparkling blue eyes that don't look the least bit reptilian. "Let's call it a brief respite from Purgatory," she drolls, "...and an opportunity," such a word! "...for you to reclaim that which you believe is lost. I believe the word you're looking for is credibility."
     Not that El-Azryl believes it to be true. But that you believe it to be true makes it so for you. And Truth is what he knows best.
     The bell rings: 'Deirdre, get back to work! Quit bothering the customers!' She smirks and rises, "Ah, g'on then," she smartly retorts in her country-Irish. Not from Dublin, this girl. "The ploughman's up, anything else for you lot?" she says to the pub in general.
     Such a sashay. Only a flying serpent can move a body that way.
     She bears your lunch on her balanced hand, setting it before you as she goes to take another order. "Straight away, enjoy your pour now." Setting the new ticket on the counter, she eventually returns to you.
     "Your nemesis," that angel of dreams, "...is in the Marches," she mutters. "You're going to need to go see him."

     "I'm always open to opportunities to further my duty," Madian murmurs, speaking quickly but quietly, as if unwilling to be overheard. "Tell me more."
     He settles back against the back of his chair, one long arm still forward to curl around his drink even as the other hand drops to tap against the side of his chair instead of the table. Full of nervous energy, this one. And you rise, and you go, and then you come back, his eyes never leaving you throughout it all. He is alert. Loyal as a dog can be loyal. Wary as a wolf can be wary.
     "My ... nemesis." The food is all but forgotten. He will eat it, before he goes; it would look strange if he did not. But he no longer has any appetite. You receive a sharp nod, the alertness in his blue gaze gleaming. "I will go. To what purpose?" Guard? Interrogate? Spy? Torture? What...
     What am I to do this time...

     "Why, to the purpose best befitting your temperament," Deirdre smiles as she takes a piece of cheese and some apple for herself, since you're letting it go all to waste. "He would like your unique perspective," she eats the cheese. Mmm... cheese. A little cube of heaven. "... on the matters at hand. I can explain better ... you know..." A nod to the others.
     She removes her waitress apron and tosses it on the chair. "Boss? I'm going to take a break, yeah?" It'll be a smoke break that lasts forever. 'Right, Deirdre...back in fifteen...'
     "Care to join me. I bet you're tired of just sitting around listening to me talk. Least you would pace and listen to me." She turns on her heels and heads for the door. And you didn't even get to finish your beer!

     Best befitting my temperament. What is that supposed to mean.
     Madian nods jerkily, then rises as well at the invitation. He scoops up the beer nonetheless, draining it in one fast motion and then slapping it back down onto the table - what? His vessel is still Irish, after all! And he follows with a long-legged, stiff pace that could easily outmatch yours if he did not hold himself in check.
     "Stop teasing," Madian growls. If you were a waitress as you seem, it would be an obvious statement. But he continues out the door behind you, hands shoved into his pockets as he glowers.

     "Perspective, Madian. That's what you're good at. And that's something We could use at the moment. A way to see the various perspectives of a situation. You are uniquely qualified." She leads you down the side street, her hands swaying with her stride as graceful as dancing snakes.
     "Your favorite little cherub has been busy again. He has a real knack for it, getting himself -- and others," a glance to you as she moves effortlessly on the cobbles of the old street, whispering in your shared lingo -- and language.
     "Only this time, he's done it in the name of a very prince of hell. So, you are to go to the Marches to speak with him on Our behalf, before he is to appear at court. Dominic has instructed me to speak with you personally. Now, I know your concerns," she mutters, "...and I thought it might offer you an opportunity to get back in His Graces..."

     Madian jerks back as if you'd just taken off your top and then slapped him while accusing him of copping a feel. "What?" No, he heard you. It shows in the way his stride suddenly picks up. His pace is smoother here, and it's with difficulty that he restrains himself from outpacing you entirely. He spins ahead of you and turns to face you.
     He has done what? Wait. What? No. That cannot be right, but no matter how many times I play it back, it comes out the same. Something is very wrong. What is this? I do not understand. How can this be? What do they want of me? What am I to do. I do not know. How will I do this well enough that I will avoid further disgrace...
     Madian glances to the sides, then jerks his gaze - narrowed - back onto you. He has no thought for your vessel. He barely notices it, for all the concentration upon your words. "I will go," he says simply. "Tell me what I am to do and how I am to do it. I will do my best. For Dominic," of course, "and for our Creator." Even more of course.
     The blue eyes close, the fires behind them hidden as he bows his head slightly. He is so very sincere. It is his vulnerability and it is his shame.

     "Yes... quite right. What. You are to go to the Marches and speak with Kit on Our Behalf. You are to find out from him the story of what passed, how he came to be there, what prompted him to help such an individual and what he may know. You must also check to see if there are any .... bonds between them. Beyond the ordinary. He has a way of attaching himself to Those He Oughtn't."
     She turns down another narrow road, not used in a while from the looks of it. "How? Interrogation. Be aware that you will be there on Her Allowance. So ... no bad cop. Just... get the information. I'm sure you remember how resistant he can be. How you get it...well... that's really up to you, Madian..."
     She smiles in a curve reminiscent of a stretching cat. "I think He will be very pleased if you were to perform well. As I expect you shall. I mean, it wasn't really your fault that he was acquitted. But you could sweeten Our Lord's mood by doing exceptionally well this time. By ...getting the information, some information. Information that could have use... potential... you understand..."

     He tenses. It is inevitable, that tensing of muscles, that tensing of mood; Madian can no more help himself than an addict dropped face first into a mountain of powdered cocaine. "By the Will of the Almighty," he says simply, "I pray that I shall succeed adequately."
     He will succeed in some small degree; he will gain some information. Of that he is certain. But will it be enough? Will it be the /right/ information? What does Dominic want him to learn, to know, truly? He does not know. He has spent ages of Man trying to find out, trying to puzzle it out.
     The strain - for him, it is immense. It is a weight pressing upon his mortal chest. Madian turns away, but continues to move as quickly as before, pacing, circling, back and forth. "Bonds," he echos, "the story, and why. What else?"

     "If you can manage to sort out Why your nemesis is the way he is...and what he intends to do in the future, that would be quite the feather. I'm not certain any but Our Father truly understands his motivations. But...just how far is he willing to go? What does he intend to do? How far... with whom..."
     Pink lips pucker in thought. "And... considering who he...rescued... if there is ...any indication of a ...relationship between them. Andre is... quite persuasive... and Kit seems easy for Them to lure... this could be a danger..."

     The eyes narrow again, and the shaggy head nods, once. Simply. It will be done. As much as he can, it will. "As it is willed," Madian says simply. "Is there more?"
     He is of so few words; he holds himself so tightly bottled. Perhaps there is a fear that one day he will simply explode...

     "What more there is," the seraphim says with the voice of a winsome young woman, "...is up to you to determine. Send for me when you have done. I... Madian... do not doubt your worth... nor God who is above me..."

     The head is bowed, then lifted. "I will do so." Madian's voice is clipped, and he spins away again, off on a tangential direction, away from the young woman. "Glory to God in the highest." And that is most assuredly sincere as well. He carries his own torment with him, does he not? But he speeds off. He will not remain; now that he knows that he has work to be done.

Posted by rowan at July 09, 2005 12:32 PM