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This
is a work of fiction, loosely based on the real person, Russell Crowe. No
insult or injury is intended, this story is for entertainment purposes only. This story is for readers over the age of 18 only. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.
This I Promise by: Jackie ©01/2003 I slowly come up out of my own head. It may sound strange, but really, it’s the only way that I know of, into the realm where my guardian resides. There is a lever inside me that I need to pull, then something I can only describe as a round hatch opens up inwardly, and then I can climb out. Outside, the sky is invisible, there are a lot of fast moving clouds rushing past like a great wind is blowing, but there is no wind, no sound, and no sunshine. Only a diffused light.
I softly say his name three times into a soundless, windless sky.
Suddenly he is there, only a few paces away from me, his back turned. He appears out of nothing, like he usually does. Most times he looks honeyed with the rays of a golden sun that never truly sets, but now, now all he has is his inner glow. He turns to me, his eyes worried, his mouth unsmiling. There are weary lines in his otherwise flawless face, the face of the man from my dream.
'Are you all right?'
He slowly shakes his head and holds out a hand to me.
'Do you feel alone? Have I waited too long to come and see you?'
He blinks and cocks his head, and I see him swallow, but still I hear no sound except my own voice.
'I’ve missed you. I'm worried about you, oh, you're always so beautiful,' I briefly touch his cheek, which is velvety soft and raspy at the same time. He can be good and bad, great and small, passion and destruction manifesting simultaneously. Sometimes it's bewildering to the senses, but I know that he never means me any harm. I am as much his as he is mine and I take his outstretched hand. It looks like a hand and feels like a claw. He looks at me with an apology in his eyes.
'You don't have to pretend with me. I know you and accept you, every stunning and shocking facet of you. I know you take on an appearance that is pleasing to me and I love you for your thoughtfulness. But I don't mind that you-'
A sudden rush of hellish screeching fills the air and before my eyes, for only an instant, he turns black, leathery, spidery, his ears elongating into dagger-like points and a maw full of rows of razor sharp teeth opening wide. On his back are bat's wings with great hooked talons. An instant, then it's gone again. He flexes his shoulders and gives me a look full of sorrow.
'I love you no less,' I say to him, his hand still in mine. 'I will not be scared away by your darkest images; when will you finally believe me?'
How does one get an eternally tired, overworked, underloved archangel to relax a little? Tell him to sit, put up his feet, have a beer, watch the footy?
I let him pull me against his chest, I wrap my arms around him. I feel his breath on my cheek – it's like lilies, a smell of flowering and death alike – and he whispers in my ear: 'I am weak, today...'
He hardly ever speaks when he appears to me in the glorious image of the man from my dream, maybe it takes too much out of him. He hardly ever shows me his wings either. I know very well he has them though, and not only the leathery ones; once, I felt him shelter me in downy white feathers that smelled of a spring brook, when I was utterly alone and forlorn. I was so grateful for his love and protection that I wept where I was. Which was at work. Rather embarrassing.
I smile at the memory and stroke his hair; it feels silky and towlike and smooth and curly. Every stroke it is different. Spikes, spider's web, bristles, cotton fluff.
He buries his face in my neck. Literally. He goes in up to his now only slightly pointed ears. It feels tingly.
'Go on then,' I say softly, 'I had a good day, actually. Lots of laughs. Come shelter with me; you'd be there for me, too.' And he melts away under the skin of my soul.
I carefully sit down on the lip of the hatch, my legs dangling down into my own head, and I observe all above and around me. The clouds seem about to break, maybe the sun will come out after all. In the distance there is a lush green meadow, stretching as far as the eye can see. I have never been there; he has told me that I'm not yet allowed. It calls to me though, I would walk there. There is one tree standing in the meadow, a giant oak that has been there since the beginning of time. I would sit in its shade when the sun is out. But for now I must stay here, on top of my physical body, as if it were my private Olympus.
A shiver and he's next to me again, sitting on the lip. He lets his legs dangle inside like mine. He hardly ever does that, I think he really likes it but maybe he's afraid to fall in. Or maybe he likes being inside a body even more than being inside a soul and he feels vertiginous, unable to control himself, afraid he'll jump and won't come out again. It would be wonderful to have him with me, but rather frightening as well. Imagine all that raw power locked up within the small confinement of one body of flesh…
I touch his arm.
'Will you speak of the dream again?'
His eyes, sea green like those of the man I dreamt about, look at me warmly. He looks better now, fed and rested, replenished on love. He tips his head a little, sideways, in an unbearably graceful silent question.
'… I still don’t fully understand... ' I explain, feeling slightly foolish for asking over and over, but I would so much like to know. Why? What does it mean? It was such a strange and disturbing dream, yet so beautiful.
He just sits there, a vision of the man from my dream, a chestnut shock of hair, a mouth that promises passion, and eyes that can be full of love, but are often on their guard. I had this dream not too long ago and I am amazed at how easily my guardian can tap into the remnants of it and remake himself in its image; I recognize the slant of the dream man’s eyes, the curve of his upper lip.
'It’s him,' I whisper.
I was nervous, I entered a hotel in Las Vegas, I was supposed to meet someone who would judge me, and his judgment would be extremely important to my career. What was my career? I wasn’t sure, but I was told that I had to dress in what lay on the big, round bed waiting for me.
It was a cream coloured negligee, virtually transparent, like something from a 1940’s film. No shoes. I wore the garment, feeling extremely uncomfortable doing so, and went downstairs barefoot. I was directed outside, to a terrace at the bottom of another flight of wide stairs. A terrace made up of wooden platforms, overlooking a lush lake.
I was no longer in Vegas, I knew that with dream certainty, and as I gathered my courage at the top of the stairs, a cool breeze played with the fabric of my flowing garment.
Only one table on the terrace was occupied. There was the man who was supposed to judge me, next to him was a chestnut-haired man, and there was a woman. She was the partner of the chestnut-haired man; again, I knew this immediately with a certainty that wasn’t fed by reason, only by the stuff of dreams.
The woman was pale, skinny, with short dark hair. Her eyes were narrowed. They don’t look very happy together, was the first thing that went through my mind as I descended the stairs, shoulders back, gliding gait, head held high. My heart beat fast and fluttery, but I knew I was making an impression as the heads of the three at the table turned and noticed me.
I came to a stop at the table. I couldn’t sit; there wasn’t a chair for me. And I felt that the woman didn’t want me there. I would have to wait to be judged; I was not important enough. Yet I seemed to pose some sort of threat to the woman; she refused to look directly at me.
I looked around and noticed again the beauty and calm of the lake, and so I sat at the edge of the terrace, looking out over the glittery water, legs dangling and feet lightly touching the ripples. The water was lovely. I would gladly wait my turn here.
Behind me, I heard words being exchanged about the fact that I wasn’t welcome at the table. I turned, looked at them and said that I didn’t mind, sitting here overlooking this beautiful, peaceful lake. The chestnut-haired man was adamant though: he thought it was bad form to keep me waiting and he pleaded my case eloquently. The judge reserved his opinion. The woman got very angry.
Then, without any warning, the chestnut-haired man got up from the table, came over to me and sat next to me. He was heavy with importance, but at that exact moment he was too tired and too drained to use the power he could wield if he so chose. He was dejected; I could feel it, though I didn’t know what made him so. He leaned against me first, then, with a sigh, he laid his head on my knee and promptly fell into a quiet, peaceful, replenishing sleep.
I was deeply moved. He chose me, over his companions, and he trusted me to watch over him while he slept. I laid a hand on his shoulder as if to shield him from whatever demons might chase him, and felt, for the first time in my entire life, wholly accepted without question. The judge’s opinion did not matter any more, nor did the woman’s anger; I had a beautiful, most uncommon soul entrusted to me, and I would not betray this trust.
I remember waking up crying, feeling whole yet ripped in half, as if part of me had been left behind in the dream state.
My guardian smiles at me, the light intensifying for an instant. And there, there is the first ray of eternal sunlight, a buttery honey yellow that is so dense it is almost tangible. The light slowly floods us, it has a syrupy quality and it warms not only the skin, but also the heart and the soul. He closes his eyes, leans back with his blinding, heart-breaking grace and basks in it like the feral creature of good and evil that he is, and again I feel so proud and grateful that I am allowed to live under his protection.
‘…my dream…?’ I whisper after an everlasting while.
He smiles again, at my impatience no doubt, but I know he truly understands. He knows I’m not immortal like he is; he knows I have to live this life and learn as much as I can so that I can move on to the next. He is my guardian in order to help me with that; I am his ward in order to love him when he so desperately needs that emotion to feed and strengthen him. We have an interesting symbiosis.
He closes his eyes. His voice comes like a string humming in my head: ‘…it is important that you watch this man and cherish the trust that was given to you. Something you must learn to understand will come to pass, and you will have to give freely. You will know. He will know, also. Your paths will cross and you must be prepared. Do not despair!’ On that last word, the string crescendos into a fierce, powerful note, only to diminish into a quiet that is soothing.
I open my eyes and find myself facing my computer screen. There, right there are the words describing it all. Is it a justification? Does it even matter?
I will not betray his trust, I will not despair, and I will watch, learn, and give, when the time is right.
This I promise.
THE END
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