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. A few of the tables are occupied, but there is only one at the bar. The last Mad Dane, that would be Kit Marlowe. Bent over at the bar. A hand around his beer tankard, his other arm a cushion for his forehead. Yes, face down at the bar. Quite literally. It has not been, apparently, the best of nights. Although tomorrow's college rag will call his performance inspired. Oh, if they only knew.
     Kit is dressed in the familiar faded jeans, both fitted and gathered depending on the various needs of his vessel's anatomy. Hiking boots, black. Jeans beginning to fray around his heels. A black t-shirt that is likewise somewhere between fitted and slacking loose. Around his throat, that leather collar with the hunk of basalt in the center. Not that it can be seen from behind...
     And yes, you can hear his voice. Some song from Cymbeline...

     There's still a small contingent hanging around, cleaning or chatting about the night at the Duck. Not too bad, really. Most of them only look when the officer enters the door, ducking faintly. He reaches up and takes off his white hat, the Marine signet on the front. Gloves brush at his sides, dark blue coat buttoned up firmly and dark blue pants starched with perfect maroon piping down the sides. There's the maroon sash wound around his waist, dangling to the side along with a silver sword in scabbard. Someone's just come from a formal military event....there was one on campus tonight?
     The noise is definitely one of wonder. Who is that? And he's missed the show. No problem, he expected to. Red hair is flattopped, shorn to neat proportions. It glimmers red-gold as he walks through the mixed light, towards the bar. Polite hellos are given to the starers, this officer nothing if perfectly polite. But behind the formal look...is that feel common to him. Just a guy. Tall, broad, athletic. His black shoes tap as he comes up behind you, and eyes widen. A friend of The Dane? You're kidding. He knows those types?
     Throat is cleared behind you, hat held under his arm. "Mr. Marlowe," voice calls...

     Hey, mac...have I been drafted? I'm a member of the National Guard, I promise! Mr. Marlowe didn't hear the steps coming to him, only the clearing of the throat and his name. The dark head lifts and turns, a grey-eyed look cast past his shoulder. And then the brow cocks up. Soldekai. A leap in his eyes. And then there is the slow and marked look of his gaze upon you. A moment of study. Those that can see it are expecting a smart-ass comment to follow. You know he is drunk. There comes the slow pull of a ribald smile. "Why Johnny, I hardly knew ye..." comes the irish-laced quip. The raven in the man. The Herald in the raven. Another look to that...uniform. Holy Mary. "Someone call a war on while I was nappin?" A brow lifts again and he turns about upon his stool. Yes, there is a certain...energy about him. A few pluckings short of harmony....

     "No, Sir," Soldekai smiles, looking around at the interested faces. "I'm Second Lieutenant Decker," he says, cheery look there. Bright amber eyes light up at the humor and the state you're in. He's familiar with it. Extending his gloved hand, he offers, "Solomon Decker, Sir. I..." he looks about again, "...might I speak with you privately a moment, Mr. Marlowe? It's...about your Father." Oddly enough.

     There is pause and then he extends a hand to you. A handshake. A need. "Sol...Decker..." A decker of wayward souls? You know he's thinking it. It glints in the nearly silver gaze.
     "Ah..oh...sure..." He rises, albeit not with his usual grace. Kit half-turns, takes the beer and finishes it in a swallow. He exhales as if he just drank ambrosia from the cup of God Himself. Yes..there is yet the twinge of...Something Not Quite Right. One sour note on an otherwise healthy harp. "Is this going to be bad news, mate? If so, I'm going to get one for the travelin'. You want a Guinness?" He turns to the bartender -- a Malakim who is giving him quite The Eye, and not in a friendly fashion. "Anthony, give me a snakebite for the road." He leans in, "You know you want to..."

     There's a smile and a nod to Anthony. After all, it is Soldekai. The officer asks, "Perhaps another room here for a moment, Mr. Marlowe?" wondering about a secure spot. "And no, it is not bad news, Sir, I just need a bit...of your time," his head nodding in formal bob.

     Anthony pours another beer but sets it on the counter in such a way that denotes This Is Your Last. He looks to Soldekai, a nod and a smile back, if...slight. "The forge is empty. Feel free." Feel free to beat the dissonance out of him. Please. He's giving me a headache...

     Kit takes the Guiness-Cider combo and steps away from the bar. "Will that do, Lieutenant Decker?" A smile is cocked upon those lips. The goatee only makes it seem all the more ribald. There is just...something about him. Holy irreverence. Grey glints as Kit winks.

     No wink from the officer. "If you would, this way, Sir," gloved hand motioning to the Forge proper. There's a stiff half-bow to Anthony, then Soldekai accompanies you towards the Forge central...
     The hat is set aside upon a table nearest the door. Does the temperature rise? Absolutely. For a variety of reasons. Decker closes the door behind himself, a slow, deliberate motion. A bend, then he lets knob go, coming upright and turning to face you. Hat gone, he watches you as he removes his gloves, a finger at a time. "What's going on?" he asks softly, a grin suppressed, but something agitated under it all. Concern.

     There are no attendants. Anthony is in the bar, and Urfiel? Urfiel is above, resting. And the Forge, the tether, is quiet. Kit comes in, eyes to the shining swords. He can hear them sing, sometimes. Or maybe he is just a little mad and believes he does. "I lost my mark...my arrow shot wide, Soldekai..." His voice is a hush, deep and quiet and sing-song. There is a sigh. There is a swirl about him. "And here I am..." Kit exhales as he sits. "...out of sets, a broken arrow...after weeks...weeks of searching...."
     "Months..."

     "What are you searching for?" Soldekai asks, setting the paired gloves down in a soft sweep. He turns back to you, fingers now on his buttons. "Sometimes, you can spend time searching for stuff that's right in front of you." One...two...and soon he's in the middle of his chest and working his way down.
     "And it's hard...to search from the bottom of a tank of Guiness," he explains, jacket coming open a bit, but still held by the sash that his hand now works on.

     There is a wild-eyed look. What are you doing? Mr. Robinson, I believe you're trying to seduce me. Kit swallows and frowns. "My Chosen One...you know I have attended classes on Nietche just to find him...or her?" His voice trails off. "But I had her tonight. I had her...right in front of me. I saw her. And her hopes...her aspirations....everything was on the surface of her eyes as she looked at me. And then..." Darkness and the sounding of a G-flat. "A'albiel...walked in, sat at her table and that was that..." He sighs and he looks down. He knows. "I think perhaps I am already attuned, Soldekai..." He puts a hand to his head and closes his eyes tight for balance, and then he looks to you. To you. You undressing. He is rapt.

     "I thought you just said that you lost her," he sighs. It is warm. The sash is set aside and the jacket slips open to reveal white starched shirt. It's a start. Soldekai eyes your Guiness, then reaches for it. Share a little, hmm? He's been in that damned uniform all day. One hand works on the swordbelt as other feels for the drink.

     He extends the Guinness to you. And Christopher within Kit laughs. Drunken. Giddy. "I did lose her. Perhaps I lost her because I found you..." It is a realization that has gone unvoiced for weeks. But what else could be behind the force of feeling? The intensity to his interests. He has not wanted to consider it, because even for him it is mad and ribald. Attuned with a malakim? Gods man, why not load yourself into a cannon, drink a gallon of gasoline and hand your Superior a crate of matches? But when he looks to you, it is obvious. "Ever had a snakebite?" he murmurs.

     He's stunned for a moment. The ale isn't tasted. "You what?" Soldekai says, the blank jock suddenly appearing from withing soldier's garb. Okay, now he drinks, blinking as he turns his head up, eyes upon a corner of the room. Dear God. Hand comes to his hip and foot out, casually daring. When the drink is brought down, he simply holds it near his chest, eyes still on that point. Yes, he did hear you right. "Um," he half-snorts, nervously, "...we..." his voice goes low, "...we talked about this, didn't we?" he whispers, eyes dropping down before lifting again to look at you from dipped view. "And yeah, I've been bitten by snakes." Whatever that has to do with things. Can you imagine an almost-archangel sometimes oblivious?

     "Yes, we talked about it. And I have ...but seen you that one occasion in heaven. I've been visited by two archangels. I am...well aware of the possible ramifications." But what can I do? It is what I do. It is what I am. There is a kind of helplessnees. A resignation to Destiny, perhaps. Ah, The Old Man must be smiling somewhere. And Dominic sharpening his gavel. Yes, sharpening it. "I meant the drink. It's a blend of Guiness and oak-cask cider. Very potent, but quietly. Like a snakebite..." Kit sighs and rakes a hand through his dark hair, short and long and curly. "I will keep looking, Soldekai," he murmurs. "Maybe I am wrong. Maybe I am merely sour...after losing the mark tonight...." But there is a reason for the dissonance. That comes from fighting one's nature, sometimes. Fighting the attunement that has already been made. Not honoring it. Even as he is not now. The malakim here must be getting very itchy palms...

     No, he understands your words. Soldekai offers your drink back, wiping his mouth with other hand. More of a thoughtful massage. There's a sigh and he frowns, pursing his lips. Chamberlain in motion. Deciding. Finally, he says quietly, resigned himself, "I don't want you to look, Kit," words barely heard. Dammit, this was not how it was supposed to work. He shakes his head and removes the jacket. White shirt beneath billows a little, and now he stands in boots and pants and shirt. "This...this was not to go like this," he murmurs, mostly to himself, running hand over his shorn head...then remembering. Oh, yeah. No hair. Then, another sigh.

     "God works in mysterious ways..." A cliche. And a truth. Kit laughs quietly, almost weakly. There is a sigh and he shakes his head. No it was not to go this way. "But...what am I to do ...now that it has gone as it has gone. And what am I to do...but look...if I am to change it. To tell Destiny to pack up and go home. I don't believe in Destiny," he mutters. "It takes the hope out of Dreaming..."

     And is not Yves the Archangel of Destiny? Perhaps that is why he visited. And Blandine? Bringer of Dreams. But whose destiny and whose dreams are coming to some fruition? Has Soldekai had such visitors? God does work...in a variety of ways. The Symphony does. But even to those in the midst of it, they can see themselves as not being such ... beneficiaries. Soldekai steps from his spot, towards the forge, past you. Hands come together, eyes wide. Ignoring you. Thinking of you. "When I said I didn't want you to look," Decker murmurs, cocking his stance and head, "...I meant that." He belonging to you...is not unappealing. "But," he half-grins, shaking his head, "Do you know what will happen?" he turns about to see you, backlit now by the fire. No, neither of you really knows what will happen, but practical Soldekai can see Council now. "And...do you know where I go, Christopher?" his eyes softening. "You cannot know...what I do. Nor...would I ever want you to follow me."
     He whispers, frowning and clearly confused by this...it could only lead to distress, "Maybe...this is how things are to be..." he knots his brow, "...for a while." Why should Destiny want you...for him? Can it not see...how there are better...safer...places for you to be? Does he need such? Has he altered something? No, this can't be good for you...and he looks at you again, worry for you upon his face.

     "Then I shall look no more," he murmurs. You have a guardian angel now. You shall have to bear it like the rest. Sometimes, they come unasked for. Unwished. And unwanted. There...for some reason only the Symphony knows. And where the Symphony gestures, the cherub must go. "Who am I to ask what shall and shall not be? I am an angel of Possibility. The Herald of Aspiration that lies and exists within the treasured dream. I have no answer for the question Why." Christopher rakes a hand through curly hair again, hair both long and short. He looks to you then. He cannot keep from it. You can ignore. He cannot. He rises and he moves toward the forge. And you. "I do not know what will happen," he whispers. "And I do not know where you go but to your part of the war. I do not know...if I need to know what you do. That is a general's need. Not a dreamer's."

     "And..." Soldekai's posture straightens, "...what does it mean...to be my guardian angel?" No, he doesn't have one...and he only knows what the firemen do for him concerning Gabriel. Keeping tabs. Should you teach him what it means...or shall it come to mean something else between the two of you.

     "You will have the greatest of my devotion," Christopher explains in a hush, halting a few paces away from you. "Only my Word and my devotion to my Superior shall have greater sway. And that, by holy necessity. In all other things, regarding all other matters, it is You. And You Alone, Soldekai." Grey eyes take on a silver, nearly metallic cast. "I am the shield for your sword. The cupped hand that will not let the flame of you go out. Your existence...is...paramount to me..." In more ways than One, perhaps...but that One...is very, very powerful. There comes a kind of quiet smile. "It is possible that I shall know where and how you are without ever leaving Clearwater, Sol...when you are in danger..." Everyday, isn't it?

     "And..." he says again, almost like antiphon, "...when I am in danger...would you come then?" Say, no, his eyes blink, but he knows otherwise. You are obligated to help. "Don't answer that," he suddenly says, lifting a hand. "Nevermind. Just...I want..." he wants something, "...I need for you to take care of you too, alright?" If this is to be. But the Symphony plays as it wishes. He knows that he only might make a request of it.

     "You are the warrior, and I the hawking raven for your shoulder. Never worry. I shall never get the roles confused," Christopher says. And perhaps it is fitting, Warrior of the Sun, that you should have the angel who takes the visage of the Bird of Death and Dreams as a companion. Someone certainly has a sense of humor. He will come if you are in danger. He will have to. He 'loves' you. He is quiet. And then he nods. "I am able to grant wishes," there is a helpless smile, "and there is no other's wishes I desire to grant so much as yours. I will...take care, Soldekai." There is a pause. "You know...when I was asking Blandine for permission to fight her battles down here on earth...I did not think she would take me literally..." There is a tug of humor to his voice. Mulling. His arms fold against his chest. "Am I still blaring, my malakim-come-get me signal still going?" In other words, how dissonant am I really?

     "No," Soldekai grins, a bit more relaxed now, "...was I that obvious?" He chuckles and looks at your Guiness. "I've got something nicer back..." elseplace. Iceland.

     There is a warm half-cocked smile. "No more so than I. Can the holy be guilty?" Where does he get those thoughts? And then you talk of alcohol...or...drinking. "Oh really?" Now you really have him intrigued. It's like holding out a shiny bit of glass to him. He snatches up the thought and the possibility. Christopher...Kit Marlowe...takes another few paces toward you. "Back where?"

     He grins now, boyish rogue present again. Midwest's son. Perhaps he should have come to you in a baseball uniform. Soldekai explains, "Iceland." Is that enough to bring back memories? Both hands are upon his hips and he stands boldly there, daring your next move.

     Ribald. Bawdy Joy, too Holy to be Wicked. Christopher leans in. The rapier build that of an Irish warrior-poet. Strong and lean. This is an athletic vessel, to be sure. And well do you know it. His grey eyes glint and take your dare. "Not for long it bloody won't be..." And he chuckles. Yes, the basalt you gave him is against his throat. Yours. Metallic, smoldering. Smoke and lightning flash.

     Thud
     It is the sound of a boot stamping against the floor. Soldekai has not moved, but in the instant, there is a glow. Laurence's sigil...then Gabriel's...flashing quickly. And where there was the Forge, there is now black basaltic rock jagged around a semi-circled cavern. One of the openings of Soldekai's own tether. Underfoot, Gabriel's sigil fades out, but keen angelic eyes can see etchings in the natural rock. The symbol remains, but dark. Soldekai? He has not moved much of a muscle, his own smile now matching your own...till the single arch of one brow. Still in partial uniform, the curved brow has all the feel of, "Bring it on." Whatever that might be.

Posted by rowan at May 04, 2003 06:25 PM