There was a simple note...
     Gone to a cathedral in search of The Meaning of The Universe. Be back in an hour or so...
     It is now upon the 'or so' hour of evening. It has been, to be exact, some three hours. And it's been snowing, long since covering the guilty footsteps of He Who Stole Away In The Middle Of The Night. And where the window was left slightly ajar, leading to the balcony, melted snow has turned to sparkling water, illuminated by the crowd of candles.
     Down below, under cover of darkness, as if he were Venice's most notorious lover, Cassanova himself, he pauses. And then bare hands grasp the sturdy trellis, long coat brushes against the leaves. The flowers dormant, sleeping. As is most everyone else in the Ca'Tre Sorelle lofts. All but the Herald of Sneaks.
     Leaves rustle...
     Wood creaks...
     Hands and arms appear at the railing of the balcony...

     Lucy.... it's time to 'splain. The smoker's chair (you know the kind of lounge chair your supposed to recline in while enjoying a pipe or some-such) has been pushed out onto the balcony where Jack waits. Reclined back. Eyes closed but seemingly prefectly aware. He looks quite different here in Venice. Boots traded for loafers, fatigues traded for faded blue jeans and a sweater. You know, he kinda looks like Ward on the day off. As your hands clasp on to the edge of the railing, brown eyes slowly open and Jonathan speaks in his deep, basso voice. "So... did you find the meaning of the Universe? And was Richard Adams right and it turned out to be 42?" Oh my god... Jack actually read Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy? He must have had some free time at the Purple Heart back in Clearwater.

     It is much colder without the gloves. The flesh wants to stick to the wrought-iron. But Kit holds there, braced on the railing, just shy of throwing a leg over to swing himself up. Caught. Wearing somethng of that expression. Dark curls, longer and wilder tendrils than ever you saw him with in Clearwater -- very Italian poet-like -- dusted with snow and in some parts frozen stiff. "Ah... oh, no," his words come in hanging breath and he swings himself up off the trellis -- his accomplice -- and onto his balcony. It is a small balcony. Big enough for you and that chair and him to stand. Ungloved hands shove themselves in his pockets.
     His complexion is winter ruddy and his grey eyes have some resemblance to the moon covered with evening clouds. "No answer to that question. But," Kit rocks back and forth from heel-to-toe, "I did find a lovely church which serves the dreams of children..." He rocks again, eyes to the floor of the balcony. "How did you get that chair through the window... albeit, it opens out..." The two windows that form the great arch at the balcony open out like doors, in truth. Relatively easy. "And without shifting about any of the candles... a miracle..."

     "A little trick I learned in Africa when we helped the Zulu nation take the British army down a peg." Jack confirms. "Mind over matter if you will. I figure if I am to be waiting for you out here I might as well do so in comfort." He stands up and taps his foot against the chair.. it turns into dust and blows off into the night wind. "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..."

     Well, there's not exactly anything to argue there...
     Nor will he whine about the difficulties in being a bird in a cage...
     Grey eyes lift and they linger on you, not darting off to stars or moon or hands or sparkling votive candleholders. They simply rest there, and Kit nods. "I was wrong," he says, and then there follows a wryly twisting smile, "...as if I could elude you, Lion of Michael." He exhales, and frozen mist remains.
     "I will not do it again. I am sorry, Jonathan."
     "Have you ever felt," Kit tilts his head and curls half-hide his face, "...that your flesh was heavy, that it was like... stone. I find I just want to... sink... like a rock in water." With an inhale, he waves his hands. "I need to get to The Marches soon, I will need you to go with me...I am not allowed to go unescorted," as if he needs to tell you.
     "I think I'm losing Hope, Jonathan..."
     Such is the nature of dissonance. Such the nature of his penalty.

     There is a blink. That wasn't the reaction he was hoping for, nor the one he expected. He does understand dissonance.. and he understands how you feel... "Well no point of fact you can't elude me..." It is not pride that makes him say this, it is simple the nature of his resonance. "I am not Jailor, Kit. I am not here to take notes on all your doings and report them back to mission control. I'm here to protect you. To look over you in a rough time. If necessary I'm here to kick ass on your behalf if you get in a jam." And with that Jack hops up on the railing balancing carefully. He turns to look up and down the side of the building. Gauging how practical your climb must have been. "And quite frankly, Christopher, I think the Marches is the last place you need to be right now. You've been walking in dreams so long you've lost touch with the world of the dreamers... Besides without orders on the threat of destruction you're not getting me back into the Marches.. I've had quite enough of that place. What you need my friend is to put things into a bit of perspective. And with that he walks along the railing to edge of the wall, looking for hand holds. "Feel like finishing that climb?"

     "I gave away my gloves to a man without a home... an old man I saw in the church..."
     And then it happens...
     Some sudden spark...
     And his face goes rosey warm. And there's a smile. The sparkling of his eyes. Watery grey. And the curls move from his face as if being brushed away by the hands of Blandine Herself.
     And then again, who is to say it is not so...
     "Let me get some other gloves... and then I will... go to the roof with you..."
     For this third floor loft is as high as it gets in the Ca'Tre Sorelle. And the roof is flat, easy to move upon. Once it may have even had a rooftop garden...
     I gave away my gloves...
     I answered a prayer...
     Kit opens the window, stepping over the ledge into his bedroom. "But you will have to go to the Marches sometime, Jonathan, yes? Or will you stop at the border and call me another guard? I have to work..."
     Yes, this is the secret...
     This is the cure...
     This is the way to Hope, even when I do not have it...
     I work...
     And by working, find it...

     "Dreams happen in the Marches... they're born here." Jack says as he laces his fingers together and bows them out, causing a loud pop as he does. There is a sigh then, "But..." he says, drawing out the last letter. There's always a but, isn't there? "If you do have to go to the Marches for work Blandine puts you on.. then yess I'll go. Just don't expect me to like it." And with that he finds a hand hold and starts making the short if tricky climb to the edge of the roof. A rooftop garden.. you know that's not a half bad idea.. it would give him something to do... man.. did he just think that? "I remember not so long ago. I felt like the flesh was a prison, trapped here on this plane, sink or swim, my last chance. In the end I found Hope had been staring me in the face, I was just afraid of looking it in the eye again. I thought my back was broken. My best battles behind, I was afraid of hope because I thought it would be so much harder than just quietly sinking to nothingness."

     Another pair of gloves slide onto his fine hands. The hands of a musician...
     I will give these away, too. But tonight, they will warm me...
     "It is where I feel strong..."
     That is it. You said it. The flesh is a prison. Kit pops out of the window and back onto the balcony, his once bare hands now warming within the black wool, and he looks up as you scale the building, the wind tossing curls to and fro. "When I am here on earth... I do not know... I do not know what I am supposed to do. I do not feel strong. I feel..."
     He begins to pull himself up, slow going but he is following...
     "...confined..."
     And of course then there's the issue of being under house arrest. "It seems a punishment..." And isn't it?

     With a firm grip found Jack starts to pull himself up until a foot hold is found. Reaching again, another hand hold is found. "If you're so confined then how come we're doing something purely frivilous as climbing up the side of a building." and with that he falls silent as he climbs his way to the roof ledge and starts to pull himself up. "You see, I think you're looking at this the wrong way. Being told to stay in this plane isn't a punishment. Your punishment came in another fashion. Now, I can't profess to understand the wisdom of an archangel, but I think they want you here for another reason." and with that said he pulls himself over the edge of the roof and turns back to offer a hand and help you.

     Ah! Sweet philosophy and debate! Now, we're getting somewhere...
     Hands and feet find slow footing, but Kit continues, his vessel athletic as much as artistic. "I thought penance was the Reason..." Hand and foot, foot and hand. It is a slow climb but a rhythmic one. The way is found in the balance between Right and Left, Hand and Foot. "But..." an exhale comes upon the sound of exertion, "...penance or no, confinement or no, punishment or no, it is What It Is. And in The Scheme of Things, I know I am fortunate. I just..."
     Wool grasps and the Herald pauses at the offered hand, reaching up with his right.
     "I do not know what I am to do here... in this flesh..."

     Your hand is grasped and with a tug, Jack helps you to the rooftop. "I know you don't know what to do. That's what we're going to figure out. That's what friends are for after all." and with that he dusts off your shoulder once you are up to the roof. "For now I think the best plan is to watch the sunrise. Some things a dream can't do justice.. somethings you need to see for yourself." and with the he starts to look around for a good place to sit. "In the flesh."

     Hands slip into this longcoat's pockets, and the wind plays with the hem of his coat. Lifting. Like dark wings. And he looks out upon snow-covered Venice. Turning slowly.
     The interlinking canals are sparkling darkness. Crystalline now the bridges, dusted and glazed brilliant white. The rise of basilicas in the distance, church spires, the twinkling of latern lights dangling from the passing gondolas.
     And there is a rising song. That of the gondoliers. It begins to echo from quarter to quarter...
     Even nearby...
     It is like a city of dreams, this Venice...
     It takes a conscious act of will to look away from the city and to look at the sky. To the sinking moon. To the stars. So many stars. And there.
     Blandine's smile...
     Kit sighs and freezing breath hangs upon the air. "La notte e mio tempo," his Italian is fluent, soft.
     The night is my time...
     He outspreads his arms and looks to you, a small smile crossing over his features. "But for you, Lion of Michael, I will watch the sun rise." A pause, and raven brows lift. "Is it still yellow?"

     There is a soft sigh as he is told the sun will be watched merely as a favor to him. His job is so much easier when he just has to beat someone up for getting to close to his ward. Michael's getting him back for some joke or quip he's long since forgotten isn't he. With a smile and a shake of his head Jack continues, "Yes it's still yellow... In the morning mist it often appears more of a red color. And of course there was the time the Angel of Superhero's was playing Superman only to have Demon of Supervillians try to turn to sun red to sap all his powers. But for the most part, both sides of the war were thoroughly embarrassed by the situation and we usually just try to forget it... It was really ludicrous.. I tell yah."

Posted by rowan at May 17, 2003 06:57 PM