Midnight wings spread and scoop against Heavenly space, and downward to the Host of God a dark cherub makes his way. Wings humming his own chorus. The chord particular to Christopher. Little seen in Heaven, that when in the Most Holy of Regions...it causes a strum and a stir. Not dissonance -- no, indeed. But ...for its strangeness and infrequency...brows ever rise at it. One of Blandine's in Heaven? And Blandine's most Enigmatic, at that. Midnight wings are folded against his back as he lands. His dark and dusky form visible only in parts. He is covered elsewhere by mirrored armor, which here...only reflect back the Grandeur of God. His armor burns with a deep electric lavender. Like the lightest portion of ultraviolet. The shade of Aspirations. Who has ever looked upon the color or smelled the fragrance and not thought of Hope? His clothing is a mottle of dark indigo and blue. Christopher strides with a kind of meandering purpose. Yes he is here for a reason. That reason, he keeps to himself.
     Within the halls of one of Heaven's many palaces, citadels, temples and shrines, he strides. Chiming. Silver eyes liquid, like star echoes. And to the halls of The Most Holy he wanders, this cherub. In search of one in particular. It is to Soldekai's offices and business quarters that Christopher is heading. He pauses only briefly to smile at some old... old... acquaintaince. But then...he is back to his march far from The Marches...

     A seraphim comes rushing over. Lit, he's often called. Lithoriel for those who really care. He suddenly appears out of the flaming wall nearby, a hallmark of the Citadel of Fire. Few go here, few are needed to tend to it. If someone is around and doing greetings, Soldekai must be in the Citadel somewhere or recently passed. An Ofanim, but often in the work of Jean, Archangel of Technologies, Lit is the spark of delivery incarnate.

     "Hi!" he calls, morphing from Element to stand in front of you almost instantly. Around, flamewalls rise into infinity, yet remaining safe. Those you saw seemed to be departing and happily so. Lithoriel smiles, "You're...here to see someone?" Ah, an interceptor. He says not whom, but his brow raises to suggest he knows. He was sent. No names needed. You're to be escorted off the halls, apparently. Everyone talks. A grin and Lithoriel's fiery wings move behind him, like a gate opening.

     A brow goes up and dark wings resettle. The expression is placid and enigmatic. If he has business, he is certainly not going to share it. It is the face of the Sphinx. And then Christopher smiles. Smooth and slow. An opposite to you and your speed. "I ...am..." He looks to you as your own brows raise. Soldekai. "I have a matter of business with the Chamberlain." A pause, and the look is almost devious. Were he capable of such, truly. Mischievous is perhaps a better word. "Is he in Council?" He can almost taste the dare upon his tongue. Oh Mercy! For such a desire...
     Christopher inclines his head, and then removes three spheres. He juggles, chiming...as he waits....

     "Oh!" Lit smiles, shaking his head. Wings flutter and he's certainly all celestial, glowing faintly. "No, no, he's on his time. Come this way, please!" he chirps, blinking large eye..things...and turning about. Seraphim. Gotta like snakes. "I deliver around here," he says, "...and check things." Damned Seraphim. A flutter and he makes motion to move...but it is more the walls are shifting around you. The flames are in motion. "It's not far."

     Ring. Ring. Ring. A Triplicity of sound. And the spheres are no more. There is a smile. Actually, snakes are rather a favorite beast of his. And the form he most takes on the Marches dissipates like the last sparkling gasps of a dying star. Raining...shimmering. "What?" comes a grinning, chiming sound. Angelic. "I do not have to pass a test? No riddles? No rhymes? No scurrying to translate some really obscure text while a serpent holds an hourglass?" He almost seems disappointed. The celestial form of Christopher is that of a very large cat. Sleek and black...on earth, called a "panther." With silver eyes, long "canines" that reflected God's Glory. Surrounded by a glow, again...that lavendar. Wings midnight. Both blue and black and even violet. Darkly iridescent. The walls shift. Are you moving me? Too bad this form cannot raise a brow. He can only look bemused.

     "No rhymes," Lit smiles, twisting back to see you. With all 7 eyes. "I don't have time..." he floats along. White Rabbit, indeed. Soon enough, the walls seem to pull back, drawing away. An opening. And upon a fire-blazed glass floor is Gabriel's Seal, etched upon what would be burned sand. And standing across this space is Sunlight. What Gabriel Is, he is the first representative of. The Sun. Soldekai looks up as the walls retreat, he in blazing golden armor. There is something shadowed about him, perhaps described as transparent, as if able to be seen through. Yet, he is there. Wings are golden, but there is a darkness about them, a faint purple sheen to them. The mark of Malakim. There are a couple of others around him, and he turns for a moment to finish with them...they appear to be departing. He saw you certainly, eyes focused for an instant, but there are other issues. A group being sent, more than likely. Something up. He seems to sigh and back up as he talks to them, face rather stern. Someone giving a report. Something he does not like. There's nods from him, he towering over them in this form, but they are a mixed set of snakes and other transparent images.

     "Okay, okay!" Lit smiles, turning about and rubbing his hands. "Have a nice stay," he says, almost like an innkeeper. Lithoriel looks up at Soldekai, stars in his own eyes for an instant, and then waves a wing-fin at you. "It was nice to meet you..." whoever you are...

     "Have a nice flight! See the Seven Wonders!" One for each eye. The celestial form of Christopher settles for some comfort. He is content to wait. It is early morning in Clearwater, and his hours are ended for a time. This...is his time. The panther sits back on black haunches, sheen of fur that is not fur catching the light. Inky darkness. Like Night given form. Wings stretch and then settle beside him. And Christopher settles another notch. Great paws extended forward, claws...silver...reflecting the colors around him. He looks every bit the sphinx now...
     And in a motion later exhibited by cats upon the material plane...he seems to listen without seeming to listen. It is that detached air. As if waiting upon amusement. It is good that Heaven has no tiny creatures...or he might decide to...play with them. Ah! Speaking of...
     A chiming sphere rolls from somewhere and is batted by a heavy padded paw...

     Across the room, nods go on. But an amber gaze strokes dark fur for a moment in a warm gaze. Even through the talk. Soldekai nods and seems to blink then, shifting to pay attention to what should be at the forefront of his thoughts. Upon his chest, the armor is rife with symbols and angelic words. Inspiration. Light. Fire. Destruction. Brilliance. Cruelty. Breath. Cleansing. Restoration. And most particular, Her symbol in the middle of the breastplate. "Alright," Soldekai says loudly, as if putting a cap on things. "Just...make sure you end it this time," he says firmly, hands coming to clasp behind his back. There's nods and assents from the group, and as he turns to go around them, their gazes follow him, wondering what takes him. But they don't linger. Before he's made three good strides, the sigil glows upon the floor and they are carried away...more than likely back to Earth into some matched tether.

     Lithoriel takes his leave when a wall suddenly appears beside you, the room reshifting. In your direction comes Soldekai, the sigil and group disappearing at his back.The walls reconfigure behind him, Element in motion. As with all things Ofanim. He minds it not, almost a second nature for him now. "Well," he finally smiles when the space seems to be smaller, "...to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Herald," a bit of formality there, even in his seeming casual nature. The red hair is brilliant upon him, trailing down to the nape of his armor. "You've ventured...far." Most avoid this place, the second in Heaven, right after passing Blandine's Tower. The Citadel the first line of heavenly defense.

     "Well, you can't really experience it from a postcard. You simply must see it in-person." So says the Great Enigmatic Cat. In a manner very un-cat-like. Nor can he really see something in-person as he is not in person form. But follow the poetic license. Christopher lifts with a feline stretch. Paws extending, spreading. Claws look sharp, and reflect your brilliance. It turns them amber. Wings shake and fold against him. "Hmmm...I think there are some here who thought I had ....left...for all the looks I was getting. And I was so trying to be subtle..." A pause and he seems serious. "Chamberlain," he says, in formal terms but with the warmth of great endearment behind them, "have you time for a ...private word or two. I ...do not want to keep you from some Matter Of Great Importance...and yet...if you have Time I should like to distract you with a tale."
     And the long black tail flicks at the term.

     "Great Importance," Soldekai repeats, nodding sagely. Of course. Especially when the tail flickers. Wow. He is visibly and suitably crimson at the connection. There is ribald and there is quite suggestive. Not that he minds it, it's just not normally seen so in his part of the Symphony. He can only guess about other arenas. But he nods anyway, "I have a short time as I wait for some news and information," he nods, "...but they know how to reach me." He lets hands drop to his sides and looks at the floor beneath you. "I was about to take a walk downstairs," the running term, "...care to join me for a bit, Herald? How is your Superior?" he asks, floor turning to glass again, sigil appearing.

     "My Grace is as He-and-She have been..." Since Beleth left. "But...I thought in my own dreaming I would play Court Jester and do fantastic tricks..." The angelic tongue comes in purrs, and in deep resonant sound. That which is Cat and Angelic all at once. Christopher turns and he looks to you. "Of course, I shall join you for a bit. It was my hope, Chamberlain, that you would have time for me..." The purr softens. Silver eyes flicker molten metallic. There is a pause and he considers your crimson color. He does not add to it here...where who knows who is watching. Yes...he desires. But that is not the true reason he is here. The mouth of the great cat opens in a wide and seeming yawn. It is not a yawn. It is a roar without sound. He lifts his head with it and stretches again. "I do not want to draw ...undue attention so close to all of Dominic's eyes." The voice is wry at that. Purring resonance to every angelic syllable.

     "Then you wouldn't have come here," Soldekai smiles, head cocking as he twists and kicks out his leg in a stiff turn. Voila. The sigil glows....
     And you both are standing on a beach. From the darkened rocks, the black silt, the unbearably blue water and the rising steam from the ocean, this must be Iceland again. When Soldekai turns around, he's dressed in a pair of loose black khakis and a white pirate's shirt, opened in a deep cleft down his chest. There are only two strands to tie that closed, and his sleeves billow a bit. He's barefoot and turns to walk as he was proceeding before, wind picking up his red locks. "So," he smiles, passing you at the shoulder, "...tell me all about it."

     The celestial form is gone. And it is the form most often called Kit. Dressed in jeans that are this side of ragged and faded. Beneath them, themals. A black shirt fitting close to broad chest and falling loosely at his sides where his lean form tapers. The choker you gave him is at his throat. Basalt near the pulse of this forms living song. "I had a visitor the other day. Archangel Yves..." The Angel of Destiny..." He paces slowly after you. "I thought perhaps...we should talk about it...." He too is barefoot. "Nothing was said outright...but..." he looks to you, and the gaze softens. "It was about you, in its circular way. I believe he wished to ..find out if I understood the ... particular ... forces surrounding what is between you and I..." There is a small twist of his lips. "And ...yes...coming to heaven was...not as subtle as I would have liked. I ...could not find you anywhere else..." He looked on the Marches. You were not there. He could not go to the jungle. Nor could he come here without disturbing the Symphony....

     "He did?" Soldekai stops suddenly and turns to see you. Behind him, no footprints. A close glance will note that he is barely skimming the sand's surface. Amber eyes peer left and right, in thought. "That's...interesting." He sighs a little. "He will not tell anyone. I...hopefully, other prying eyes haven't noticed much." The wind comes from behind him, off of the raging seas. Water pushes forward and back a bit away. "Did it upset you?" he asks, now, fully facing you for the first time. Upon his face, expression that he's given you before in private. Adoration and fascination. You are very beautiful. "I..." he smiles, "...am not sure what to think of the Old Man checking up on us..." he smirks, "...well, you." Apparently, he hasn't heard from him.

     Lips pucker. Oh, he is used to being regarded with suspicion. Those who are not easily understood upon the surface must be hiding things behind their layers, you see. And for the enigmatic Herald with a penchant for pushing the celestial envelope? It does not bother him. "No...it did not upset me. It was a very pleasant conversation, My Fiery Chamberlain..." The lips spread slowly in that smooth smile of his. His voice is deeply liquid. A caress. You are very beautiful. And it is so easy for him to adore you. And to want you. He takes a step toward you. "And he did not speak of you in plain terms. There was no inquisition, but it is plain he knows. How could he not?" He does not seem troubled by it. But there is seriousness to him. A gravity. "He ... cornered me in a debate and your name came up. And then in far more symbolic terms...he asked me about the different roles we all play. I ...apparently gave him a correct answer, for the debate...never did turn to a lecture." He leans in toward you, voice lowering though there is no need. But...it is an audible intimacy.
     "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.

     There's a grin from him. A ray of light. "You should focus that on someone in your Charge," Soldekai replies softly as you are so close. He does not shy away at all, instead amber eyes caress cheek in a wandering gaze downward. "Yves...is complex." Indeed, God and the Spirit are like that. "He...is a good advocate," even if he can disagree with him. "I would not worry too much though," hand coming up to replace his touching look, "...but..spend such attunement on one who needs it more than I do, Kit Marlow." No, Yves did not come to him. Soldekai's part was written more than a millennia ago....he knows it well. It is his Vow. But you, perhaps you have more choice. For you, the pages are still very unwritten in Yves' Books. "We...have an Understanding, you..." he smiles, fingers moving downward, "...and I. We are both creatures of Affixing. But my Word, my Vows compel me..." his eyes close, feeling the domination that his Word given by Gabriel and his own word as Malakim, "....compel my priorities and attachements." To Work. To the War. To Gabriel. "But...in the next line of the list that I Am, know you are now Next." In the first slot where He has his own Choice.

     "Oh...mistake me not...I have no...confusion as to my duty. Nor is there confusion...as to my joy. My vow and my duty and my soul belong to my Word. It is my Existence. And I...its. I am become Aspiration. It is..." A small smile. "...my part in the war. And I owe this gladly, and to my Master and Grace of the Night Time Hours, to the Universe of Dreams...and the Marches upon which the Battle was begun and rages on with fierce and metaphoric fists." There is a look of sadness then. "I will find my charge when it is time and not before. That is the way of it. I ...am a soldier no less. I know my rank..." Which is to say, he understands his priorities in your list. And you within his own. There is no sadness to this. No expectation of it being otherwise. Indeed, how could it be? He knows his rank. "Warrior of the Sun, I will...take comfort that I have not ...in my zeal...misordered priorities." There is a pause. "I am keeping you from your work," he murmurs, and there is a quirk of a smile for that. Can he be set down in Yves' book? It will likely be a two-line rhyme. A couplet! Or a riddle.

     "No, my work is always with me, like yours," Soldekai grins, looking up beach. "So, what shall we do?" he asks softly, wind picking up his red hair again. "Walk and talk upon the soft black sand, or...something else, hmm?"

     A raven brow cocks upward. And the look is one of beautiful puzzlement and pleasant thought. The wilderness of his mind is afire with that simple statement. For if your work is always with you, and you are yet sometimes with him, what indeed does that make him? A...mission? The lips...he is blessed with fullness there...and when they curve...it is like a caress. There is darkness there...deep and fathomless. Like his eyes. "What part of your ... work with me do you most enjoy, Soldekai? The satisfaction for a good job done? Or is it the sweat and toil of such labor. See...it is the rhythm for me..." He is irrepressible. Except, perhaps, for One.

     Another blush of rosed sunlight. Orange and pink in ambrosia. Soldekai grins and lets his hand lower. "What am I supposed to say to that?" he asks, chuckling as he turns to hide the color a bit. Eyes wander half-towards the sea. "You like embarrassing me, Kit," he laments in a whisper low.

     "I didn't mean to embarrass you," he murmurs, his voice near your ear. There is no space between you now. "But...I must confess something...even though I am not a seraph and truth is...well, it's a nice guideline..." Kit chuckles and then sighs. "I must confess I like to watch the sunrise in your blush. It is...something that makes me smile. Am I a cad? A rogue? A haiku short of a syllable?"

     "A Koan out of key," Soldekai murmurs, closing his eyes. Sound and feel of you and ocean mist. His shirt flutters as he head leans toward you. "Enough to be familiar, while tempting with a leading rhythm. Where to..." he whispers, "...off the precipice...and into beyond. Unasnwered in the finishing metric foot." He knows something of poetry.

     "Upon a scale of music...in the blending of chords...a D-minor. The sweet-sorrow of the soul. Dreams waiting to be fulfilled. Shall the next verse answer it? Or shall it float on sound in hovering....hope. Aspiration. I am not that which answers. I am that which asks..." Aspiration is the unanswered hope fueled by longing. By dreaming. It may never be answered. That is not the point. The point is to...aspire...
     Ask... Hope... Dream...

     "We..." Soldekai says suddenly, "...need to go inside." He is aware, suddenly, of his hands, his swaying, his floating. And it is public. Determination comes again...God, you are too much. Even for him. Can you hear his mind rattling strength to turn off his Wants and Hopes? There's so much else to do...why dream of things that will take monumental work? He passes you and moves up beach, towards the higher caves. He glances behind, seeing if you are following, but his feet keep moving upwards...and out of the sight of heavenly eyes.

     Kit does follow you. His head inclines, eyes turned upward...as if that is where Heaven lingered. In truth, Heaven is everywhere for the Holy. Even as Hell can never be escaped by the Wicked. His hands unfold from his chest. The black shirt moves against him with the wind. His black hair, both long and short, shift with the breeze of it. His faded and torn jeans are both fitted and loose. They make no sound as he follows. Out of sight of Heavenly Eyes. Into the dark caress of the earth. Of basalt. Of your arms. Yes, he likes this...

     The lady's window is not so far. Up a jagged ridge, over a short floe of cooled lava. Soldekai leads you along, his feet a bare breath from weighing heavier. He looks the very Scandinavian lord, if minus the beard. Once he reaches the flat before the cave's opening, he turns to see you and the seascape now beyond. Somehow, you too fit here. But he also imagines that you fit anywhere.

     And how could he not? Dreams are everywhere. In every shape. In every scape. He moves as easily as a raven upon wind. A poet within a verse. Sea upon the sand. And shadows along a cave. For your Odin, here is a raven. For your fire, here is a scrying divination-dream. Christopher ...Kit... moves behind you. Easily. Gracefully. Sometimes teetering on the rocks to feel the wind. Upon a perch, arms spread wide and he closes his eyes. A blessing pose...and then eyes open. Midnight. Deep. Forever fathomed. Endless. As much his adoration for you. And he follows again.

     He smiles to see you upon what is His. There is little of such. Soldekai turns and heads within, a white flutter of a stretch from extended arms as he disappears further into the maze that goes within and down...

     Pulse. A throb of air, beaten and pressed by wings. The hush of a sound. Secretive. Like the press of a finger to lips. Keep This Treasured. It follows you, that sound. As a raven follows you within the caves. Dark, can he be seen? Felt, in the breeze he makes. In the sigh of wings. A bird that is not a bird. A dream that is real. Christopher follows the Warrior of the Sun...in his herald's guise...

     He only slows when that inner chamber is crossed. Soldekai turns about then, veritable pirate. He smiles to see the Herald within, the pants and shirt calming here where breeze is low. "Better," he smiles and says softly, giving a slip of a glance to the basalt bed. It's brushed off and he turns to see you. "Can I get you anything?" he wonders, polite host. "Some like tea...."

     The raven roosts upon an available stone, and then drops. Dark sentinel...to the floor of your chamber. "Do you have lilac tea? Lilac wine?" The voice comes in angelic tones, deep and resonant. No matter that he has a beak of onyx and feathers of obsidian. Shining. Resplendent. The large raven lifts and takes another roost. This time upon your basaltic bed. "What sort of tea have you, Oh Chamberlain Of The Twelve Houses Of The Sun?" The black head cocks back and forth.

     Soldekai chuckles faintly. "I'm afraid I don't have anything that exotic--you've had that down here?" Certainly it could be conjured up in the Library, but that's not something he's spent time researching. "Lilac," he says softly, rolling it over his tongue. "I have some honey wine, you know, from these parts," and he turns about to see you upon the bed. It causes him to smile and drop his gaze to the floor. Is he so obvious now? Or you know his dreams so well?

     Perhaps both. One he shall claim. The other he shall deny. "Honey wine. Mead. Nectar of the Gods," he recites its frequently-used names. "The golden drink of the Otherworld, sipped by both Beowulf and Arthur. Yes, this suits me well!" And he laughs. For a moment, there is even the caw of the raven, and then Kit is seen....back in the form of the denim-clad university student/singer. "Actually it is a favorite of mine. This, blackberry wine...and then, of course, Lilac wine. Which is, by the way, a wonderful song..." Kit grins, wide and ribald. "Shall we drink it out of horns? Out of gilded cups of gold-giving kings? The Holy Grail?"

     All the old stories. He rarely thinks about them. For you, they are a way of existence. In myths, riddles, poetry, and songs. Soldekai grins and reaches around for a leather bag. "How about out of this?" he says, not seeming to have much in the way of household goods. From the pouch. He pushes red hair from his face and heads toward you, a strong knee causing the blankets to sink. "You first." Guests always.

     They are all pieces of himself. He, indivisible from them. Dreams and Myths are related. Poetry the link to expressing both. And music. The leather bag. Is it just Christopher or is there something....twice as symbolic as that, in that he shares the bag with you. To drink from it....there is a ribald quality to it. It makes his midnight eyes sparkle with delight. Eyes upon you, he reaches for the bag. Hands balance the pouch -- surely the meaning is not lost on you and he brings it to his lips. Mouth parts, and he takes the first pull from it. And hands offer it back to you. His lips are pulled in a smooth and slight slant.

     "What do you think?" he says, taking the moment to slip onto the bed with you, he the heavier. "A little old man down near Rilkje makes that." Soldekai smiles to recall him, having met him accidentally when someone was not being so thoughtful. Unlucky mortal got to meet Avenger's suitor himself. Not just any old angel from Gabriel's host. "He gave me the contents and the bag...he wondered how I managed to survive without the basics." He rests upon his side and against you, taking the bag back when it's proffered. Perhaps he does not see the symbolism of it, but he watches you anyway as the leather neck is turned up at his own lips and drowned in a steady pouring and swallow. He sighs and hands it back to you, gaze unwavering.

     "I shall have to have at least a dozen more swallows before I can say with certainty," comes the lyrical voice of the Kit you know and love. He takes the leather pouch again and drinks from it. It shall go back and forth between you, and when the pouch is dry...he will lick it from your lips. "You should revive the old practice of natives making offerings to the volcanoes. I bet you could get some really nice trinkets and barrels full of lovely honey drinks...hmmm...that is good...It has been many many years...A Yesterday...since I have had mead." Another swallow and then, again, the pouch is offered to you. "No I know why bards drank to excess..." A wink follows that and he settles back, half propped against you. "So...what did you tell this old man?"

     "Tell him about what?" Soldekai asks softly, taking back, touching your hand, and then turning the bag upwards. He swallows quickly, then, "Nothing. I happened to be near his home...and someone tried to steal from him." He had to go. "I had a little visit with the...one taking advantage of him...and that was it. Linus was appreciative," he drinks again, a deep swallow, "...and gave me this. It's been refilled..once or twice," he grins, giving it back to you. Soldekai sighs and rests his head along his extending arm. "As for tithes...I haven't done that..." he grins, "...well, since we had that little agreement." Father, son, trinity thing that came to earth. "Didn't look good, you know, after that..." But the Ancients knew him, to be sure. When the Princes all made themselves known throughout the lands.

     "Are there not yet Hindi in the world? Or have the Balinese suddenly changed rhythms. The Burnese?" All these peoples of the earth, who have never been carried Christ's blessings. Is God so particular about what He/She is called? What matter, when Truth always knows Itself. Christopher chuckles, putting a hand over his mouth for a moment. Lest lightning strike. "Nevermind....it is best that I do not ask everything that comes to mind..." Restraint? Bah! Christopher takes the bag and his hands coax liquid from it. Suggestive? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But what does he do that is not in some way an insinuation? Metaphors live by allegorical means. Symbols. Suggestions. Visions. The leather bag is given to you ...and he watches you. Eyes dark and intent upon you. "And your visit with the Opportunist...tell me a fantastic war story, Soldekai...full of swords and daring-do..."

     Soldekai laughs a little at that. No, he didn't want to debate the merits of religion and theology...it is why he sits with you now as he does, his Mistress having walked off. "Well, I should tell you about a better time," he grins, "...there's not much to tell. Suffice to say," oh, he can truly make anything into a good yarn, "...he was surprised," grinning broader as he recalls. A quick drink is taken and he gestures with bag in hand. "A mountain man, to be sure, he was mad at my interference and decided to take a swing at me eventually. Not that it was all that hard to move faster than his tree-arm," he laughs, "...but when I turned up behind him and sent him into a blissful tumble to the ground, I think he got the point. He was out for a bit."

Posted by rowan at May 04, 2003 05:59 PM