[ 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

[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."

[mechanicalswans]

"I don't sing very often," he says, "almost never for other people. But sometimes, when I am working... it helps me to concentrate, to stay focused on what I am making and why I am making it. And that one is one of my favorites."

[tragic_mask]

"Well, then, I'm honored to hear it. Perhaps I share my music too easily."

[mechanicalswans]

"But your singing would have to be much more pleasant to listen to than mine. I don't think it would be possible for you to share it too much or too easily--it would be a shame not to share it. A tragedy, even."

[tragic_mask]

"Mmh." She leans back. "But wouldn't not sharing be more in my nature, then?"

[mechanicalswans]

"We have ways of making you sing," he says with a bit of a smirk (and a much heavier accent than usual).

The calf-massage is drifting steadily into a knee-massage.

"I do hope that sometime I will get to hear you sing," he adds more seriously, back to his normal tone. "But only if you want to, of course."

[tragic_mask]

"Oh, well, I'll keep both of those statements in mind."

[mechanicalswans]

"I'm sure you will," he says softly, glancing up at her. "Are you having a good time? I can stop, if you want."

[tragic_mask]

"I'm enjoying myself immensely, now that you mention it," she says, as softly. "Don't stop."

[mechanicalswans]

"You may have to come a bit closer, then," he murmurs, and motions for her to slide onto his lap. "If you want to."

[tragic_mask]

She scoots up close, and puts an arm around his neck. "Close enough?"

[mechanicalswans]

"Beautiful," he says, resting one hand on her knee and his other arm around her waist. "I think 'the perfect height' will have to go on that list twice..."

And if she doesn't object or back away, he is leaning in to kiss her.

[tragic_mask]

She has no objections at this time, so she says, "This may turn out to be quite a long list if you keep repeating things," and then kisses back.

[mechanicalswans]

He tastes of alcohol and smoke, not surprisingly.

And he is a bit nervous, having her so close--somehow, it feels closer and more vulnerable to him now than being together in the lake or in his room. He isn't sure why.

Very pleasant, though.

"It was always going to be a long list. A little longer... well, I don't think anyone ever objected to a few more compliments."

[tragic_mask]

Not surprisingly, she does too.

"I'm certainly not an exception. I love compliments."

[mechanicalswans]

"I would imagine you've got quite a backlog of them to catch up on--if you don't have company much, if you spend a lot of time away from people, you will not have been getting the compliments in that time. And I, spending time away from people also, have a lot of compliments to give. So there we are."

He smiles.

[tragic_mask]

"Impeccable logic," she says, following as well as she can.

[mechanicalswans]

"Of all the compliments you have ever gotten," he says, "which was your favorite? So I know what I need to measure up to. Though of course I would not say one if it were not true and sincere."

[tragic_mask]

"Oh, right. Of course."

She thinks. "Well, I was once written a sonnet which was, essentially, one big compliment. I mean, I've been written sonnets before, but this one... seemed extraordinary. Something to the effect of seeing his soul mirrored in my shining eyes. Of course, I'm always drawn to the poetic."

[mechanicalswans]

"You must have poetry written to you a lot, then?" he asks. "I can see that you would inspire it... and not just the tragic kind, not directly, though there would probably be a note of tragedy in any romantic poem to you. The unattainable, the far out of any normal man's league."