"Good, cheap coffee - now you're singing my song. Throw in a really good plate of crullers and I'd follow you anywhere," Damien declares with some enthusiasm. "When you start missing Tim Horton's, you know you aren't home, eh?"

     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.

     "I wonder what is going to happen now," he says, dreams in his cadence. "To all of us. I am not worried about myself," Christopher 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."

     "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?"

     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," Christopher 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.

     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."

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

     "...Heaven's... complexion must change, too, Soldekai. Or we will forever be fighting real and imagined shadows..."

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

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

     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...

     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.

     "In less than a year and a day, you will find him. You will find Answers, though they won't be the ones you are expecting." His words filling the space of those crawling moments, before the coin falls the scant foot to the table.

     In other words, Kit Marlowe aka Christopher Cherub of Dreams and Sentinel of Aspirations is on vacation. A stay at home sort of holiday, with an iced latte, overlooking Gabriel's Wharfside, his boat, and all of London's teaming tourist traffic.

     "Never..." and Soldekai's voice trembles, "...never ask me for anything again, when we are like this. Do you...understand, Christopher?"

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

     It makes him smile. For the first time since being on this planet and in the material realm, he can honestly say that he is very, very happy.

     "Always nice to see help in town," Salem says, her blondish hair piled on her head. She pushes up a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. "Have you gotten settled? I will admit...I'm a little surprised, but no less grateful."

     London. Is everyone going there? What is going on anyway? Well, you may know. A front of a battle only beginning to make itself known. Kit. Going to London.

     The Archangel's own Dream spread across the cosmos. A dream of a return of one is a dream of restoration and victory for all.

     Someone to join his ranks. If he were mortal, he'd pump his fists and dance, yelping Yes! to the achievement. But archangels don't pump their fists.

      "Tell him I am here and ease his worried heart," Christopher 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 don't mind being asked, but unless there is going to be some sort of action, I really must insist that you make up your mind. I was in the middle of a dinner party. Do you know how long it takes to have a white dragon actually answer an RSVP? No, I should think not.

     A quick comment in rapid angelic tones: I love you. Love, the old citadel sparkles no doubt. Continuing, despite the loss of its Archangel. Are the two of you not proof of that.

     "Meanwhile," Soldekai smiles, "...practically...I ask the Council to remove the lions and any proscriptions. That...will take a bit, I think now." After talking with Yves. He will say what the others cannot...what Blandine cannot. Ignore them. The proof is in our actions. Politic is Nothing.

     But then, there is you. In his flurry, Soldekai pauses to see you and give a smile. "My love is true, Christopher," no matter of yours or how this began. "I believe yours is as well," the soldier talking. And whatever he had planned between you two this day is left in tatters. He has to go to Heaven. Soon, they will all know that he knows, that you know, and that all is clear. They, on the other hand, should know - the Archangel of Brilliance is his own being.

     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..."

     "Maybe... we have been... because I had to realize it. Sometimes..." his voice goes soft. "...sometimes I have heard it happens that way, Brother Hope. Would it be wrong of me to say I was hoping for something a bit more... dramatic?" Kit tries to laugh, but he cannot. It's not funny.

     "Anyone can change, Christopher. 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 Christopher...

     Brilliance has left Venice. Soldekai off on Heavenly errands, those as archangels have -- whatever they are. The sun hasn't been seen in days, and all of the record-breaking snow has turned to rain.

     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.

"If you wanted to go to the church I would've taken you there in the morning, Christopher. This cloak and dagger shit isn't going to fly..."

     I have taken the back ways, the maze of small walkways and smaller bridges. Past the smell of bread baking -- truly, the very best definition of 'warmth' -- and the sound of a television set as I move past a cafe. I have come to speak with the ghosts of Monteverdi and Vivaldi. And to listen to the dreams of children. This way... the only way... to find my own...

     ...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.

     "Anything," Soldekai grins. "We return...Sakir..." he has such a hard time calling him by a name, "...and that is it. We have located where he might spend his time," a grin at Jonathan, "...not a hard operation. After that...who knows. Maybe Americas for a bit. Then...we decide what to do about the valley. How's that for a plan?" Soldekai glances around to each of you, waiting to hear suggestions or other ideas. "Put it this way...if there is something in the Valley," he explains, "...then it is better that we find it...instead of the others."

     Sakir's eyes widen slightly. You can almost read his thoughts from that expression: Great, lunatics. I'm fucking trapped with lunatics.

     Essence is what is given. Essence is what pours out of the one collapsing back on the sand, singing today. In sound audible to all ears. In power felt by some more than others -- that is the nature of this song. It continues, with its call and answer to Allah in a tongue that is of no tongue but understood in all nations.

     How long was he in Michael's comfortable prison? Guarded on all cardinal points by the four-headed lions of gold and brass? How long did Dominic's questioning last? How late did he sleep in Blandine's quarters before he decided he could not sleep to avoid it forever...

     Steps that were lost when he was arrested in India were retaken and followed until reaching this village of the fountain and the many caves. It is this... womb of the world. The Mesopotamian basin. He has returned to where it once all began.

     Blandine sits back, the dust shifting around his form. "You will not feel so grateful," he says softly, the flickers of brows rising and falling, as if some great joke is soon to be revealed, "...when you Understand."

     Soldekai, Aceh must wait. When the fire speaks, you know it is Michael. And the jungle goes suddenly silent. Every 'friend' that thought to advance now clings to its spot of God's Earth. There will be no movement now. No more movement tonight.

     "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...."

     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."

     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 am your Valiant Herald," comes the deep smooth voice, smooth as a rounded stone. As a raven's beak. "I will not return without the souls tucked under my wings..."