More Difficult Than Most

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It is rare that he should be faced with a question that he finds difficult to answer. A majority have already been answered; for the rest, it is devilishly simple to manufacture an easily-swallowed falsehood. 

Love, however, is not a word that often presents itself in his mouth.

"You pose a question too vast," he offers in a low rumble, after a pause, "when love is defined in such a diverse and divergent manner." His company shifts, impatiently, in her seat.

"Yes, of course. The Correspondence teaches us as much. A mother loves a child, a priest loves his congregation." A hasty wave of the hand; a meaningful, sharp look. "But we are at the Feast of the Rose, now. And as it happens, I believe that many springs feed one river." The silverer tilts his head forward, subtly, in yield. Very well, then. He supposes he will have to find some palatable lie after all. 

Thoughtful silence lays across the booth, smothering the orchestra and actors below. What a concept to speak lies of; no less, in a city-factory of romantic tales. No less, when he cannot deny his heart has, on the rarest of occasions, turned in his chest towards some individual or entity. Companionship; the Sun. Both hold his heart, equally scorching. Neither can be defined in a manner that includes the other. As has become cyclical, he supposes he must make his choice. 

Must he?

"Love is..." his voice, softer than ever, finally breaks the restless silence. "...a promise, I would suppose, if you insist on a putting of words to the concept. A promise, in whichever language -- the common man's speech, the Correspondence, one's sight, their heart -- and to whichever means." The silverer catches another frosty look, and chuckles. "I do not intend to speak on the longevity of said promises. It would be cruel to define love lasting centuries as more than love, fleeting, for a single night. Would it not?" 

"I suppose that would depend on a person's answer, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose so."

Silence would not permitted to last much longer -- that, at least, is not easily missed. In for a penny, in for an echo. "Love is light," he finally lands on. "Searing. Blinding." A shift in tone. "Sight. Contact. Whether lit like a Judgement or a lone fireplace, love is light."

His company does not look impressed as she makes a note in her leather book. He cannot blame her; neither does he mind. His words are the honey-inspired ramblings of a Celestial romantic at worst, and a quarter of a map at best. They were not meant for her, anyhow. 

"Thank you." Her brusque tone rips the room back to its reality. "I will make you an offer in turn. If you can find me in the Forgotten Quarter, I will give you the tattoo of your choice." The silverer would look amused, were his expression visible. A tattoo, of all things, in exchange for a definition of love. He may have just been swindled. He may just take the offer up.

"Next!"

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