"... And he's cloaked himself in shadows. Shadows take a toll on him. Maybe," she sighs again, "maybe we were wrong to raise you two so much over there. It would have been different, here. But - I was selfish."

     And a week into this three-week trip, you have seen such sides of him, facets you may not have known existed. His humor, unbound. His love, unrestrained. His tenderness of heart, freed. You had been tied, bound in a thousand different, orgiastic ways -- but the one who was really restrained was Rhodri himself.

     "I will admit," comes the airy voice from on high, "...the punishment was very .... severe. But in a battle of Gods, what may one man do? What also against natural forces? Does Man not call such things cruel? But... are you ...cruel... Earth? Or are you... merely What You Are..."

     "Does the earth spend much time beneath the moon and the sun?" Is that humor? The voice issues between the leaves, among the leaves. Airy, whispering. Maybe it is the wind. Maybe it is the tree.

     "Thank you, O Shiva," the naga whispers, his dark. Only when he thinks he is out of sight, only when he may barely see you between the wide leaves of the mangrove, does he whisper adoration. My love, whom I have so wronged.

     There is something... a sound... like wind in the leaves. Perhaps the hissing of a serpent. Laughter? "Joy and sadness..." The consonants linger. "Well, musician, if you can bring true pleasure to Misfortune Himself, then I will grant you the wish of one secret's revelation..."

     The wind moves through my Most Beloved. Through the cavernous holes I have created, whispering. Through the great leaves, through the canopy that hides the sky. That hides the stars from my eyes. Issuing, ten-thousand scratches upon the soft bark of my mangrove tree, I mark my way even as I make my way. Slow, upward for another evening. Unseen in the branches, though a living city. The hotel windows nearby, clear views of the garden. But the tree, O my Most Beloved, is a protective tangle.

     "Lunch sounds wonderful," Soldekai nods, smiling as he takes a look at you. It is...an interesting way to keep one's vessel. The bag is hooked over the back of his seat, and polite as Soldekai may be, he cannot keep from staring. You look different. He exhales, "Each time I see you," he muses, "...you look more and more as if...you are from here." He, on the other hand, does not.

     "How do you know if pinkus hybiscus means Sri?" Soldekai now frowns. This is...not good. Suddenly, Gabriel's ache becomes his own. How can one whisper inspiration...if the words are...well, they're words. Not cosmic thought. That is how the Symphony works. Suddenly, Soldekai doesn't like words, and his frown becomes more of an anxious tremor.

     His Being swells, his wings outstretched as he is now within your Light. A Master of Night and the Archangel of Brilliance and Lumination? "I am.. very proud," he says, angelic tongue as Song. "Of you... and of the Healing of Our Father's Heart that he should set you thus. I am proud of This Heaven..." Molten eyes of stellar matter look to you and the Herald nods. "This Heaven pleases me...."