"Yes, there is another way out, Preston. You can take a flying leap off the balcony," Balthazar calls out. Strike one for Mister Nice Guy.

     "The Birth of Venus," Gruffydd says suddenly, grand peacock wings making themselves known, spreading with relaxation. "You remind me of the Botticelli painting." He shimmers in his own exotic grandeur, made more so by merely being in your shimmering presence.

     "Hmm..." for a moment that is all Balthazar says: a musical hmm, a symphonic sigh. He is not distracted, as he turns toward the voice. What he is, is intoxicated. But it is beyond drunk; it is past drugged. He is his own opiate, a walking aphrodisiac.

     "...Just as all myths exist, and all dreams, all religions are valid expressions. No one is right," he smiles to you. "And no one is wrong. God did not create religion. It created the universe. The rest is ...cave painting and storytelling. From Stonehenge to Notre Dame, it is all the same."

     What's behind the curtain, Jack? Choose door A or B.

     Periwinkle rimmed with green softens as he looks at your face. His face, seemingly no more than twenty-nine, holds all of the memories and wisdom of having aged gracefully (mostly) with you. His hand brushes against your dark hair, and then your cheek. "It is time," he whispers, and he grins.

     You're so good to know that there's always a Story.

     "You do not have to feel weak. The power to feel strong is in your grasp. It is up to you. You determine your self worth. Being with a man, intimately, emotionally, sexually, does not make you a girl anymore than it makes you a banana."

     The only trouble with world-views is that they tend to narrow one's view on everything. And so... goggles off, Preston West. The world's just gotten a great deal more interesting...

     It is the morning prayer, you with the water in your hair. And in each droplet's bouncing, the water turns to sunlight, turns to honey, turns to pure gold to his senses.

     Long sweeping lashes lift their curtains to you, the lavender eyes sparkling in the spreading of his smile, the sunset of the day, and all its deepening delight.

     "I am doing a little light reading on encampments and villages on the city's north and west side. Care to pull up a chair and share a sip or two of tea? Join me in a little rebellion, maybe?"

     My god... it's full of stars...

     Balthazar comes up behind you, "I won't drop you, I promise," he says quietly. "It'll just be the best way for you to see." His arms wind around your waist, a hand lifting to brace against your chest. He pulls you to him; the grasp is firm but not squeezing. And you are lifted as he vaults upward.

     It fills you, surrounds you. Is it that feeling or his arms or both? There is the feeling of sudden motion, lifting. Like a rocket, you zoom straight up. Or rather, it feels like up to your brain. But all you see, if you do crack your eyes open, is golden light and Balthazar's face. Are you standing still? Or are you dreaming?

     He is a narcotic, an aphrodisiac, and a stimulant all in one rather delightful package. Balthazar kicks back on the sofa, sitting in the opposite corner to face you, allowing him to stretch out like a languorous sultan.

     He leans back just slightly, his fingers glancing across the rubies of the orchid. Balthazar lifts his gaze from it to your face. "You write me, and I sing you," he says, his voice soft and deep.

     Loki grabs his glass on the way. "A few hours of breathing space. I think. I may be on California time." His phone gets one cursory examination before it's disposed of in a pocket in much the same manner. "Boston time will just have to do."

     "...Sleep, and realize that even for all the troubles and sorrows you have taken upon yourself, this one sorrow has been answered. You are not alone."

     He parts the kiss with a tugging upon your bottom lip with his teeth, a light squeeze, the last sting of lighting before being smoothed by the suckling of his lips. Honey and fire; the buzz of the bee in the song of it, and the sting of the bee, however covered in nectar.

     Loki watches the bird a moment, then turns away, taking his cup with him. Whiskey goes better with coffee than alone, especially at this time of day. If you say so. There's only a faint undercurrent of the weary adolescent, Whatever.

     Are you putting on a show for him or me...
     Or is it actually about Loki...

     It is spiritual, it is uplifting. There's herself and the board and the ocean, and if she isn't singing, it's only because her lungs have a different job to do right now. It is sex and philosophy, religion and nature, all rolled up into one package

     "You're used to the sun," he notes easily, without a trace of teasing. "You know how to protect yourself from sun-burn."

     "Well, that presumes you really are driving, and that changing stations isn't better done by the person who isn't supposed to be keeping his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel," Gwilym answers promptly. "No man's an island, Loki, no man's son."

     "They both have a problem with doing. One is doing well, but thinks he does not do enough. The other does too much and thinks that everything he does is suspect. So... through doing... they will learn. You were right in throwing them together. The future Oak King must know the ways of the Holly King if he is to take his position."

     He knows your street so well. He has walked it twenty times or more by now, leaving you gifts in your mailbox and the occasional drawing on the sidewalk. When he approaches it, Balthazar slows the Rover. His fingers lightly brush the palm of your hand as turn signals flash and he pulls over to the sidewalk.

     "I'm not anticipating this show selling out fast," Loki says, and out comes the phone again for another quick note. "It doesn't conflict with any scheduled shows for the band, either. Greek gods interacting with Celtic characters almost sounds interesting now. Not enough that I'd get between the two of you and some Shakespearean bonding."

     Hope for the best, and the best is usually revealed. Fear the worst, and the worst always shows itself.

     His scar is vehemently visible - an actual indentation about half an inch deep in his calf, about four inches long and a quarter or a third of an inch wide. "It's just so stupid," he mutters. "...I shouldn't need help."

     In the envelope is a simple note. The revolution begins at eight. Sharply.

     Another day, another dollar - or another ten or twelve books thoroughly researched and discarded as not having what she's looking for, anyway.

     It was a fantastic night. When the set was done, the last encore given, Balthazar Davies returned to his table to find a boot left behind and a drawing. A glance at the clock confirmed the hour. It's midnight, cinderella.

     "I ... should let you return to His Majesty," Agapios repeats, a small smile or recognition following. "No doubt you have other matters to attend to today, other than swimming in the memories of ... old currents..."

     Tiernan steps back, looking at you with quiet pride. You have faced a hard truth. Now you are ready to begin.

     "I like you," Maria tells you crossly, making an accusation of the words. "I did not want to like you, Gruffydd ap Iowerth. I - I will get you to my mother. I will think about what you're asking and tell you once I've thought about it. Take it or leave it!"

     She can get into the talk of art. It helps her to distract herself from how you look, sleepy or otherwise. Distract herself from her own imagination, the urges it inspires in her. The things she wants to do, such as plopping herself down in your lap, sleepy as you are. She is trying very hard not to think about that.

     She's suddenly shy, taking the paper back and setting it aside. "I have a lot of faith. I mean, it's not religious faith; I don't know how you'd explain it. It's not religion, though. I just, I do believe there's something more to the universe than atoms..."

     "No matter the temptation," Gwilym murmurs, "I do not want to hurt you, Prospero. Or us. I try to funnel my temptations into what you will not be harmed by, even if exasperation might occasionally make your eyebrows lift at me."

     "You have no idea how brightly you shine. How ...tempting your energy is. How to tame it, for an instant, is one of my greatest pleasures and delights. You are like holding lighting. Like putting one's head in the tiger's mouth."

     It is painfully honest. If he were holding anything now, it would have dropped again by this point. Hansl wears his confusion like the finest of clothes - askew to imply the nakedness beneath.

     "Now," he murmurs in reply, "...you have a tiger who walks alongside you. In the shadows, you walked by yourself, and at first you were startled at the sound of my approach, an unexpected thing in your world."

     While his steps are definitely in shadow of the prince's more blazing trail, Prospero does not seem to be in a hurry. His motions are purposeful, carrying him forward, propelling him after you. Two quarters of the orange are eaten, and the citrus scents hover around him in his stroll.

     "...I know what it is to suffer and to search for meaning. You want to know who you are... you wish to know why what happened to you happened. A reason, an understanding. Don't give up,"

     Deep blue, serene aquamarine, stormy grey, tranquil turquoise -- the confluence of all the world's oceans, and of the oceans yet to be, come together here.

     His hand cups your face. "The best antidotes for ghosts is illumination," Agapios murmurs, his fingers stroking your cheek. "They cannot abide the clear light of examination. And so... we will vanquish her. I am confident of this."

     He stands there, waiting for you to move to the sofa as instructed. Who's the servant here anyway? "Would you like anything to eat while I work?"

     "Well, I have a heart like a raisin. A prune. But... I will tell you something," he whispers now. "When I am with you, I can feel it growing plump again with blood, Gwilym. I can almost feel it beat again, like it did when I was young. And alive."

     Amice, my heart is like a fig left to dry in the sun. It is shriveled and small. You could serve it like pesto on a cracker, it is nothing. Flavorful but then gone in an instant. And yet, in it is pumping new blood, humming with the power that is in your blood. I feel something. I do not know what it is. But I feel it like pleasure and I feel it like pain. It is a confusion, a puzzle. What is it, what is it -- it beats with that question.

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

     It is rightly thought that this is the last winter of my youth. The last season that can pass lazily by as uncomplicated as a child.

     Will the taste of your blood spring to mind? The immediate kiss might be recalled, but what of the piercing shock of the suckled lip as it was taken, tasted? A match to oil, will what started the fire be remembered?

     "...Duw... you look...I don't know that I've ever seen you this way," Iowerth remarks suddenly. "You are in your own power. You are radiating strength and confidence."

     "The last time, I ended up tied to the bed with my own necktie, you six months pregnant and ... wait a minute," he chuckles, "...that was a fan-fucking-tastic night. Alright, you drive a hard bargain. I'll sleep with you...but I want to be respected in the morning..."

     But what's he to do? Force his way in? Reveal the forbidden relationship out of jealousy? That is not his way. You wanted to be with your General, he understands that. And your General wants you -- he can very much sympathize.

     It has almost been a temptation to ask you to meet me on the material plane, brawd. Back at the apartment over Black Jack Davy's. But just as our mother now is reluctant to come here, so I am reluctant to go there; the noise I have in my head, I do not know if it will come back or not. And with you...

     I do not know how to define it, nor myself in reaction...

     So goes the dictation on a busy, busy night. At the borders of the corrupted kingdom lies a great and untamed wilderness. No kingdoms or queendoms hold sway here, but the loose confederation of subjugated villages, villages that now suddenly find themselves free of their dark burden.

     "... You call the shadows to you, pluck them like strings, and play a tune -- whatever is to your liking. Will you one night cloak yourself thusly and become invisible to all?" He smiles a little, quizzically. Not confused by your gifts but so curious.

     Duw... I want and I want, and I go on wanting. Io, if ever I could hate you for falling for a man, now's the time. What would you think, to see me here, to know what thoughts are going through my mind? I don't dare put them into words, not even to myself.

     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 never knows where you are going to be when he calls. Maybe you will be in a gun battle. Maybe you will be in a club with women on your lap...or face down in your lap. Maybe you will be at the gym. On the same side of town, other side of town...

     And despite the fact that his new lover has gone, despite the fact that the way is dark and full of potential, dread dangers, Iowerth's mouth begins to twitch...

     My compass. It tells me where I am, constantly where I am. But where am I with you?

     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 have known for some time that only a man would move me. You, Greydon, have moved me; to you, I respond. Your words hold me spellbound, and your touch enslaves me. As an individual, removed from my sense of self, I wish to study under you; with you, as the object of my study and as my instructor. I wish to work with you. As a man..."

     Relax...
     Relax, hell, you don't know...

     Lost. He is so very lost. In a maze not of his own creation, not even of his own recognition; this is nowhere that he has been before. Not even with Johannes Arnaul, Saint-Protector of Saarbrucken; not anywhere. Perhaps he is nowhere at all.

     "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."

     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.

I received your request with some amount of surprise. It is not often that I receive such commissions ~ or, rather, I receive them nightly, but never from the one for whom so much has been made over the years. Is Eros arming himself? That my concoctions should be his arrows both delights and honors me.

     "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."

     "Stop fighting it then, and call him would you. I'd rather you talk to him on the phone than take your frustration about not calling him on me." He grins suddenly. "Oooh, he's soooo smart, couldn't you just hate him," Rhodri teases in a whispered coo.

      "It is business, not love. You are Italian. You understand this. Do not forget what we are and are not, Paolo. Whatever you pretend for the sake of the children."

     "I am well aware of how pleased you are to see me growing fat. You need not think that I will be similarly pleased should you do likewise, no. You must remain hard and hard-working." She sniffs, turning her head away.

     "You smell of adventure," Alire continues quietly. He closes his eyes and he sighs, making a sound of delight as he does. "Coffee... limonata...sunlight...you passed by a garden... I will say in the old quarter of Cannaregio. Hmm... and a branch of lilac brushed your shirt...I can smell it from here..."

     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."

     I am thinking of you, Ian. Of course, always of you. But I am also thinking of this young artist. Of his blood in my mouth instead of this brandy. I am terrible, I know. Mais oui, so terrible.

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

     "Oh, cheat. You want me to cheat..." Rhodri grins, as if to say: moi? Cheat? The knee comes up with a great grunt and a wicked slant to his grin. "How's that?"

     Apart from the birth of his children, each of them, he cannot pinpoint a happier moment. Not even the knowledge of its...mirage nature, ephemeral and unlasting, can strip it from him tonight.
     Here, in front of all these people, Paolo smiles...

     Albizzina moves to stand before you, she reaches to take your hands. "Blessings on your children, Cosimina. All new children in this City are blessings. Visible and tangible agents of this Hope. That all is not lost. That we may salvage the future. I believe it. If We believe it, it is possible... hmm? Even love between you and Paolo is possible..."

     "Why do you dwell on how it happened, Paolo? Are you hoping that I will suddenly sigh and rest my head upon your shoulder, gaze into your eyes and say, 'oh, my darling Paolo, how very handsome you are, and I adore you with all of my heart, and if only the sea could rise to cover me so that we could forever be together'? I am not a schoolgirl, and I do not think either of us have very much interest in each other's hearts."

     The white fringe lowers as she looks down to begin picking loose the plastic seal on the bottle. "Open it and find out. Or maybe Miss White," her, "will kill Captain Crimson," you, "with a bottle in the living room..."

     The kettle starts whistling again as he sets it on the burner, a wolf call of sorts, one that matches his suddenly sparkling look. He ignores it, patently, and moves to you. Just shy of your embrace, Rhodri pauses and he makes a courtly bow, 17th century for yours in return.

     "This is sounding suspiciously like a goodbye," he murmurs, humor lacing the serious tone of his voice.

     "How could Davydd trust me - even if he wants me still? How could I trust myself?"

     She is aware of you, with the nervous skittishness of a wild thing, but despite it, she accepts your hand with one of hers - it's as regal as if she were deigning to dance with you at a formal gala, right down to the uplifted chin.

     There's a smirk for your callousness and a roll of his eyes. "Don't hold your breath counting on it, dearie. I'm as like to steal what I want as to wait for it..." And he likely means that. And has likely done just that in his day.

     You give him license to ask and he goes quiet. He seems to mull over his question as he looks at his biscuit. He takes a bite of it and washes it down with cooler (though still very warm) cocoa. "Are you happy, Fiona?"

     There's more than one Black Jack Davy, but there's only one woman between them...

     From crescent to quarter to full, the moon will show its variable face, donning one mask after the other. So, too, myself, but in terms opposite.

     Edward grins, this time to himself. He extends his neck slightly, the invitation there, his gaze moving to the ceiling again. He blinks and smiles wider, whatever his thoughts are kept to himself.

     "Well," he exhales, pausing to remove the jacket after a moment later, losing nothing by the shedding of a layer. "I think it is a meaningless challenge."

     Glass is complex. Lines and mathematic, chaos and error abound even in the most beautiful creations from Murano and Limoges. But they are the most perfect, the most beautiful creations to the trained and untrained eye.

     He isn't dead.
     He isn't dead, and he hasn't left...

     At the top of the staircase, there is a vision in pink. First, the shoes, like a pastel enamel, or perhaps the pink swirl of art glass, they appear.

     "I hear that I am somewhat delightful," in the tasting, let alone the knowing, "...hopefully I will suffice," Ian stands, sauntering towards the keep's antechamber, but looking over his shoulder to make sure the guest of honor follows.

     He smiles, but you don't have to miss it. It presses at you, making itself known beneath the surface of your skin, felt in the five senses as the picture of it comes into view behind your eyes. I'm looking a little Oxford Professorish tonight...

     It is the look of a man who knows he has been wrong. You've seen the look enough to know it for what it is. But for the first time in... well... this time it isn't about some wrong or other done to you. It is about a Prince (and a duke) knowing that he has acted in a very deplorable way.

     He is fairly certain that the fountain was never meant to be used in that fashion.

     That voice is rich as it is earthy is capped off with a grin, and the fingers that finished the song on the twelve-string start another in the in between. For those who can See, he's a wonder in gold. A loitering fairy king on a chair of oak. Everyone is mesmerized, like the legends of old Tam Lin...

     "Bah, revenge," Davydd rolls out, earthy and low, the sound lingering in his chest, "... you wouldn't," he teases, he challenges, he grins.

     Davydd's voice drifts slightly as he stares openly, feeling the rush and want, the magic, the need that you inspire and the apples that will forever taste of you, your skin, your mouth, your thighs. "... I like the idea of you dripping in the jewels I stole... "

     "I am surprised," he whispers, "...that you have not stolen all of my secrets from me yet, Constanz," he confessing something there. "The time will come, when you will want something from me," he grins, "..and you will ask...when I am in no position to decline." Like almost now.

     It's an echo that quivers, but an echo - caught in the stones, as it were, as if a shell being lifted to one's ear, miles and miles from the shore.

     "Anything strike you?" comes Raymond's voice from nowhere. He was not in the shop before the staring into the cases. And there was no alerting of his presence. He simply, suddenly, Is.

     There is the delicate rise of vanilla in the air, with a hint behind it of something more exotic, Eastern. Ceylon Vanilla, it is called, and distilled by the hands of only one woman in Europe, Constanz deWitt.

     It's like a fireplace throwing off sparks, in some ways, isn't it? The magic in the song is as real as the song itself, rolling through the room, even if most of the room can't sense it.

     And only he will know me then as He knows me. As no other.
     Not even you, Maria. You will never know me like this. No one ever will.
     And he and I shall take this to our deaths, known only by and in the Divine...

     And drags his finger down your chin to the hollow of your throat. And the feeling spirals. Pleasure with a capital P. It fills your entire form. Every cell copulates. Every molecule is hard. Every atom, every electron squirms, orgiastic chemistry.

     Not so far away, Ian floats beneath the water, on the floor of the warm bath. He lets himself sink, like a stone, his back against the stone and concrete. Angelic he looks, with his white-blonde hair scurrying around him, and the hue of warm water casting blueness on his skin. His arms are extended, as if he's drowned, oddly enough.

     Your homme, not your lord. Your man, your husband, if that word may even come close to describing the relationship. He will be in his boots in the sandy mud.

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

     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.

     "I don't know," Sandrine smiles, her blue eyes glinting dampness. It's not sadness; her demeanor says otherwise. Perhaps its the cool evenings and crisp air. "I think...everyone looked happy. Are we happy, Davydd?"

     It was 1942 and it had been two months since I had seen him. Him. That would be Ian Dunross.

     Girault must steal a look, still it comes with the air of Platonic, See I Am Only Looking, William -- I Have Eyes. There is nothing outwardly lascivious about it. Are you beautiful? Yes, one of the world's most beautiful.

      "Will..." he whispers, question forming in the sing-song of your name, "...I...have a question. Well, several," Ian grins, looking up to see you.

     He looks at you in the mirror for a moment, then says, "You alright?" He's going out in a while. A planned recon meeting to check out heroin dealers who may have supernatural backers. Edward smiles a little, continuing to tuck in his shirt.

     "Holy shit," Davydd thinks to say, and his hand comes up and rubs his unbearded chin. "I see what you mean. Not saying you look bad, you're just very..... puckish. Huh."

      You know how he is spending his, you can smell it. Oils and balms, hands softened -- the petals of roses were never as tender -- his skin has a golden glow where the tending of servants' fingers have massaged honey and saffron into his skin. You know the routine of The Favored. You yourself have been there.

     The large tome of Alhambra rests upon a table, there beside it a glass that has been used intermittently and throughout the day. And another book beside it, the Story of Pi and another Zero.

     This is not our place, Eduard...

     He closes his eyes and he listens as you speak, his mouth brushing your forehead, kissing your eyelids. An amorous benediction.
     I am your protection and your shelter...

     Was he not the one desired? Last year ... not far off in time from this, just after Yule I think. You were longing, bored. Even as you are now. And he arrived like golden fucking dawn, with all his Goodness. And you wanted it.

     There are butterflies in his stomach today. A nervous excitement. A buzzing anxiety. For Alire d'Avignon has a guest...

     It is an evening full of lights and life, of old touches and a new spectacle. There is activity here...

     Alire lifts his gaze from the crinillation at hand to the wood and the wild earth. A clear night...

     Perhaps prayers will be resumed. Perhaps he's just stalling...

     ...And then, holding out the package, the slender smile turns to an almost grin. "Ventrue Express..."

     Julian's face cracks its present placidity, a smile angling at his masculine features. "Needing. Wanting assistance." He nods in familarity with such terms. Lavender eyes look at you again, sorting out negotiable items. Julian begins at your head, with its curl, and works his way down, pausing occasionally.

     O, amice. I cannot get the thought and feel of your blood upon the marble of your gallery out of my mind. I have wandered now these past weeks. I have attended meetings in your stead. I have tried to tend to your business for The Clan. I have expressed regret, sometimes diplomatically, sometimes passionately. But your death, amice, has left a hole in me. And who shall fill it for Antonio?

     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.

     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...

     ...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.

     "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.

     "I will have what you are having. You look very good, doing very well. You are... beautiful and strong and in the fullness of your Word. I would be proud of you, Julian, except that we are both damned. It is hard to be proud of that..."

      The eyes reflected in the glass go down along with your hand. "Well... see... it's just not as easy as that, Julian Kane. Andrealphus is missing. He's gone. His temples are empty... no one's seen him in ... "

     "You're a doll," he whispers, "...my doll." Just so you know, Samantha. There is no other as close to my heart as you.
     But I have no heart. That has gone, since The War. Shattered, they say, on the floor of a now-empty citadel. I have no heart...that's what I am told.

     For over an hour, he'd accepted greetings and congratulations, a crowd of beautiful women shielding him from the undesirables. Dressed in violet velvet hip-huggers and violet suede boots, Julian finally emerged from his perch, causing the world to open before him.

     With every muscle's motion, no matter how slight, they seem to shift. Celtic, the patterns of interlocking, eternal lines that become the interlocking forms of Celtic dragons. Cobalt. Blue royal. Deep and brilliant. Bright. Brighter than they should be...

     "In its Beginning. Finding its way, knowing itself," William continues. I could watch it all night. Intrigued. Fascinated. Awed. It is not often, non, that one is able to be a spectator to Love and to a story without being immersed as a character in it. And the view from within is ... never the same as the view from without...

     He always does as you suggest, Valan Montague. Your advice is as good as gold. Edward's made amends with his William, and has seen to Davydd. All is over, but the shouting...and something else that has had him occupied.

     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..."

     "Can't a man wear a green shirt without being called a raving poofter or tree hugging bender?" The red brows fly up and Davydd grins. Fuck ya, Meurelle.

     She turns about in your arms, the nervousness upon her again. "I..." she acknowledging what is happening between you, "I...am...a little nervous," Sandrine laughs softly, timidly. It is been ages, since I was so close to someone.

     I have to remember how to handle a dove. Slow hands, Llewelyn. Slow hands and slow movements. Soft voice and a soothing warmth. And then you'll have your bird in the hand, boyo. You used to catch them, remember... when you were young...

     Peer about the corner, and you shall see. A waft of perfume. One that you do not know. A topcoat of grey wool with a cream lining rests upon a chair. It was once a living being. Bending the corner will yield a foot tapping, grey shoe visible. Then legs, long and firm. And the rest. A young woman with shocking strawberry blonde hair. Certainly not red. It glows around her face, a veritable copper halo.

Why did I have a physical relationship with William especially when I knew he was already with someone, you might ask? It's complicated, really.

I remember when I met William. Funny, I have no problems remembering other things, but I can?t remember where we were, nor the circumstances. But I remember him. He was such a rogue! Oh, I swear back then that he could charm the pants off of any lady, truly.

     "And you didn't upset me," he whispers, "I would just rather not think of you as...someone else's drizzled," fucking "...dessert." Not an image he likes. In fact, the notion pisses him right off, no matter who the Else is.

     There are some rooms that, when you and he are not here, are simply not used -- or have the residue of tourism. He lights the candles. He opens the windows. Life will be breathed into it again. Chinon resuscitated...

     He pushes himself from the support, letting the breeze blow him your direction. "I should convince you to go to Copenhagen with me one night. Or how about Capetown..."

     I want you to go to the summit of the western tower. There is a woman there very dear to me. It would please me very much if you would make her happy...

     And books from Paris now join those of Chinon. Books delivered lately from Scotland now join French bretheren. And the lights in the library remain on all night.

     This is sanctuary. A pocket of peace in a world that still struggles to comprehend it. Not that it has ever been his particular business to comprehend peace. Sometimes he buys and sells it. Sometimes he dashes it to pieces. Sometimes he craves it like a man craves water on his fortieth day in the desert.

     And inevitably, War and Time create fissures of space, fissures that can become schisms or chasms. Soon it's a century and you wondered what happened. Then two, and you wonder if you ever knew the truth, or loved, or any of it.

     "So, how goes, chicky? Guess all's well in bells now?"

     Happy are we, that have learned to love and be loved, teach and be taught, to depend and be depended upon. Happy are we that have learned...that nothing else matters.

     Do you know I shall show you every room of this castle when I proclaim it jointly yours? Do you know that I shall scrawl it out for all to witness? When I present it to you, no man after shall doubt it... but that it should be so. Vicomte du Poitou...

     Is this the way that you like it?
     Is this what you had in mind,
     when you called above to the angels
     for the six hundred and sixty sixth time...

     He had other plans for Palmer's tonight, until he got your call. A fighter by the name of Yang Ping was to meet for a bit of martial arts. But plans change. Ping had been there regardless, but after finding another opponent and then watching others, he gave a wave and departed. Another time. Instead, Edward mustered himself together to face his cousin instead. While he was glad to see you, there was something else behind his expression.

     To your right, Edward. There... shadows and the dim light of the bar play against a tall, lean figure. He is shorter than William ... shorter than you. Perhaps six even? And he carries himself ...confident. Approaching, but in a meandering fashion. He is not making a direct approach to you. Rather, he has turned, navigating around a table nearby. A survey around him... as if looking for someone. Looking at you.

          She looks up, her golden-white hair cascading around her body. Aphrodite's daughter...she is nothing of Eve. "Will? You...alright?" You are indeed...confused. She peers at you, and then smirks, "Wow, forgotten already?"

     "A loving hand, a tender thought should all...belie...a giving heart..."

     "What do you think?" querying you. "I think the trip was... hmm...lovely but I'm doubting it was very restful..."

     "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.

     The look says it all: Lie, me? But the grin confirms it. "It is warmer than the Pacific...oui? Get in, she will not bite..." The river that is. He makes no such promises regarding himself.

     They do not know. Those who look at him and wonder: Why Dunross? They do not know what he knows. They have never seen it. They could never understand it.

     The smile is sudden. And it is explosive in indigo eyes. Fiery. Igniting. Immediately. "Hello, ami..." And William nearly chuckles. But just...seeing you. He is stopped. Standing. Still...

     "You are the only one who sees them... You are the only one... who has ever been so close to me. That you know me... so well. That to touch my skin, is to feel your own. No... one knows my secrets, but you."

     William is quiet for a time, holding his cup in both hands...his elbows resting on the arms of the chair that holds him. His head rests back against the chair's own backing, and with a smile lingering he looks to you. Studies you. Beautiful.

     And it is as if Cadiz knows you shall soon be leaving... that it makes itself as brilliant, if not more splendid, that the first evening. Incense is lit. Corridors are rimmed with beeswax candles. And the young men of the house are attentive to your every care. And somewhere you hear a song is stirring.