Up above, a squat raven settles on the Crow's Nest (where else?). Ugh. Romance. I think I'm going to be ill.

     "Come with me," the Holly King tells you, wine running like blood down through his hair and dripping from his mouth. "I will guide you and show you the way."

     "...I was High King there for a while, but all things must pass, yeah? Besides, the real work's back in the Other-Other-World."

     The green eyes judge the face that holds them, and the morning's ritual shave is ignored, the 12th Century beard left to stand as a mark, a raise of a flag to his internal, remnant humanity. His mea culpa.

     He seems ... not to remember me. I do not understand it, but I recognized him when he lowered his hood. It gave me a very bad turn. And he invited me... he wants me to join the Hunt.

     Where you touch, her hand upon your arm, there is a gentle connection, and an instantaneous soothing, spiritual balm. Zafirah wanders with you, content to walk in silence for a few moments.

     "My mind is... somewhat spinning," he'll admit that to you, if to no one else, "... from all she has told me. I feel like Mohammed or the Buddha, only without the foresight of taking notes."

     Clothed in white, she was peerless among the peerless, pure among the inviolate.

     Though my head is bowed, I look to my son. I find his eyes are already on me, those strange periwinkle eyes. I smile at him, and it takes everything in me not to scoop the new king in my arms and hold him till he chokes.

     "You are in my blood," he groans, "... like Caravaggio's disease. You burn there, and I find no rest from my want, amice."

     "I told you I was moody." There; there is a faint quirk of a smile, and he sighs, turning and sliding his arms around your waist. "I am overreacting. I don't know why. Just ... it hurt."

     Gwilym rolls his eyes, his hands lifting to scrub at his face. "He looked ... almost Arabic, or Greek, or - something. But not quite. And I looked at him, because he was looking at me, and he didn't look away when he saw me looking at him. And his eyes reached out and hit me. And oes... oes, my ears are still ringing..."

     "With so much complexity, the more one struggles the worse it gets. I struggled, quietly and not so quietly. I'm sure I shall again. That's the nature of life."

     For the first time in years, Kit stands alone. He is not flanked by guards, assistants, chatty stars. For a moment, a blissful moment there is just him in this Glade. And in the sound of crickets he detects the laughter of God.

     "The realtor told me the previous occupant was ...quite artistic. He said the whole ship's painted rather fantastical, with blinking Christmas lights strung up year round." His mouth cuts a wry slant. "I'm not sure about that."

     I am the sea and the dreams that move them. I am the storm and the center of the storm. I need someone to stand with me, against the waves. To swim to me out in the middle of the ocean. When I stretch out my hand in my father's raging challenges, will yours be there to clasp it?

     He relaxes, very slightly. Ah, so he's not to be immediately tossed to the curb; though what answer should he give? The truth? There are shades and shades upon shades of truth. "I can accept being a Leon Tamer better than some slurs," Tiernan murmurs, his hand shifting to scoop up the little clockwork lion.

I know you'll miss me
I know you'll miss me
I know you'll miss me blind...

     "I wonder what is going to happen now," he says, dreams in his cadence. "To all of us. I am not worried about myself," Galadriel says suddenly, softly. "I will answer Dominic's questions, but this time I will not be afraid."

     You may be remade for your service if your Heart is True. You must be willing to give up your very identity in this, your very being. If you cannot submit, the metamorphosis will rip your being apart and you will not survive. This is spoken with reverence. For the Hellborn, it is the first time they hear the full power of the Symphony. But for the two of you, those once Fallen, it is a return Home."

     Andrealphus chokes on his words and weeps, "I did not even speak to him. I failed when I could not save her. When she left, it was my failure. And I could not face you. And then I heard the lightbearer say: See what Love has done today..."

     It's been a long time since there was a king. Not a king of mere kingdom - someone who could merge with the land, and more than the land. Someone with the power to command souls. Too long, mayhap. I don't know that we're still what we were, when we were, then.

     And below, an ocean of water transforms to an ocean of sky as starpocked below as it is above. It parts, shimmering as the ship cuts through it. This is where the ocean has yet to dream itself into being. Here, on the frontier of Forever. It is where the End and the Beginning meet.

     It is the kingdoms of fairy and dreams dotting the Imaginary Landscape, with the dark oceans of future dreams dotted with heavenly stars and creatures. There, the plains of chaos, roiling midnight blue clouds of Unknown Possibilities -- both Good and Evil -- both unformed and waiting for God... or the dreams of Man... to shape them.

     What you two have always told me finally sank in, I suppose. You need me. Both of you. You aren't just saying it - the three of us, we move together or not at all.

     The air moves behind and around him as he cuts through it. There is such power in his wake, that stride of Mars always madcap before is straight with purpose. And backed by something tremendous.

     "I fought my demons literally. My selfishness, my fear, the nine-headed beast of Chaos. I even burned in the sun once. Unpleasant, but you know... I needed it. I needed to just be... reborn. So... I was. Again... and again...and again...sacrificing myself over and over, only to rise again the next evening and assess my state." Dark eyes lift to you. "It was my bridge, I guess."

     "Across the ocean, there is an island that bathes in moonlight, continual twilight where all days and all nights come to rest. It is full of silver watered rivers and moonlit pools. It is the kingdom of Iowerth Rhudd Ddraig, the heir of High King Davydd." Edward the Red Dragon.

     "...I broke a friendship of lifetimes because I thought someone else was going to do some... thing. When... yeah, yeah... I'm a regular Dorothy. I had the power all along."

     The dreams of places, do they not also dream? Each universe is a multitude of parallels and What Ifs. What if -- two magic words to me. What if I had looked within myself just once instead of foisting all my cares on those around me?

     "You attuned to the Outcast," Madian says dryly, with only that momentary pause to signal his surprise, "and you spoke to him. What did you do, firstly, to make this happen - to, as you say, the best of your abilities?"

     There's a giggle for the simile, and she cradles the phone to her as if cuddling you by proxy. "I am so to be found! Bloody man. I am right here. It isn't my fault that you aren't." Ah, the games that lovers play.

     "You will have a son, Davy... and Rhodri will also. You two don't know your own strength..."

     His hands go to his neck, lifting a stardust chain. It holds a chime, the sound of his own note within the Symphony, and it bears his sigil etched upon its surface. "You are my dream," Galadriel whispers. "I want you to wear this replica of my heart around your neck. Where you go, Soldekai, I shall always be..."

     Permission was given not only for him to cross the Marches again, but to manifest within the Tower walls itself. Into the Dream itself. An honor in that, and he was keenly aware. But his mission, this time, is simple. To have a moment with the Sentinel he loves. To give the Sentinel some comfort that the others of the Tower cannot provide.

     Are you on crack?
     Davydd peers at you, saying nothing amid your... cascade of words, as many as there are raindrops and about as random.

     You were walking, and it put me in mind of the old song - nursery rhyme - about walking to Galilee. I don't know why, exactly. But you were walking, as if very tired - walking straight, but as if you'd been walking for a very long time and you just - were so focused, so fixed on your destination that you couldn't see anything at all. And the road had been crooked, but now it was straight, ending at the edge of a field."

     She shifts, making a quiet sound as your mouth finds her earlobe. The colour pink travels along her skin in a trail along the side of her throat, behind her ear, rendering her almost incapable of speech - soluble in that touch as if to dissolve in water, becoming disparate nothingness within the greater body and volume. "...There is something I must give to you as well."

     "Behold, the coming of the answering of Dreams! That which is sought will be found; that for which you labour will be fulfilled! But every man and woman turn their eyes to the wayward West, and you will find Truth!"

     Oddly enough, numbness worked. What to do with fire in the head? Dunk your head in ice. Brilliant! But you know what works better than a tub of pure ice water? Pure fairy whiskey...

     It hurts to talk. It hurts worse to think. A bloodied hand moves from his hair and braces the bowl. But there's no twisting toward it, no groan, no muttered Welsh curse or wracking of his body in nauseated discomfort. Davydd opens his eyes to the sound of water. "My head is on fire..."

     "I think of my friends. And of the wrong I have done them when I bolted from my position...and how they will feel when I have to leave them. That's my one regret," Davydd nods to himself, and he looks to you and to the departing sun. Even that much of it burns his eyes. Even in dreams.

Day after day, it reappears
Night after night my heartbeat shows the fear
Ghosts appear and fade away

     The archangel does not ask how you are doing. That is evident. Nor what happened. He knows. Or what you might need. It is evident. Instead, he simply exists in the space, taking Time. Giving Time away to you. It is yours of his to do as you wish.

     "You have endured much, Sentinel. I have come to give you my personal thanks and appreciation for what you have done." Something genial in the midst of all this. "I want you to remember this when times grow more difficult for you again."

     Ah, Paris. Is it ever lovelier than when it is an escape, as from some prison, even if of one's own creation?

     Do old piers dream? Do they stand in murky water pondering the past days, of clippers and caravels and boxes, ropes and men? With feet at the edge of the pier, Davydd ap Owain reaches into the darkness with his left hand, sinister fingers plucking at the air, and it pulls elastic in his grasp like the skin of a balloon.

     Think not of what cannot be done
     Think not of what cannot come to pass
     For none of those things exist
     On earth, in dreams, or in the highest heaven

     "There are many different beings on the earth, in all its incarnations. More universes than one. There are those who are more like I am now than as I was. And, yes, largely they should be avoided. You've... managed less well than you know, but fared better than I would have imagined."

     "Fear searches, it is searching, it has searched and will continue until it finds the one who is trying to leave the Darkness behind. They have a ...traitor... and they are combing the lands invisible for any and all who may be hiding or helping him. It is taking our power and our concentration...our kingdoms on the fringes..."

     There is a demon seeking Redemption...
     I am helping him...
     ...cross The Marches...

     His weeks of counseling have not gone unnoticed. A quiet has settled in the lowest levels of Notre Dame, seeing that St. Etienne - a joke amongst the Malakim and Cherubim who walk the halls - has withstood the drama flamed by the latest arrival.

     "...Without Life, Death has no meaning. Without Death, Life has no lure..."

     Hazel fruit fall from the pregnant trees to the swollen, running river. A land that sings of Death and Harvest, but everywhere there is Life. Life not in its beginning but in the fullness of its power, in the wealth of it, a land in bounty, limitless.

     Beauteous the crowned head that tilts to the voice of the salmon. The water sloshes as he walks within it, becoming in mere moments, a salmon himself. Trying to prove? What makes you say so, Gwydion the Blessed?

     "If Heaven is near Southwark," Soldekai smiles, still hovering near the bed. He smiles as he watches, taking delight in the scene.

     He smiles softly, "Well, that's magic for you. ten impossible things before breakfast, and a hundred more once midnights come and gone."

     "This mean anything to you?" It's a simple enough question, but the image held on the page is far from simple... there is a figure of a man amid a myriad of threads or strings.. perhaps even within a web. Some strands are cut. Some are not.

     I am not toying with you, my dear, I am only delaying you... Karoly, murderess of Johannes Arnaul of Saarbruken. My name is Toreador, and I have come for the blood you owe me...

     ?Perhaps upstairs.?
     A spiraling stair. It circles twice more for him than it does for others -- a total of three times. But the trip is worth it. Below, an ever expanding field of rosewood shelves carry the wisdom of ten thousand years of human civilization. Around him the hidden power of glamour. He had found the Baron?s court. Now to find the entrance.

     "I...don't understand," Julian suddenly cries out, arms around the girl he's come to love. "I don't...understand...what happened?"

     The being outside, man that he is at the moment, peers at the insult-tossing door. Impertinence. Charming. "It is not so much about what you want," comes the very refined accent back to you. Or the door. Who am I speaking with? "I am here to see Jack. He lives here," he says this as if he knows it for absolute fact (which he does).

     Have we not been trying to fill it since? Have we not doubled back on one another in war because of that ...emptiness...

     "Fear'll do that," Davydd smiles and the sun comes with it for those who can see it. For all others, it merely warms and brightens his face.

     And the colorful cherub drifts downward, solitary, to one of the grottos in this great maze of glass and gardens, the best of what would become Venetian palazzi and their hidden, grotto gardens millennia later...

     He skips, almost, happy in this atmosphere. There is a glamour to the air, a scent of wonder that draws people like this man. Tibalt. Never ask him his full titles, he'll lie for hours.

     An old-fashioned Bacchanal. With attendance by Athens, no less. Under the watchful eyes of Athens, Gaul gives its own tribute to the vine and wine god. Yes, with all the furor of a truly Gallic happening...

     In each vineyard, there are feet crushing grapes, juice that is tasted, wine that will be made from the old-fashioned labor of feet. This wine will be used next year, in hopes for a better harvest than some have seen due to the strange late summer weather.

     "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."

     Andrealphus waits. In red and gold he waits. Upon cushions created out of rose and violet petals, with cups formed of the tigerlilies, with lotus blossom lamps and columns of bird of paradise, he waits to hear the words.
     And Love Shall Set You Free...

     It has now been several earth years since the Sentinel has been to the Celestial Realm. He has not even opened his mouth to ask permission, not even to go skinnydipping with Soldekai in Oannes' Grotto -- though he was several times tempted! And now... he is going to ask...

     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.

     Aloud, again, she recites a cellphone number, and she sits seiza, closing her eyes. Emotion rushes forth to fill a void, and then, Fiona Arundel, known to some as Drancy of no other name, watches candles burn out to blackness.

     Kit smiles and he nods, raising his glass. "And to the faith of good friends..."

     Julian closes his eyes. I am unprepared for this. Not this. Not you too.

     "There's a French revue opening off West End, not the actual West End, but close. Anyway, an open audition for singer/dancers for an actual stage act, Julian. I've always wanted to do that, and well... I auditioned."

     Do vampires dream? Certainly. But this one just hasn't done so in a while. But now she is troubled, plagued by a storm brewing. The dark energy within is tightly coiled, ready to spring forth. So far, it's only done so in short bursts. However, her mind has been left splintered, broken, shattered.

      "Tell him I am here and ease his worried heart," Galadriel all but sings out. "And tell him that... for Heaven's sake," a ribald twist of his mouth at the pun, "... he should join me here and pull up a carpet..."

     "I'm sure that's what it is," he adds, laughing a little. You're on a roll, Plantagenet, and nothing will stop you. Not some aged Ventrue Secret Master. Or Gehenna for that matter.

     Shite. You immortal fuck, I forget you can't move. The light is so bright. I can feel it. I can see it with my eyes closed. Now I can't tell if they're opened or closed. There's nothing but light. Shite. And heat. Oh shit, this is what it feels like. I'm going to be a pile of ash on the carpet. The fucking cat's probably going to use me as a sandbox. Fucking cat. Fucking exploding in sunlight vampire curse bullshit.

     Sometimes I don't know if the music I'm hearing is actually playing softly in the background, or maybe in the neighbor's bedroom, or if it's something ringing in my ears. It starts when I speak your name around your tongue and it rolls like the sea. Right over me.

     Somewhere not too far away, wandering about in the inclement season, is a well-dressed man, vestments suited for the weather, with a long overcoat of heavy wool, beneath this a white turtleneck of handwoven knit, wool taken from the backs of Welsh sheep and made specifically for him.

     Alire looks to you for a long moment. No... you are my Giancarlo and not my Giancarlo. You are my Michele and not my Michele. You, like me now, are some ...creature in between. "Dreams?"

     "Mary," Davydd sings out, staring through the lights to his favorite waitress. "Mary had a little beer, it's head was white as snow..." The crowd roars and the band behind him, chuckling, begins plucking out the children's tune. "...and everywhere that Mary went, the Guinness was sure to go..."

     Isabel strokes her fingers through the long hair, so familiar and yet not. "My being here is a riddle for someone else's education, you might say," she replies, clearly amused and pleased with herself. "You will learn of it later, if you remember... but remembering is a hard thing, at times, and I doubt you will. I am not she, and she is not me, but we are kin, and you..."

     The spear gleams. It is not made of gold but seems gold. Not made of bronze but seems bronze. Not made of earth but is as easy to hold as one hewn from the wood of her trees. "When London is ours," Michael intones, "... embed this in the center of the city." And the lines of battle will move forward at your command. You are the standard bearer now.

     Kit lifts his cup in a little salute to you. "Purity... that is something we can aspire toward, hmm? Some choose purity, others truth, others honor. We all have an ideal that we chase, like birds chasing after a comet. But it is the effort, I think, that is rewarded. Not the capture..."

     We all have our sorrow. We all have our joys. We have our reasons to smile and our reasons for tears. The Song of Solomon still rings so true. I was once a poet, too. I wrote psalms. But in the ash and in the fire of the birth and death of stars, I have not had a moment to do so since. Not since the time of David of Israel. Strange. Why did I let that go? To whom did I surrender it...

     "Anyone can change, Galadriel. If they can Dream it, they can Wish it, they can Aspire to it." Do you understand what you have shown the Symphony? What last lesson We all had to learn?
     "...even Malakim." Even Lucifer.

     It has always been our cave of joys. We have come here together, in secret, snowy trysts. We have made love here. Even though we do not need to, to express our love. I had to describe it once in great detail. I had to ... examine... why I copulate with you. Why I enjoy it. Blending the bodies is no greater sin than blending the souls. I do not think I was understood. I believe it was called frivolous...

     While your little feet sounded out the measure of your steps until they ended...well, wherever you stopped... the cherub -- for that's what he is -- quickly closed his eyes. Not attuned to you, he knows nothing about you, nor can he grasp who... or better yet what... you may be, little girl who moves quick like swallow. But he can, and therefore does, trace his Master's sigil on the nearest wall. Finger dragging the stucco and plaster in quick calligraphic swirls. "Just in case," he whispers to the stucco there...

     He is quiet for a moment, then you feel a little smile. "It is a good dream." And with it, he will ride from thoughts of captors and guards. From thoughts of leashes and cages and flesh and clay. It is a good dream.

     A moment while strolling, a moment taken for himself. Oh, is that the first sign of falling? Dreamers have felt him, and he has moved among them, but now... just now...
     A moment for Galadriel...

     The man at the door turns around, light brown hair falling into his green eyes. "Buoa mattina," he chimes, smile radiant. Beauty incarnate. Rather lithe, he looks like a dancer, despite the obvious clues of dressing in spandex pants and a sweatshirt. He's recently come from practice, it seems, and in his hands is a dish, covered in a towel.

     ...The lights of candles sparkle in multi-colored glass votives. Surrounding a window overlooking a small canal. The sounds of the Grand Canal are not far off, no. Wafting like the wind through the narrow passages of this old city. This old 14th Century gothic house, now separated out into various flats and spaces for rent, boasts some of the loveliest arched windows in all of the city. They are opened now, to let the breeze flow in.

     "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.

     That brings a smile, curving. Then pursing. "I know the devil, lady. To be sure, I do. He is not half so thoughtful, and a good deal less fair. Though even for him, this was not always so. Things are never as we expect them to be. And more."

     "It's alright," he says, "...it'll be alright..." Such words, such famous words. But he doesn't stop, and a hand reaches out, lightly moving against a reddened cheek. And he kisses you anyway.

     "As for home," another shrug and Dei takes another swallow. "Who knows. Maybe that's not it at all. I guess it's the connection to the people I left behind," he says. He looks into his drink. "The feeling of separation. I guess I'm not cut out for touring..." And he makes a wry smile.

     Consistency is great, if you realize it's being consistent. In Drancy's case, she has no such assurance, and being tossed over a shoulder to make the world go topsy-turvy, well, her world's already gone topsy-turvy - this just makes her anger flare up again. "Put - me - DOWN!" She beats ineffectually on your shoulder, squirming and struggling.

     Spinning glass. A globe suspended in midair rotates with a glassy glare. Casting colors to the walls. The lighting low, but for the candles sparking here. Flickering there. And so a constellation forms upon the ceiling. Two fingers holds a silver chain.

     "I hope that is how it goes," Soldekai says, a whispered hope of his own. Only you know them...as it goes. "I ask for the day that we no longer...are as we all are..."

     He cannot hear the gunfire. The tank is far too loud. It rumbles as it halts again, sand scattering as gears are put into neutral. As soon as Kit has it halted and settled, he stands up...his head popping out of the tank. And then his two arms raised, angelic leaving his lips. "If you can get the Chamberlain out, I can blow it up you know..."

     The Mad Danes have long since left the makeshift stage. The college crowd has come and gone. The true drunken poets and philosophers yet remain. The last few patrons lingering, loitering, waiting on that Last Call.

     "Soldekai...I am not blunting your purpose...I hope. You know...it is my choir's ...nature to attune to individuals. And...I..." am attuned to you. "...I do not wish my fastening devotion to get in the way. It will be a concern." Of and for Others.

     With that...the shadow seems to dissipate behind the image of Soldekai. And instead, the dream version of him remains. It closes, the hand rising again. This time...touching softly.

     "You are Blandine's," Soldekai teases, even as the space between you is covered. He smiles as you near him and opens the necklace out so that your throat would walk into it. "From me," he says, "...personally."

     The Mad Danes consist of four musicians. All coming from very divergent backgrounds -- jazz, celtic traditional, classical. Only two ever sing. Hotspur Hal, the bassist -- and Kit Marlow. Guitarist and violinist.

     "Desire is ...a portion of a Wish, of a Dream. Inspiration, your mistress, is another part. Subdivided, a dream is a lover with a horde of concubines. Why should we, therefore, be solitary? One is the dream...the other inspiration...together, intermingling...they can become prophecy..."

     "I have brought you things asked for and things not... warm clothes and clean... hello, beauties," he takes time for the horses as he moves toward the bank, quieting his voice.

     Her hand moves. Long the nails, like talons. Claws. And when her eyes open...they are the color of fathoms deep. Unending ocean. To swallow you. To drown you...