[ with weyland in nyc ]

[tragic_mask]

They step through the door, and find themselves on the cracked sidewalk outside of a lively bar. A sign glows: "Blue Owl."

It's nighttime, but the city still glows with all kinds of light, and shakes with the noise of honking, shouting, music, the clinking of glasses, all blending together into the cacophony and symphony of the city.

Melpomene looks around. "Well, we're back... Right where I started."

Comments

[tragic_mask]

"Here's to variety," she says, raising her glass. "Differences can be good. I'm sure we have many."

[mechanicalswans]

He clinks his glass lightly against hers, before taking another sip. "A great many. I'm enjoying every one I've found so far."

[tragic_mask]

"And for good cause, I'm sure," she says, taking a sip as well.

[mechanicalswans]

"You shine," he says simply. "Very brightly. It is a pleasure to bask in your glow... give me your feet."

He pats his knee.

[tragic_mask]

She blinks at him a moment, then swings her legs delicately over onto his lap.

"And you keep things interesting," she murmurs. "Which I mean in the best way possible."

[mechanicalswans]

"Live each day like it could be your last," he says, and downs the rest of his drink, then sets the glass aside.

If her shoes weren't already off, he will remedy that now, and start in on a gentle but thorough foot massage. He may not do the kind with oil, as he doesn't like the feel of it on the metal, but he knows what he is doing.

[tragic_mask]

Clearly, as her feet are sending her very good messages. Her eyes close, and she just enjoys the sensation.

[mechanicalswans]

"You have the sort of feet that were made for dancing barefoot in meadows on warm summer evenings," he says quietly. "I like that."

[tragic_mask]

"Well," she says, eyes still closed, "I have done quite a lot of that in my time."

[mechanicalswans]

"But not often, not anymore?" he asks. "We shall have to remedy that, either way. I haven't got such good barefoot feet, myself, but if you're willing to overlook that..."

[tragic_mask]

"I'll try to stare straight ahead." She smiles. "Anyway, the point isn't if one has pretty feet, but if one dances like one means it."

[mechanicalswans]

"Are there still... there are, I hope? The music festivals in the park, whether here or outside the city. I enjoy live music, and it seems to me you would be the perfect one to enjoy it with."

[tragic_mask]

"There often are, during the summer. Hard not to find something like that around here. That's why I love this city."

[mechanicalswans]

"The next one, then, where the music appeals to you... what sort of music do you like? Not just sad songs, I hope, though there are many that are beautiful."

[tragic_mask]

"Mostly," she admits. "They call more to me than the upbeat, meaningless sort."

[mechanicalswans]

"Do you have a favorite, though?" he asks. "I myself have a fondness for opera, but also for electronic music. Either the sweeping and passionate or the cold and detached."

The foot-massage is slowly drifting into a calf-massage.

[tragic_mask]

"I'm really a lyrics sort of person, actually," she says. "And you know... you have very warm hands."

[mechanicalswans]

"That's because they're not just metal," he murmurs, "but metal bonded to flesh, as are my legs. So they are warm also. And you... you change subjects beautifully."

[tragic_mask]

"I'm only making observations," she says with a quick grin.

[mechanicalswans]

"And you are so charming at it," he says with a smile. "Tell me--you do know other languages, yes? There are sad songs written in all of them, and while the language of music is universal, the language of lyrics is not."

[tragic_mask]

"I know most every language in the world, yes." She's not trying to brag, really. "I find that Italian is one of the most beautiful, in this age."

[mechanicalswans]

"I am fond of Italian," he agrees. "It is musical by its very nature, it is flowing. It is a language of passion, of emotion, of love."

There is a pause, as he glances up at her.

"And the northern languages, especially the older ones?"

[tragic_mask]

"They have a rhythm of their own."

[mechanicalswans]

He gives a quiet chuckle and starts to sing, just as quietly.

It is an old, old song--so old that it's in Saxon, not the most melodic of languages to begin with, and his voice is permanently raspy from smoke anyway, but the way he sings it he makes it sound like a lullaby, if a sad one, soft and not unpleasant.

(And if she understands the language, it is the story of an archer saying goodbye to his wife and child as he is summoned to war, and the child waiting for his father to return home.)

[tragic_mask]

She does, at that. And when it's finished, she opens her eyes.

"That's beautiful. It sounded almost..." She searches for the word. "Plaintive. I didn't know you could sing an emotion that way."