Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Another year at Hogwarts had began. New students. New staff. Same old potions class. Severus had again been bypassed as the new "defence against the dark arts" professor and he was thankful patience and cunning were two of his more useful virtues. The year began as usual. The arrival and sorting hat ceremony and the introduction of the new faculty members. There was Vamarius Lucid, the new senior broom handling instructor; Samantha Siren, who was involved with the recently introduced muggle studies, something the Ministry of Magic had been endorsing for years; and Cornelius Hebe, Mrs Sprout's recently appointed lab technician. Surely there were better things to do with his time, Snape wondered. With the formalities over, the others mingled and exchanged pleasantries. Severus, on the other hand, had a low tolerance for such spouting, and hastily returned to his dormitory. He had been setting the following week's junior potions test when he was disturbed by a great clanging. Upon investigation, he was suprised to see a large sword protruding from the doorway of the neighbouring dormitory. Interested to find the owner, he picked up the sabre and stood in the open doorway. Inside was Samantha Siren, battling with an oversize box, spilling its contents along the way. "Be aware, Miss Siren, your possessions are disturbing others." It was Snape's version of a warm welcome. "And why, may I ask, are you not applying levitation to aid in the moving of your belongings when you so obviously cannot handle them yourself?". Professor Siren spun around leaving the box stranded in mid air. She was the new addition to Slytherin and she had been appropriately placed. Although her skin was the colour of alabaster, it was the only feature that resembled some sort of purity or innocence. Her eyes were black and intense and her hair waved its way down her back like an oil spill. She was plainly dressed, having already dorned her allocated teaching robe but remained heavily decorated with a necklace bearing resemblance to a plate of armour, rings and arm cuffs, all ornately decorated and inlaid with precious stones. Snape was startled by her appearance. He had not noticed the exact nature of her beauty during the introductions and was uncharacteristically caught off guard, speechless even. She irritated him already. "You must be Severus. I wasn't expecting such a warm welcome" she chided sarcastically, while eying up the dark, statuesque figure of the man that stood before her, holding her most valued possession. She was worse than irritating, decided Severus, she was intoxicatingly dangerous. WHAT HAPPENS NEXT???? FEEL FREE TO CONTINUE AND I GUESS WE'LL FIND OUT!
s.s
Snape's Flight of Fancy?, - Monday, December 30, 2002 at 03:02:55 (PST)

He finished the song and lay down the cello, resting it within it's case of velvet and silk. Diane was motionless and not a word arose from her lips. She closed her eyes and breathed, calm as a soft spring day with a sun shining bright.

"What is the meaning of life?"

Jamie blinked, a bit startled and aghasted.

"What is the meaning of life when you find no beauty in the light and no rest in the dark?" He gripped her hand.

"Do not say such things."

She struggled to roll over and gazed at him for a moment, lips pursed firm, eyebrows drawn in and forehead sweating. "You think I'm joking."

"Are you?" Oh God please tell me that you are...

"When I have not the power to laugh why should I be comical?"

"Sssh, you're just tired."

"Damn right I am. Tired of life. Tired of pain. Tired of looking like this. How can I ever compare? How could I ever amount to anything worthy? Jamie, my family has always hated me, and if they could only see me now they would only cease to laugh! They left me alone in the dust. How do you think it feels to stand by the sidelines all the time, watching others get the spotlight, and when you don't ever have any support to go on? I was young Jamie, and I thought I was tough, and so I lived. But now, Jamie, now..." She trailed off on a low drawling beat.

"But you have support now." He squeezed tighter.

"But do I really? How am I supposed to trust when everything I have ever known is but a lie?"

"Because things change."

She stopped and didn't speak for a moment, her cheeks flustered a tinge of red. "Yes, changes are a part of life, they say. But also life goes on without you they also quote."

Jamie was furious, and before he knew what he was doing, he raised his hand and SMACK...

He gasped and drew back, afraid at his own actions. Diane was in terror, the whites of her eyeballs showing clearly.

"For...forgive me..." His heart had jumped into his throat.

"Leave me."

"Diane, I didn't mean to, I just don't want you to talk like that. You are being delusional!"

"I said, leave me."

"Diane-"

"LEAVE ME!!!" Diane closed her eyes, hands balled into fists. Jamie had clutched his own hand, and walked out of the room...

Diane <potions_masters_baby@snape-is.mine.nu>
Odd... the family I stayed with in Austria was named Schiller!!! , - Sunday, December 29, 2002 at 18:31:39 (PST)

Imperial Palace-The Empress’ sitting room:

Neither poet nor artist, neither philosopher nor psychologist could ask for a more extreme study in contrasts than what would be revealed in Her Majesty’s sitting room.

On the one hand there is Minion-wire-thin, stoop-shouldered Minion who seems drawn all in shades of grey. Neither his pale skin nor the colourless pinpoints of his eyes, slightly magnified behind thick spectacles, can show to any advantage against the plush purple velvets of this chamber; he appears drained and spectral as he seats himself in a deep armchair and is almost swallowed in its luxuriant upholstery.

On the other there is Mary Anne in her gown of that deepest pink that is one shade removed from ruby-red-a colour which makes her skin glow and her eyes sparkle. Only now . . . that skin is flushed with hectically brilliant colour, and her eyes, fixed on Minion, are blue flames of indignation.

And for balance between the two, The Empress in the dark silk so perfectly fitted: she is the calm centre of what threatens to break out in storm. One look is sufficient, and the seething Mary Anne slowly resumes her chair, though she never takes her wary eyes from the man seated across from her.

"Your Majesty wishes me to converse with . . . this?"

The scorn in that low contralto is a physical force. Minion huddles a bit deeper into the armchair.

"Yes, Mrs. Brandon, I do."

"Majesty, I obey." Mary Anne remembers the formulas of protocol from her brief review with Commander Hudson; a formula however, is all these words can be at this moment. She obeys because she must.

The Empress, however, does not appear to notice the lack of enthusiasm. "I do wish it, because there is a matter that must be clear to me before the trial. And I suspect that Minion may have one or two things he wishes to say to you."

Mary Anne lowers her head slightly-a nod of acquiescence, but also convenient for concealing the mutinous flash of her eyes. The Empress, meanwhile, turns to Minion. "Will you have some tea?"

A hesitation, and then a timid nod. The Empress passes over a cup, and Minion sips slowly at it. Mary Anne remains rigid in her armchair, and shakes her head slightly when The Empress looks at her inquiry. No. I’ll drink with you, Your Majesty, but I will NOT drink with the likes of that. Not even for you, if you do not absolutely require it of me. And though it shames her a little in her heart of hearts, she notices and takes a kind of pleasure in the fact that not even the fragrant, steaming tea can bring any warmth or colour to Minion's pinched face bent over the porcelain cup.

The Empress waits until Minion appears settled with his cup, then folds her hands and quietly directs, "Now. To business."

Mary Anne tenses, but Minion, oddly enough, appears to relax. Cordial conversation over tea is a strange thing to him, but "business" of whatever sort, that he understands well enough, and he is able to look directly at The Empress as she speaks to him. "Minion, you have agreed to testify against The Interrogator. You have already discussed this with The Alliance, that part of your testimony will concern events at Nakatomi on the night of the Grubers’ wedding. Are you still willing to give this testimony?"

A sound, astonishingly harsh from that sunken chest-and then it is recognizable as a bitter laugh. "Of course. What choice do I have?"

"None, you may suppose. But we have agreed to shelter you, and that will mean a new way of life-one in which you will be entitled to give your consent, or not." A gentle reply, and one that causes Minion to stare at her for a moment, then hastily sip once more at his tea.

The Empress turns toward Mary Anne. "Now. It is my understanding, Mrs. Brandon, that you at times have access to The Interrogator’s memories. Please forgive me if this distresses you . . ."

For Mary Anne, though she manages to nod, cannot refrain from shivering a little, remembering some of the ideas and images that can rise unbidden in her mind when she least expects them. Harmless enough, some of these recollections, but others . . . she forces the thought away. At least some of them are useful, she thinks. I knew the antidote for that drug Claudia gave Christopher, and that’s something HE wouldn’t have wished for me to know!

"I do," she finally replies, "but . . . it’s not always under my control. Sometimes things just come to me. Other times I can make myself remember something HE knows, if I try. And some things-" Her eyes turn toward Minion, expecting to see him shrink from her glance, and is surprised to find him looking back at her with understanding, if not actual sympathy. "Some things I know are there, but I never try to look for them. And I won’t. Not for anyone."

The Empress remains silent for a few moments, weighing what she has been told. Finally she gives a little sigh, as if forcing herself the point. "You are called to give testimony as well, Mrs. Brandon-and you have a hard task, because the questions will involve more than his acts against you. Tell me, do you have HIS memories of that evening at Nakatomi?"

Mary Anne goes white. "Some."

"Concerning, for instance . . . a young man named Dieter Schiller?"

Soundlessly, Mary Anne’s lips form the name. Dieter Schiller. And the face arises in her memory to go with the name, and . . .

Mary Anne does not speak a word, but her face betrays her-the look in her eyes, and her skin gone almost as grey as Minion’s, whom she can dimly hear exclaim, "Then, we have HIM!"

MA
Minion, something tells me you're going to be sorry you said that . . ., - Sunday, December 29, 2002 at 10:58:53 (PST)

Thanks, DOC, for everything . . .
R
Now wonder where that letter went . . . hmmmmm . . . , - Saturday, December 28, 2002 at 12:39:05 (PST)

Italics Fixed.
A belated Merry Christmas to you all (and Happy Anniversary to Renie & Hans!)!
D.o.C.

Ah, crud! There I go, italizing the GB again! Bah!

PS. Have been having problems accessing the GB lately...when I come I do not see any posts anywhere, but everything else is normal. If any of you reply to this, I won't be able to read them, but I just thought I would let you all know.
Alice
If this is my computer, I'm going to put a hammer through it..., - Friday, December 27, 2002 at 13:54:51 (PST)

Flashback…

She huddles in the darkest, smallest, most untouchable, unnoticeable corner of the wagon. Voices all around her chatter aimlessly while her brain flies at top speed. Where were they headed? What would happen to her? She was but twenty-one, youthful and independent with a will of iron, but what she was told frightened her. She could not…would not…yet she found herself thrown into the wagon…no her feet walking into it of their own accord, knowing of her state. Now she finds herself here, in a small wagon trotting down a dusty road, with no one to speak to and no hope in sight.

Bump. They hit a bump. She attempts to ignore it but it rattles through her body. The dust wafts up through the air and fills her nostrils; she sneezes repeatedly until the dust settles. She wishes so longingly to be back with her family, but, she reminds herself firmly, there is no hope for that and no reason to dwell on what cannot be. Her family is gone, and there is no changing the past. She is on her own, and must defend herself, support herself, force herself to live one more day, even if in the worst way possible. Yet she is disgusted at the thought if her possible doings-her Christian beliefs shudder. If she can find a way not to-anyway out of this wagon and the trap that awaited her, she will take gratefully.

The wagon rolls to a stop in what seems thousands of years later. The chattering voices step out in small groups, while she remains in the corner. She needs more time to think…even with her independent, never-fail spirit, she must face the truth that she truly is…

Present time…
alone.
Alice
I know it is late but I wish everyone a Merry Christmas...hope ya all had a good holiday. Welcome back, Therese, Renie! Great to have you both back! :-), - Friday, December 27, 2002 at 13:53:23 (PST)

Scene: The dais. Where the letter waits . . .

"Colin, this is unwise. If you--"

A quick turn of his head at an imaginary passer-by buys Colin a second of distraction, and with a lunge, he flings himself at the letter--

--but Hans's reflexes rebound, and without interval, there are four hands on the letter--a tussle--as Colin pulls it free, Hans twists the envelope, ripping and gripping the largest piece--

--as Colin comes away with only a crushed part of it.

Colin thumbs the rumple of paper in his hand. Somehow, he has torn off part of the envelope only.

"Now what will you do with it?" hisses Colin.

Hans looks at his own hands. The lion's share. But not enough.

"It's too late."

"What?" Colin advances on Hans, now, as Hans hands him the remains of the envelope.

"We're too late."

Colin looks.

The torn envelope is . . . empty.

"Do you have it?"

No answer.

"Hans--do you have it?!"

"No."

"Do you swear?"

"I don't have the letter."

"Then someone's taken it." Colin feels a flush of failure. And emotions he cannot begin to name . . . nor would he, in this company.

"Or it has been stolen or destroyed by another."

The men fall into spontaneous symbiosis, a shared reverie, in sharp contrast with their near fight only seconds before.

Then, the need to flee the scene, to pick up as before, to regroup . . .

They are already in a different hall, when Colin speaks again.

His tone of voice entirely different.

"What were you going to do Hans? Guard it or steal it?"

"I don't know."

Hans pauses, turns to Colin at his left, and looks at him. The question is silent.

"I would have obliterated it," answers Colin.

Hans reaches out his hand. Colin shakes it.

An understanding.

Wordlessly, Hans turns and begins to thread his way back to the judicial environs of the Palace.

Colin walks away, in no direction particularly, but one which would take him past the chamber of Anton Gruber.

The hall echoes with two sets of footfalls, until the sounds fall away . . . leaving the shapes of before and after, the names of things and not themselves, the possibilities, known and unknown.

ThankS, MA
R, - Thursday, December 26, 2002 at 17:26:29 (PST)

Oh look at me... I can't even spell Christmas...
Me again
- Wednesday, December 25, 2002 at 18:57:51 (PST)

I just wanted to peep in and wish everyone a very Happy Chrismtas!!!
Diane <iluvalanrickman@neopets.com>
I got a cute little Snape action figure- one that actually looks like him. Awe..., - Wednesday, December 25, 2002 at 09:58:19 (PST)

And a Happy Anniversary to Renie and Hans. 8-)

MA
Remembering the festivities at Nakatomi . . . , - Tuesday, December 24, 2002 at 13:48:29 (PST)

Somewhere, a hall of the Imperial Palace . . .

He can wait no longer. It seems to him that there has never been a moment when the subjects of the Realm--from the thoughtful, to the curious, to the righteous, and even those who came in spite of themselves--had left the letter unattended.

As he could not simply stay in the vicinity of this Hall for long durations, he had only periodically been able to check . . . until now.

He slips around the corner, his breath barely under control. He can see the dais. There is it, the letter. All muscles and intention move towards the envelope. He can see it. It is almost---

Bloody hell. He murmurs under his breath, scanning the halls for any movement.

He sees none. But the hairs on the back of his neck . . .

As he hears a VOICE.

"Not you. "

The statement is more shocking than he might have anticipated. If he'd anticipated.

"You don't understand, Hans---." There is no one else around. They are alone in the hall.

Hans's steely gaze locks on the man sent to watch out for him. If you only knew, thinks Colin. The men do not move, and the hall quivers under Colin's question. "What are you going to do?"

Colin cannot tell how long Hans has been there. That face discloses nothing except a keen awareness.

It is like stalking a prey which might swallow you--whole--if it were so inclined.

"I will do what I need to, because I love her."

"And what is that, Hans? What did you say? Shall you leave it to destiny? Shall we? Or is destiny taking a hand?" (homage)

"You have no business here, Colin."

"And you do." Colin's empty hands feel moist. The letter. It will have to be now.

Whatever happens . . .

"You will do what you need to do, because you love her," repeats Colin. "Which means destroying letter. HE can't be granted clemency. HE can't. You can't let HIM. HE has to pay for his crimes. All HE's done. It's time for it all to stop." Colin's voice is an urgent whisper. Yet Hans cannot tell whether Colin is persuading, or agreeing. "Isn't it, Hans?"

Hans does not answer.

"Are you guarding the letter or here to steal it? Destroy it? Tell me!" demands Colin. His voice rising.

The envelope stares at them, as each of them calculates just how far out of reach the dais stands.

"Let me handle this, Colin."

"You have to disappoint her, to protect her. Isn't that right, Hans?"

Hans slowly moves towards the dais, even as Colin matches his silent progress. Equidistant from the target.

And a Happy Christmas to all
especially on Christmas Eve . . . R , - Monday, December 23, 2002 at 17:11:40 (PST)

Back at the Downtime:

She did wish it. A strip tease with the payoff at the end. Him standing naked before her. He’d said he was at her mercy and this could be an opportunity to see how far that extended.

Except that she knew that this alone was not the payoff for which she had been waiting. As sensual as this all was, as tempting, she knew it not to be the right way, the right time or the right place. He had been so careful to preserve what they had, not to rush, to make it right. There were times when she would have moved faster, but it was too important. Her decision reached she barely moved her head to one side and he nodded a bow to her.

The music stopped, the sound of applause was heard and the next song began almost instantly. His eyes held hers as he stood, gathering the molecules of the air around him like a cloak, his stillness as eloquent as his dance had been. Her gaze was unwavering as he permitted her unabashed attention. When her smile began to coalesce a flash of white teeth from him matched it. He reached for his shirt but was forestalled by her moving to retrieve his things. She took them over to the love seat and he joined her. Item by item she helped him dress, carefully buttoning and smoothing down the silk shirt, presenting trousers for him to put on as he exaggerated the care with which he slipped into them and zipped and buttoned himself in, holding loafers while he slipped into them. When all of the clothing was in place he seated himself. Side by side on the divan he opened his arms and she slipped inside them to be held and stroked.

“Whatever possessed you?” She eventually murmured.

A low rumble which she felt by means of the cheek and palm laid upon his chest was her only response until he said, “I promised you a private performance, did I not?”

“You are an insufferable man.”

“And yet you continue to suffer my presence.”

“Must be some sort of masochistic tendency I never knew I possessed.”

“Careful, you pander to my baser instincts.”

A very unladylike snort emanated from the vicinity of his collar bone. “I’ll just bet I do. But at this rate I’m never going to find out, am I?”

She pulled backed and looked up at him sharply and it seemed to him there was a flash of green from those soft brown eyes. He rifled through the available replies that were responsive to the real question but said only, “there is time yet, for you to find out all things. Isn’t there?”

Damn the man. “I think so. I don’t know, Patrick.”

“Come here.” He pulled her back into his embrace and resumed the gentle stroking of her hair, moving down to include the accessible shoulder and kissed her temple. “I do know. Trust me, eh.”

Nothing further was spoken and Cindie’s nerves were soothed past bonelessness when Mistral began to gently sit her upright. It was time to go. Past time, really. It had been almost an hour since the music had ceased wafting into the room and there was no more clatter of glasses and muffled conversation. Cindie stood and righted herself and Mistral followed suit. Despite his treatment of his clothing he looked impeccable. The man was a cat. He held the door for her and she walked out into the Downtime proper. It was early morning though still dark inside the bar. She had expected to see no one, save perhaps Sinclair whom she suspected materialized by magic whenever anyone approached the bar’s vicinity. Instead she saw two workmen behind the bar hanging a very large fish above the last row of bottles. They were being supervised by a man whose back was to them and seemed most particular as to how the great finned creature was to be displayed.

“Isn’t that Mary Anne’s porbeagle?” She had been watching the action involving George and Joya when it was pulled up but recognized it by the photographs that had been circulating. An impressive sight, rendered more impressive by the knowledge of how it was caught and how its companions nearly ate on of their own.

“More to the point how did they manage to get it stuffed and mounted so quickly?” was Mistral’s response.

Cindie and Mistral approached the bar and watched the workmen secure the mounted shark with long retainer bolts. Only when it was secured to his satisfaction did Snape acknowledge their presence with a curt nod and a “Good morning”.

“Good morning, Professor Snape.” Cindie stifled a yawn and pretended not to see the smirk which Snape quickly suppressed. Mistral was moving behind the bar to study the fish and hadn’t seen it. “Is that Mary Anne’s?” She indicated to the obvious creature with a wave of her hand.

“Yes. I took it upon myself to find someone to do the work.” Snape was rather proud of this accomplishment. He’d used a telephone directory to locate a taxidermist. Since he’d been unfamiliar with both of these items until last night he felt he’d done very well indeed. “The man I located was quite eager to work on Miss Mary Anne’s creature. Apparently he is usually called upon to work on birds and the occasional familiar, ah pet. So this was as a treat for him.” Actually the man looked as though he belonged on Knockturn Alley and gave even Snape pause. “He likes to work at night so I went right over with the porbeagle.” He mentally tallied the internal organs and bits of the creature which he had set aside for his own purposes. The bizarre little man hadn’t questioned his request for these items which Snape found more disconcerting than the hours he kept. After all, Snape himself was known to work late into the night when he was in the thrall of a particular project. But he was always wary of unusual requests for ingredients from students and colleagues.

The process had been fascinating, if primitive. He would have simply cast a *Petrificus Totalis* spell to achieve the same ends. Once. The Muggle method was very involved but he had to acknowledge that the effect was excellent. An odd item to adorn the wall of a drinking establishment, but then he was still learning Muggle ways.

Mistral was finished with his inspection and came back around the bar. “It’s good work, Professor. It appears you chose well in your taxidermist.”

Snape merely nodded.

Cindie yawned in earnest now and Mistral was quickly at her side. “I think we shall bid you good day, Professor.”

“Bye.” Cindie waved goodbye as Mistral took her arm and led her outside to the car. She was surprised that the Professor returned her wave as she exited the door. The precursor of the sun’s rays was changing the quality of the darkness when they pulled out of the Downtime parking lot.

Cindie
Aaargh!!! Will they never stop?! No SPAM at the Downtime, thank goodness..., - Saturday, December 21, 2002 at 15:45:19 (PST)

Spam deleted.
D.o.C.

Scene: As we fade from the sitting room in the Palace to a dressing table in the Gruber home . . . personal items . . . small boxes . . . a favorite Tiger-eye necklace . . . Chanel #5 . . . a custom-made long-handled Mason Pearson hairbrush of boar bristle and wood . . . the empty envelope lying on the dressertop, no longer against the mirror, as she had found it last night . . .

The morning.

An unaccountable chill, from where she cannot tell.

Suddenly her long sleepwear, and her dressing gown over it, fails to keep her warm, and Mrs. Gruber abandons the robe in favor of an oversized sweater, cashmere, pulled over the length of caramel silk. It hangs less loosely than it did only months before. Settling into her chair, she spies the empty envelope, as recalls the night . . .

And we are in flashback . . .

. . . Renie slides her nail along the envelope's edge, making a jagged mess of weld. Without address or warning, it simply begins . . .

I couldn't leave you alone today, of all days. (homage) I'll do as you've asked me. You must realize, though, that Hans won't permit me to see or know anything which he doesn't want me to see. I will "look out for him" as you put it, as best I can. But under these circumstances . . . Renie, do you have any idea what you have asked of him? Remember the kind of man Hans was, in his life, before he found you. That he was a different man, grown of dark and brutal seeds.

You know he receives threats--mortal threats--because of the power he wields. And the dangers are real. Very real. He treats them so, never dismissing them, as a fool who waves his hand at a small dog nipping at his master's heels. I would guess that he doesn't tell you the number of threats he receives. To the Hansbank, to its allies, and to himself. Am I right?

Yet he is not afraid of these threats, these dangers. There is only one place he is vulnerable. You. Hans is afraid of nothing in heaven, hell or on earth--except that any harm should come to you. And now, in you, his child.

At this, Renie's eyes lift from the paper in her hands, to see her reflection in the mirror--yet it is not her own shape she sees, but that of Hans. "Do I need an excuse to give my wife a gift?"

She glances at the glass lid, the Gruber Glassworks signature.

And back to the paper.

It is perhaps not my place to question why you would saddle him with the task of delivering your trial letter. If you think to make him read it to the Court himself, you have misjudged him. I may be wrong, but I don't think he can do it. What man could. Who would ask for the things you ask, for HIM? Who among those you care for has HE not wronged?

I will stop. I feel myself nearing reproach of your life with HIM. As you can see, I am overstepping my bounds, and in saying this . . . But I could not consider myself--a friend to you--if I didn't tell you that there is a chance Hans may destroy your letter.

There is a chance that it will never be read, by anyone. Except by your husband, and by me.

You ask so much.

Colin

End flashback . . .

There the letter had ended.

Looking outside, Renie can see a haze building across the morning skies, along with the growing sunshine.

Events at the Palace may already be underway, she thinks.

Things are rarely entirely clear, even at dawn.

Conced il pity su me...perché ho amavo...e perché il mio amore non morirà.
Pity me, because I have loved, and because my love will not die.--R, - Friday, December 20, 2002 at 16:48:05 (PST)

Minion! Yowza!
;-)
- Friday, December 20, 2002 at 16:15:22 (PST)

The Palace:

The sitting room is a warm and lovely chamber enough, a small jewel box of draped velvets and polished woods and gilt ornaments, though Mary Anne hardly notices these details at first, bewildered as she still is by her encounter with Therese. However, she quickly gathers her wits together as she is escorted into the room and curtsies before The Empress, who smiles and beckons her to a seat near a low table.

"Good morning, Mrs. Brandon. Have you breakfasted? Will you have some tea?"

"Thank you, Your Majesty. I will."

These formalities exchanged, the two women sit regarding each other in silence for some moments, and it is a less uncomfortable experience than Mary Anne would have expected, to be so scrutizined. The Empress does not appear to keep her state this morning, but is very simply dressed in a dark gown, though the quality of it is readily apparent to Mary Anne with her love of fine clothing, and she breathes a small sigh of relief that in her haste to be dressed she had chosen a very plain gown as well. Their congruence of taste puts her more at ease as tea is brought and poured, as they sip and exchange light comments until the servitors depart through the far door of the sitting room, leaving them alone with a trio of Her Majesty’s Imperials.

And that is when The Empress sets down her cup, gently but decisively.

"Mrs. Brandon, I have had a most interesting visit from Herr Gruber this morning."

"Herr . . . Anton Gruber?" begins Mary Anne. "Or . . ."

"Hans Gruber, and he placed before me a most interesting letter."

Mary Anne returns her cup to the tray. "Yes . . . I saw it last night."

"I see. Tell me, Mrs. Brandon-did you know what Mrs. Gruber planned to do?"

There is nothing accusing here. It is a tone of calm inquiry after information. Nevertheless, Mary Anne is suddenly transported in memory to another sitting room in the Manor House of Egdon, recalled to the scene of numerous "chats" with Renie that had always seemed to end in them pummeling each other with cushions. Not the least hint of a smile reaches Mary Anne’s lips, but she calls out across all distance in her thoughts: Renie, I’ll get you for this. Just you wait; you are going to get such a swat . . .

But she cannot keep The Empress waiting, or tell anything but the truth. "I did not know it, You Majesty, but . . . it does not surprise me." One hand lifted in a gesture of helplessness. "It’s what she would do."

"And you do not approve."

Mary Anne glances up in surprise. "I-it doesn’t matter, does it, whether or not I approve? I understand, and that is another thing entirely. (homage) But approve . . ." Her look darkens in spite of her attempt to control herself, and The Empress nods as if some unspoken question had been answered.

"Well, it was not for that I summoned you-though it may interest you to know that I have granted the request. The letter is on display outside of the trial chamber, where all may read it freely, and we shall see if any come to accept its challenge. But for now . . ."

Mary Anne sits up straighter in her chair. She has never seen The Empress discomposed-granted, her time in the royal presence has been brief, but long enough to impress her with this woman’s apparent command of any situation in which she finds herself. Only now . . .

The Empress sits quietly, her beautiful hands folded in her lap without a tremor to betray any agitation. But the look in her eyes-eager, but strangely apprehensive, as she nods to the Guardsmen, one of whom steps toward the far door through which the servants had departed. Mary Anne watches as he opens the door and nods to someone in the adjoining room.

"There is someone, Mrs. Brandon, with whom I wish you to converse . . ."

Any further words from The Empress are lost. Mary Anne is on her feet, rigid, transfixed.

The trio of Guardsmen advance, and in their midst . . .

"Mary Anne." A colourless wisp of a voice.

Mary Anne lifts her chin slightly at this too-familiar address. We have encountered, Reader, some imperious personages in these chronicles of The Realm, and seen the gazes they can bestow upon those who offend them. There is the titled hauteur of the Vicomte de Valmont; there is the tiger-golden eye of the Grubers, both father and son. Even Christopher Brandon, famed among those who know him well as the kindest and best of men, can all but quell a riot with one lift of an eyebrow. Still, it is to be wondered whether any scion of the house of Valmont, Gruber, or Brandon could summon such a look of freezing disdain.

"That will be Mrs. Brandon to you, Minion."

MA
Therese, I'd say "Run, Dev!"--but there's nowhere for him to run . . ., - Thursday, December 19, 2002 at 19:16:30 (PST)

He was fed up with worry, and the couple next to him wasn’t helping one bit. It hurt him deeply that not one other soul from the Flights of Fancy crew had come to wait with him, or perhaps give the hospital a call… or something! Either, he decided, they were very heartless (which he sincerely doubted) or that they were just not fond of the newer member of the team. Surely, he had thought, that SOMEONE would be the tiniest bit intrigued to know… but they wouldn’t know much. He had been waiting for over an hour now and still no news. It was nerve-racking.

Time was as stone. Endless, hard. The ticking of the clock set his mind into a frenzy. How much more of this he could take, he did not know. His hands were twisting into fists and uncurling. He would pop his knuckles over and over and over and over again. "Give me an occupation or I shall run mad…" he hissed. (homage) Even the spoon magazine didn’t help. (All it sold was different styles of wood paneling for your home decor and kitchen appliances.) He tried humming tunes that he often played on his cello, but humming is just not something that one does in a hospital.

"Excuse me, sir." Jamie cast a glance upwards, the hairs on his neck standing on end. "Are you with the certain Ms. Ferra?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Come with me, please."

Jamie rose and followed the man into a low-ceiling room with an aquarium in the corner. "Please, sit." Jamie stood anyways. The man licked his lips impatiently, as if deciding if the word memorabilia has one l or two. He was dressed in a long, white overcoat and wore matching rubber gloves. You can only assume that this man was a doctor.

"How well are you acquainted with Ms. Ferra?"

"Not very."

"Ah. Well, as you may or may not know… Ms. Ferra was not a healthy woman to begin with." He pulled out a portfolio stacked to the rim with papers bulging on all sides. "She has had many assortments of disease throughout her childhood and adulthood, such as asthma, arthritis, thyroid disease, and patellar compression syndrome. What many physicians have NOT included in her files is that she was born with one of the weakest immune systems I have ever seen that has not been touched by AIDS. Even if you, Mr.…Mr.…"

"Jamie."

"Even if you, Mr. Jamie, were to look at these files, you would see that she visited a local clinic at least two times a month due to colds, influenza, etc. Her immune system has made her extremely susceptible to any type of virus or disease caused by bacteria. Do you follow?" Jamie nodded his reply. The man paused and adjusted his glasses on his nose. "Now, if Ms. Ferra had a normal, healthy immune system she would not even be here. If she even had a semi-normal one she would be considered fine." The doctor’s face became grave and dark. "But, I cannot pretend that her illness is not serious. Her fever is astonishingly high for one so young and she is not doing as well as I had hoped. And, I must tell you to prepare for the worst." (homage) He sighed. "She has gone into a partial coma and can barely speak. But, if you wish, Mr. Jamie, I will allow you to visit with her for a short period of time."

Jamie wiped away a few tears that had escaped and accepted the doctor’s offer. The man led him up a hallway into a room. Diane lay on a cot, her face paler than before and lips as blue as the sky. She was hooked up to a respirator and needles stuck out of her arms. Jamie was scared. Not just because that hospitals ARE frightening places, but because he had looked very similar… right before he…

He pulled up a chair and sat down, looking deeply down with big, round eyes. "Diane… Diane? Can you hear me?"

Her eyes fluttered for a moment, rolled, then looked up. Straight up. "Jamie… is that you?"

"I’m here."

"Jamie?"

"Yes?"

"Play me… a song."

Five minutes later, Jamie was back, a cello in hand. He had borrowed it from a storage room- apparently, one of the nurses played, and used it to calm down the patients.

And now he played.

"Sun ain’t gonna shine anymore… moon ain’t gonna rise in the sky…"

Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Oh but Therese, its so much fun to torture ourselves! (The worst part of it is that all of the illnesses mentioned are true! Cept, I'm not in a hosptial, of course. ;)), - Tuesday, December 17, 2002 at 19:20:03 (PST)

The Imperial Palace, Morning

Therese stormed out of her bedroom, startling the cluster of Imperial Guardsmen who grouped just outside her door as if waiting for the smallest excuse to make their presence known. Her face was flushed; her actions shaky in her turmoil as she stalked down the hall. Rupert laid a gentle hand on her arm, guiding her through the large, maze-like structure.

"Are you certain you're up to this, Miss Gellert?" her escort asked as she stared ahead, her large brown eyes flashing angrily.

"Oh, I'm up to this, believe me, sir," Therese replied stonily.

They continued in silence, before a door they passed was thrown open, the structure protesting as it was rocked back upon its hinges. "What do you mean the request was for Mrs. Brandon alone?" a deep, masculine voice demanded in harsh tones.

Therese stopped at the familiar voice, and the entourage behind her followed suit as they heard a guardsman respond. "My apologies sir, but as a general rule we do not question Her Majesty, and she was quite specific. We were told to escort Mrs. Brandon, and Mrs. Brandon alone, to Her Majesty's private sitting room."

"Christopher, it's quite all right--I'm certain that Her Majesty couldn't want me for long, and she has sent her personal guards as escort--I--oh!" Mary Anne broke off suddenly as she began to exit the fencing room, then stopped as she encountered the unintentional eavesdroppers. "Therese!" she exclaimed in surprise.

Brandon, hearing the name Mary Anne spoke, looked over his wife's shoulder, and tipped his head back in surprise. "Therese, we thought you and Eamon were in Delaford, what are you doing here?"

Therese looked from one Brandon to another and back again, vainly attempting, and failing, to form some coherent thought from the roiling mash of emotions she was experiencing. "I was, we were--and then he wanted, no, I had to, but then, and now--" she broke off as tears threatened, and she clenched her fists as she tried to regain control. "Sir John promised he'd watch Delaford, Colonel--we didn't leave until everything was arranged, I swear to you--"

A quick motion of Brandon’s hand silenced Therese. "That is of no matter, Therese, my staff is well capable of caring for Delaford in my," he looked to Mary Anne, and his voice softened slightly as he corrected himself, "our absence. The more important issue is your presence here. Mr. DeValera has accompanied you, I trust?"

Brandon saw Rupert's hand gesticulation to end that train of thought too late, and the mention of Eamon's name had the predicted result. "Mr. DeValera accompanied me here, that much is correct, and now Rupert has kindly agreed to take me to the prison cell in which Eamon currently resides so that I may murder that offensive Irish oaf." Once begun, Therese moved into full swing, her movements erratic and her voice shrill as she bordered on hysteria while categorizing the various punishments she wished to perpetrate upon Eamon, and gradually, despite Therese's largely incoherent diatribe, it became obvious to the Brandons what he had done, and his demand to see her before he would speak.

Good heavens, Dev--you've really done it this time, Mary Anne thought as she considered the woman who she had grown to think of as her friend. She knew that Therese was barely holding together, it was emotionally a highly charged time for them all, and this fell so quickly upon the heels of Therese's kidnapping and interrogation at the hands of HIM. What in God's name could you have been thinking, you're a smarter man than this! She knew that her friend needed her presence now, but one did not ignore a summons from the Empress. She turned to her husband, her beautiful blue eyes clearly reflecting her dilemma. "Christopher?"

He nodded slightly, tucking her closely under his arm for the briefest of moments, before planting a soft kiss upon the base of her neck. Even such a slight demonstration of affection spoke volumes of Brandon's torment at being unable to accompany his lovely wife. "I understand, dearest, but only because I am unable to go with you."

"I know, Christopher, and I will be back to you quite soon, I am certain of it." She gently grasped his hand as the guards began to escort her toward the Empress as requested, and he placed a kiss to the back of her hand as her fingers slid through his own.

Therese had continued muttering threats toward Eamon and vacillated from wild bursts of temper to teary-eyed bouts of pity. Brandon shook his head slightly as his wife was lead away, and took a deep breath. "Miss Gellert!" he growled in his best regimental voice, causing each and every guard present to instinctually respond to the authoritative tone by throwing their shoulders back and raising their chins. Brandon had learned early on in his military career that command was 40% the psychology of knowing when to comfort and when to be strict, and 60% fairness. He knew that Therese was close to falling apart, and that the only way to keep her intact was to treat her much as he would a raw recruit.

"S-sir?" she responded, equally without thought, before turning her attention fully upon the man who had spoken. "You've been through much," he acknowledged, "and you've more ahead, but this conduct benefits no one. Do you understand? We all need one another’s help to get through this, and hysteria is of no use."

She took several deep breaths before raising her head to look Brandon in the eye, then slowly inclined her head. "You're correct, Colonel, and I thank you for the reminder. I know that you wish to be with your wife at this time, and I'm sorry that you are forced instead to accompany me."

Brandon's face softened. To say that he smiled would be too extreme, but he turned to Therese with a look of satisfaction at her now steady tone. "It is through no fault of your own, and I am happy to be of assistance. Let us proceed with this unpleasant task."

"Yes," Therese agreed, almost as if speaking to herself. "It will be of great help to have the assistance of a seasoned military man. I imagine you've far more experience at torturing buffle headed, delusional idiots than I can ever hope to acquire. I believe your assistance will be of great help indeed."

Belatedly the thought occurred to Brandon that Therese would have in no way have been the typical raw recruit.

Therese
Diane--don't be so hard on yourself, not even virtually! Thanks for the welcome back from my buds--it's great to be a part of the insanity again., - Tuesday, December 17, 2002 at 14:15:08 (PST)

In a flashback to the docking of the yacht...

Diane <potions_masters_baby@snape-is.mine.nu>
Hey! I love the new decorations! And please forgive my over-dramatics, blame the government., - Monday, December 16, 2002 at 20:19:52 (PST)

At the Palace:

The Vicomte de Valmont was quite pleased with himself. Had he not, with some assistance from an unexpected quarter, moved the woman to tears? It was but a short step from tears to confidences to defenses. All would eventually be shed in his presence, and then. . . His valet assisted him into his coat and taking one last look at himself in the mirror he quitted his chambers.

Anton Gruber found Cynthia curled up in the love seat in their little sitting room off of the offices. She was staring out the window at the landscape. A new coating of snow had fallen overnight lending a fresh sparkle to the trees. Someone had scattered bird seed and the little creatures were flitting and hopping and taking advantage of the feast as their exertions knocked bits of snow from the trees to the ground. He stood watching her for a moment. She was arrayed in a lovely yellow frock that brought out the healthy colour of her complexion. That was new, he thought. Surely two days ago she had looked almost pale. Finally, belatedly sensing his presence she looked up at him and a wan smile appeared and disappeared on her lips, “They feed the birds here year round. I found out yesterday. They put extra seed out here today so we could see them all.” She pointed to one bright red specimen, “Look. Aren’t they beautiful? If I have time today I’m going to go to the library and get a book to see what they all are.”

Anton could feel that something had changed with her. Hadn’t he worked side by side with her for enough twenty hour days to see that something was amiss? He had heard her crying last night, he was sure of it, and here she was staring out the window and talking about birds. But it was what he had hoped for her, wasn’t it? That she would take a respite from the concerns of work and find some recreation here. Let go of her tightly wound emotions and begin to live her life. Stirring himself to move, his own smile flickered on his face and he sat down next to her. “Ja. They are lovely.”

“I never did find you yesterday.” Cynthia’s tone was not accusing, only matter of fact. “Did you have business in the Palace?”

Anton nodded.

“Is everything …satisfactory?”

“As satisfactory as they can be.” His encounter in the TARDIS had in fact surpassed his expectations. “And you, tell me what happened with you yesterday. It seems there was some upset while I was …otherwise occupied.”

“There has been some unauthorized activity on the Northern border. It may simply be subjects camping where they shouldn’t but I reported it to security. My guess is that there is more going on, however, the usual channels are not saying anything more than the trial will proceed as scheduled.”

“I too think there is much more going on.” His voice was very soft and Cynthia looked up at him sharply but said nothing. Tell me, he thought to himself, tell me what else is going on.

“There is something else.” Anton looked at her expectantly. Cynthia continued, “Hans and Colin are probably somewhere in the Palace by now.” When Anton’s response was no more than a raised eyebrow she explained her phone call yesterday with the two corporate offices.

He merely nodded again and made a move as if to take her hand. Instead he placed it on the back of the love seat. “There is some time yet before we must attend to business.”

“Yes,” Cynthia had not seen the aborted gesture as she was again looking out he window. “I think I will make for library.”

“You will not break fast?”

“I had tea and toast in my room. It is sufficient.” She stood now and seemed to realize her employer may have wished her to do something for him. “Will there by anything else, Anton?”

“Nein.” Now he looked out the window at a bright blue bird pecking in the snow and wondering with whom she had been out so far yesterday and feeling very much merely her employer.

Cindie
Cravat loosening, is there anything finer?
Yay, the homeless actor and the destitute waif are back and ready for action!, - Sunday, December 15, 2002 at 16:21:29 (PST)

The Imperial Palace. Morning.

Mary Anne watches the scene before her with intense concentration, but also with the shining eyes and slightly parted lips that might be expected-for the scene before her is the sword practice of the Imperial Guardsmen, and Brandon is a participant.

Mary Anne had awakened alone that morning, and after a moment of surprise at not finding Brandon beside her, she had discovered the note he left on the pillow: that he had received a message of invitation to take part in the sword practice, and would she join them when she had risen? Mary Anne had privately suspected, as she hurried into her gown with the assistance of the ladies’ maids, that either Rupert or The Empress had been behind that invitation. They had doubtless observed Brandon’s ire at his wife having the face The Interrogator alone, and this would prove a welcome opportunity for him to vent some of his irritation. And of course, The Empress would see no harm in having another combat veteran about The Palace, either, and at the top of his form. Such had been Mary Anne’s speculations as she made he way to the far wing of The Palace in which the training of the Guardsmen takes place.

Standing at the edge of the railed enclosure, Mary Anne keeps her eyes fixed on her husband-who certainly is in keen form as he and his opponent warily circle each other. They are but one pair among several, all armed with blunted sabres but otherwise unprotected: not a fencing mask, jacket, or set of gloves is to be seen, since there would be none in a genuine battle.

Mary Anne winces at the clash of sabres, her eyes flicking briefly toward a gathering of court ladies a short distance away who cry out in alarm and excitement at the close skirmish before turning back toward the enclosure. Brandon stands out, certainly, as much in fighting form as in dress. He is the only man there in civilian clothing; having shed his jacket and waistcoat, he is a distinctive and elegant figure in his simple white shirt and black cravat. Another glance at the court ladies and the direction of their gestures and gazes proves to her that she is not the only woman who finds Brandon a striking swordsman.

Pun most certainly intended. Brandon and his opponent have stepped back from one another after a furious round, but the Captain of the Guard, after a few comments on their form, cries "En garde!" and they close once more in what it seems must end as a lethal exchange despite the blunted weapons. None of the sporting niceties of fencing, here; no tallying of points. The combat is over when the enemy is disarmed or at one’s mercy.

The Colonel’s opponent forces himself close and Brandon does not back away, but manages to trip the younger man as he moves in for the disarming blow. To Mary Anne’s astonishment, the man does not attempt to break his fall, but hits the floor with a shoulder roll and is back on his feet in an instant as though his muscles were steel springs. However, the moment of delay is enough-the tip of Brandon’s sabre is lodged in the hilt of the opponent’s weapon, and the blade sails into the air . . .

. . . to be neatly caught by the Captain. Brandon’s opponent lowers his arms to his sides and bows in Brandon’s direction. "Your game, sir."

There is a scattering of applause from the galleries as the two men shake hands and Brandon moves toward Mary Anne-who cannot quite restrain her smile when Brandon loosens his cravat to breathe more freely, sparking a predictable response among the court ladies clustered further down the railing.

"Mary Anne. I am pleased you could join us."

"Christopher, you’ve been holding out on me."

"I have been . . . what do you mean, my dearest?"

"I mean that you fought just now-" She is about to say as I have never seen you fight, and yet she has seen him in just this mood before, on occasions that she would prefer not to recall. He has been a soldier, after all, though he hardly speaks of it to me.

"I was in the right humour for it," replies Brandon, "and perhaps the young man hadn’t much experience. He is fairly new to the Guardsmen."

"Don’t say ‘the young man’ as if you were some old fossil-and that manoeuvre of his was quite something for an inexperienced man. But anyway, you’ve been far too sparing of me when we practice, I think. How can I be expected to improve if you coddle me?"

Brandon arches an eyebrow at her, and Mary Anne feels her heart accelerate. "Then, Mary Anne, I shall become, as you seem to wish it, far more unsparing . . . in our swordplay." That half-smile does nothing to slow her heart rate. "If you will permit me to coddle you, as you put it, on all other occasions."

Before Mary Anne can reply, a young man in the Imperial court livery approaches them. "Mrs. Brandon?"

"Yes?"

The messenger bows to both of them. "Her Majesty requests your presence."

Brandon and Mary Anne exchange eloquent glances. Requests. Mary Anne nods. "We will attend Her Majesty immediately."

The messenger looks uneasy. "Mrs. Brandon, the request is for you alone."

MA--hoping the swordplay will hack through some of this SPAM! En garde!
Therese, welcome back, with many many hugs. 8-) And now--BACK TO THE PALACE!, - Sunday, December 15, 2002 at 14:18:20 (PST)

Ok, should be teeth and type... Sorry!
Diane
Attack of the typos!!, - Sunday, December 15, 2002 at 09:38:50 (PST)

Somewhere, overhead in the sky...

The copter rocked back and forth softly in the wind like a cradle. Jamie was much calmer now, although his teeth still chattered together with a click, clickity, click click. (One can only suppose why.) Diane seemed to have gone into some time of coma, but he was not sure; her forehead felt hot to the touch. He was worried, but a thought had struck his mind, as evil as it was. If Diane was... to die... which is not very likely... then at least she could... or perhaps would consider it... being with me.

The co-pilot in the cockpit swung around, smiling. "It'll be alright, sir. We're approaching the hospital now." The man blinked at Jamie's quivering body. "Are you alright? Here... chew on this, it might help." The man drew out a plate and handed it to Jamie. SPAM.
Diane <potions_masters_baby@snape-is.mine.nu>
I think we need to conduct an army for fighting spam!!!, - Sunday, December 15, 2002 at 09:35:28 (PST)

Spam deleted.
D.o.C.

Elliott was trying to have a good day. But everything was going bad.

He hadn't slept a wink that night in worrying about Elijah, and moreover, all his limbs were aching. It didn't help when one of his men came riding up to the door shouting, and then the sound of pounding footsteps. Elliott fumed, went to the door, and flung it open, only to find Elijah standing outside.

"DIDN'T I TELL YOU NEVER TO COME BACK?!" Elliott shouted, but Elijah cut him off but swiftly removing something from behind his back... spam . Elliott stared at the pink thing in his brother's hand in disbelief.

"Did you know this was made in Austin, Minnesota?"
Alice
'Tis the season for the spammers, fa la...all join in and raise your hammers fa la...crush their monitors, crush their modems..., - Friday, December 13, 2002 at 09:52:53 (PST)

The Twelve Days of Alan Rickman

(sing to the Twelve Days of Christmas)

"On the first day of Christmas Alan Rickman gave to me... the roasted partridge from his pear tree..."

"On the second day of Christmas Alan Rickman gave to me... 2 brand-new chellos...and the roasted partridge from his pear tree..."

"On the third day of Christmas Alan Rickman gave to me... 3 moter-bikes, 2 brand-new chellos...and the roasted partride from his pear tree."

"On the fourth day of Christmas Alan Rickman gave to me... 4 bubbling cauldrons, 3 moter-bikes, 2 brand-new chellos... and the roasted partridge from his pear tree."

"On the fifth day of Christmas Alan Rickman gave to me... 5 SILVER THERMOSES...4 bubbling cauldrons, 3 moter-bikes, 2 brand-new chellos... and the roasted partridge from his pear tree."

"On the sixth day of Chrismtas Alan Rickman gave to me... 6 grand masterpieces, 5 SILVER THERMOSES... 4 bubbling cauldrons, 3 moter-bikes, 2 brand-new chellos... and the roasted partridge from his pear tree."

"On the seventh day of Christmas Alan Rickman gave to me... 7 polished pistols, 6 grand masterpieces, 5 SILVER THERMOSES... 4 bubbling cauldrons, 3 moter-bikes, 2 brand-new chellos... and the roasted partridge from his pear tree."

"On the eighth day of Christmas Alan Rickman gave to me... 8 expensive suits, 7 polished pistols, 6 grand masterpieces, 5 SILVER THERMOSES... 4 bubbling cauldrons, 3 moter-bikes, 2 brand-new chellos... and the roasted partridge from his pear tree."

"On the ninth day of Christmas Alan Rickman gave to me... 9 broadward grands, 8 expensive suits, 7 polished pistols, 6 grand masterpieces, 5 SILVER THERMOSES... 4 bubbling cauldrons, 3 moter-bikes, 2 brand-new chellos... and the roasted partridge from his pear tree."

"On the tenth day of Christmas Alan Rickman gave to me... 10 jellyfish head-masks, 9 broadward grands, 8 expensive suits, 7 polished pistols, 6 grand masterpieces, 5 SILVER THERMOSES... 4 bubbling cauldrons, 3 moter-bikes, 2 brand-new chellos, and the roasted partridge from his pear tree."

"On the eleventh day of Christmas Alan Rickman gave to me... 11 angelic wings, 10 jellyfish head-masks, 9 broadward grands, 8 expensive suits, 7 polished pistols, 6 grand masterpieces, 5 SILVER THERMOSES... 4 bubbling cauldrons, 3 moter-bikes, 2 brand-new chellos... and the roasted partridge from his pear tree."

"On the twelfth day of Christmas Alan Rickman gave to me...12 metal spoons, 11 angelic wings, 10 jellyfish head-masks, 9 broadward grands, 8 expensive suits, 7 polished pistols, 6 grand masterpieces, 5 SILVER THERMOSES... 4 bubbling cauldrons, 3 moter-bikes, 2 brand-new chellos...and the roasted partridge from his pear... tree..."

Diane <potions_masters_baby@snape-is.mine.nu>
This is what happens to poor Rickmaniacs who study Geometry too long., - Wednesday, December 11, 2002 at 17:49:34 (PST)

Sandy has to win the prize for most convoluted way to work SPAM into a post. Who knew SPAM came from Minnesota?

Also posting to let yuze know that I'm e-mail-less for a couple of days. And many thanks for the positive responses to Mistral's private performance. He and I are most gratified.

Cindie
Pondering a bean-bag chaise. . . , - Wednesday, December 11, 2002 at 16:02:59 (PST)

Somewhere in Egypt, present day:

Alexander squinted futilely in the ever-increasing darkness and sighed quietly. His stomach churned unpleasantly and he swallowed back the oily aftertaste in his mouth yet again. He and his younger companions grew silent after several minutes of calling the missing members of their group. An ever-increasing sense of dread settled over the party while they moved forward, using the wall as a guide.

"I don't think they made it," Melanie's husky voice broke the silence, making everyone jump and stop in their tracks.

"Don't talk like that, Mel!" Roberta replied sharply, her hair flying about her face as she turned in her friend's direction. She brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes with a dirty hand and exhaled harshly. "Don't even *think* of it!"

"Do you think I *want* to, damn it?" Melanie whispered. "Have you forgotten about the hand not attached to a body that we found earlier?"

"Nobody does and we haven't forgotten about that either," Alexander answered hastily before the brunette could retort a response to Melanie's questions. "This place is filled with so many twists and turns that it's a wonder that all of us have managed to stay together - or that we were able to find you and David in the first place."

"Yes," Roberta said curtly, her lips pressing together into a tight line.

"Maybe we're just wandering around in a big circle of some sort," Jack surmised, turning away to sneeze.

"Bless you," the group chorused wearily.

"Thanks," Jack muttered, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

"Anything's possible," David agreed. "It's just so hard to tell." He gazed upward to the crack in the cavern ceiling and frowned. "What the?" He pointed and the others raised their heads to see what he was pointing at.

"More hieroglyphics," Jack breathed after a moment of silence. "All of images of souls being guided to the Underworld." He paused for a moment before continuing. "I don't remember reading anything about temples for Anubis in this region."

"That's because there haven't been any records *found* indicating major temples dedicated to Anubis around here," Alexander noted. "From this vantage point, they appear to be real, but I can't tell for certain." He rubbed his eyes wearily and attempted to hide a yawn behind his hand.

David's eyes widened momentarily as his stomach suddenly made a loud, gurgling noise and he swallowed several times, even going so far as to place his hand over his mouth. His face turned an awful grayish color in the dim lighting.

"Dave..." Jack said uneasily, instinctively backing away a couple of steps.

David shuddered and took several additional breaths before he could speak, and when he did, his voice was a harsh croak. "I'm all right. Stomach just decided to do a flip-flop." He smiled weakly at the group. "Really. I'm *fine!* Let's keep going before we lose more light."

Or someone loses their lunch. Alexander raised an eyebrow but nodded in reluctant agreement. "All right," he acquiesed. He sighed and turned around, facing forward. He placed his left hand against the passage wall and began moving forward yet again, the rest following behind him, sliding a bit because of the floor's slick surface as the downward grade increased.

As they moved along, it seemed to Alexander that every little noise seemed magnified tenfold. The group's breathing thundered in his ears and a slow but steady drip, drip, drip echoed in the passage.

"Someone talk about *something!*" Roberta hissed after several minutes of uneasy silence.

"Like what?" Jack asked.

"I don't know. Anything to drown out that blasted dripping noise!" Roberta said. "David, you come from Austin, right?"

"Uh... Yeah," David's voice held a note of amusement in it. "There's not much to tell really."

Jack snorted with laughter and Alexander turned around briefly at the sound. "What's so funny about that?" he asked. "I didn't know that you came from Texas, David."

"It's not *that* Austin, Professor," Jack explained, snickering.

David rolled his eyes and chuckled, shaking his head. "It's Austin, Minnesota," he elaborated.

Melanie's eyes widened in sudden understanding. She turned around for a moment and grinned wickedly at the two men before facing forward again.

Alexander frowned. "What am I missing?" he asked curiously.

"You're not the only one who feels like they're missing something, Professor," Roberta agreed. "What's so darn funny?"

"Well..." David began, suppressing a chuckle. "*Austin, Minnesota* isn't a big place, but it does have one claim to fame."

"Apparently it's not that famous," Alexander growled, coming to a halt and turning around to face the others as they too halted in the middle of the passage. "Otherwise the two of us - " he indicated Roberta, who shrugged her shoulders, mystified - "would bloody well know what you're talking about!"

"Austin, Minnesota is the home of the annual SPAM Jam," David informed the group with an odd little smile on his face.

"SPAM Jam?" Alexander's face clouded up in confusion as Jack began laughing. "What on Earth is a SPAM Jam?"

"Austin, Minnesota is where the Hormel factory is - and where SPAM is made. Every year, there's a huge festival celebrating all things SPAM," David explained. "It's quite the thing - all kinds of contests - including a beauty pageant and for those who like to *play* with their food, there's a contest where you can make SPAM sculptures." His ice-blue eyes sparkled in the dim light. "I won second place four years ago."

Melanie giggled softly and Roberta began laughing as Alexander gazed at the burly young man, left eyebrow raised. "Sculptures made from SPAM," he said dryly.

"That's right." David inclined his head in agreement.

"I see." There was a long pause. "So, what was it?"

"What was... Oh! The Eiffel Tower!" David exclaimed.

Alexander turned around and began walking forward again. "If you went to that much effort, you should've won first prize," he said over his shoulder. He felt a grin slowly spread over his face - and a feeling of hopefulness surfaced from where there had been none before.

The rest exchanged startled glances before they began following him down the passage.

Sandy, who came, who saw, and then spammed ;-)
WOW, Cindie! :-D, - Wednesday, December 11, 2002 at 13:16:59 (PST)

Thanks, Barbara! (And of course, Snape.)
Alice
*faints and lands with a thud*, - Wednesday, December 11, 2002 at 11:10:04 (PST)

watches Snape change single fainting couch into double fainting couch

Barbara the Wallpaperer
There's room now, Alice!

*swoon*

, - Tuesday, December 10, 2002 at 14:33:25 (PST)

FoF--the cubicles

The Director sighed as he approached the cubicles to which each of the actors on his set were entitled. He didn't care for the job of disciplinarian, Mary Anne's constant innuendos not withstanding, and he did not anticipate the task which was before him.

He approached the office he sought with his trademark confident, distinctive, long legged stride. He paused in one doorway, as of yet undetected by the woman in the office, who was just beginning to rummage about in one of the standing shelves behind her desk, but apparently was not undetected by the large Alsatian that had previously been napping in one corner. The dog, tags jingling, leapt to her feet, and hearing this, the woman turned to admonish her pet. "Tory--" she got no further than the animal's name as she turned around and saw the tall, broad shouldered man who filled the doorway, and closed her mouth with an almost audible snap.

Immediately, however, as if catapulted into action, Therese threw open the drawer she had been rummaging in, and started to, well, babble. There could be no more appropriate word.

"Sir!" she exclaimed, her voice painfully enthusiastic, "how good to see you. Tory, stop bothering The Director. Can I offer you some tea? Black, green, white? Yes, I said white. Did you know that tea came in white? I had no idea. Mary Anne got me a lovely canister full as she knows how much I love tea. It's much stronger than one would expect, but delicious just the same. Do you prefer caffeinated, caffeine free? Fruit flavoured, spiced, or plain? Are you hungry? Would you like a biscuit? Cindie got me a tin that simply melt when you bite into them. Or I always have good old McVitties. Tory, I *said* stop bothering The Director. It's your own fault you know, you spoil her dreadfully when you think I'm not looking. Do you take sugar with your tea? Have you eaten, I think I might have some things here to make you a sandwich--"

"Enough." This one word was uttered softly, yet the deep tone still filled the small cubicle. Large brown eyes turned toward him warily before she plunged ahead.

"Enough? Yes, I think I have enough things to make you a sandwich if you'd like. I have peanut butter, of course it's all natural--a great source of protein, and"--she plunged her hand into the cupboard almost desperately, her rapid speech barely subsiding long enough to draw a quick breath. "Oh yes, I only have raspberry jam, but it is seedless. I've always loved the way you English say that word, when I lived in the States, I always used to think to myself, imagine, a whole country full of people who say 'raaaaz-ber-ry'(homage). Now then--"

"Therese, will you please cease already." The Director looked at her, his eyes narrowed, balled fists resting on his hips. "What on Earth has gotten into you? Are you ill? My God woman, you've turned into Mrs. Jennings."

She looked up at him as he moved closer, and stared down at her in the chair. She'd made the tactical error of remaining seated while he approached, and felt frail and insignificant as he pinned her to her seat with his amber gaze. "I'm sorry sir," she mumbled.

He waved her apology away, and continued to advance. Stooping over her chair he removed his fists from his hips, placing one hand very deliberately on either arm of the desk chair, effectively trapping her in the seat. "What are you nattering on about?" he demanded, annunciating each word deliberately.

"Nothing, actually," Therese replied, her tone morose. "I was just afraid that if I let you get a word in edgewise, you'd fire me."

He raised a single brow, considering her intently. "Do I really look, or sound, like a man who can't let my opinions be known should I wish it?"

Sliding down the edge of her seat, Therese dodged under The Director's right arm, and skirted around the edge of the desk, desperately seeking distance from this man and his obvious disappointment in her. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to meet his gaze. "No, actually, you most certainly do not. So, do I have to be out of town by sundown, or can you give me a day or two to pack my things?"

"Do you suppose, just for a moment, that I might speak?"

Therese gulped. The Director was an intimidating man at the best of times. Trustworthy, always, but exacting. When he raised his voice, a not infrequent occurrence, he was a compelling force; when his voice lowered, and was very quiet, he was positively frightening. "Of course, sir."

"What I said at our last meeting still holds true. I have no wish to terminate your employment--though I will not hesitate to do so if you leave me no other option. Despite my personal regard for you and all of my cast, this is a business, and cannot operate if everyone does not pull his or her weight." He paused, and indicated the chair in front if him. "Sit." He paused again as Therese complied, then rested one leg over the desk so that he sat in front of her. "So, you leave me no choice but to deal with this on a strictly business level. You have not been present for some time, and have failed to complete your obligations. Therefore I am suspending your pay for one month, during which time I will tolerate absolutely no infractions. At the end of that probationary period, if you have proved yourself to be the diligent worker you've shown yourself to be in the past, your salary will be reinstated. Need I tell you what would occur should you go missing again?"

Therese shook her head emphatically. "That won't be necessary," she responded, the relief at maintaining her role overriding even the thought of surviving the next month without salary. "Thank you, sir." She smiled up at him self-consciously. "Are you sure you wouldn't like that sandwich now? You know, breaking bread together and all."

He stood looking down at her before shaking his head. "You'd better save the ingredients for yourself. You might need them over the next month." He strode to the doorway of the cubicle, filling the small opening before turning around to consider Therese one final time. "And please make certain that the dog doesn't go hungry," he admonished as he moved out into the corridor.

Therese grabbed for the stuffed frog she kept on top of the orderly pile of papers that covered her desk, and threw it at the retreating figure. "As if I'd starve my dog!" she called after him, her relief making her bold.

She sat at her desk then for several moments, reveling in the fact that she maintained her position before starting to consider her current bank balance, and what havoc a month sans pay would create. She was interrupted by a familiar dark head peering around the doorway, and looked up to see the light from her office reflecting off of Eamon's spectacles. In one hand he held her frog. "What's this you're yelling about starving the dog?" he asked, ruffling Tory's fur as she rushed to greet him, and tossed the stuffed green creature back onto the desk.

"No, Eamon--I said I wouldn't starve the dog, but I hope I can live up to that statment, give it appears that you're homeless, and I'm destitute."

Therese
one last chance. . ., - Tuesday, December 10, 2002 at 12:58:58 (PST)

Cindie! WHOA!!

*dives into the ice cold lake*
Alice
Room on that fainting couch for one more?, - Tuesday, December 10, 2002 at 11:51:03 (PST)

At any other time, thinks Mary Anne, I’d love to watch his fingers moving . . . For The Director’s gestures are things of beauty, digital trills of sinuous grace. But now-that agitated drumming on the script cover, accompanied by repeated glances at his watch.

"Where is she?" he growls.

"Perhaps she got caught in traffic," ventures Mary Anne. Rather timidly, as best becomes her when The Directoh.

"Where is she?" he growls.

"Perhaps she got caught in traffic," ventures Mary Anne. Rather timidly, as best becomes her when The Director is in this black temper.

"Then-" With silky precision. "-she should have called in on her cell phone. That is one of the things for which they are most useful."

Mary Anne persists. "Maybe she’s ill!"

"Then she still should have called in!" snaps The Director.

"Maybe-" Brandon puts in mildly. A bit more mildly than is strictly necessary. "-she was too ill to call in."

The Director shoots a searching glance at Brandon, who returns it with steady and irreproachable calm until finally The Director smiles. A little. A not-quite-smile that is at least one-quarter grimace of appreciation for this man who does not simply portray chivalrous behaviour on the screen, but lives it as a personal and precious code. At that thought, he flicks his gaze toward Mary Anne, who is looking intently down into her lap, her blue eyes shadowed by their long, dark lashes.

"Well, then," cedes The Director, after a quick look around. Suddenly everyone on the set, from technicians to costumiers to hairdressers to light board operators, finds something fascinating in the immediate vicinity and tends to it most earnestly. "I shall check on her myself when we finish this run-through-and if she is as ill as all that, perhaps she does not need to come in today. After all . . ." A sarcastic chuckle. " . . . I should not wish for the affliction to spread throughout the set. Let’s get on with it, then."

Obediently, Mary Anne rises from her seat and takes her place, wondering whether The Director has noticed that there has also been no sign of Mistral on set that morning, but far more worried about Cindie. She did have a strange look on her face a few times yesterday, like she wasn’t enjoying the party as much as she might. Maybe she really is sick, after all . . . oh, well, it isn't even half an hour, yet. Give her time.

MA--Cindie and Mistral got some 'splainin' to do!
Sorry, Cindie, but I couldn't resist taking up your tag line down there . . . ;-), - Tuesday, December 10, 2002 at 05:55:11 (PST)

WOW, Cindie!!! *sits in front of air conditioner*

(Barbara, how about a beanbag chair?)
Diane <potions_masters_baby@snape-is.mine.nu>
Will it ever stop? All this SPAM I mean!, - Monday, December 09, 2002 at 15:06:13 (PST)

Cindie!

madly fanning
Barbara the Wallpaperer
MA, move that fainting couch over here.... quickly!, - Monday, December 09, 2002 at 11:30:33 (PST)

The Downtime:

The champagne flowed at almost the same pace as the conversation. A second bottle had miraculously appeared outside their retreat and Cindie had insisted upon opening this one. Her efforts were not as seamless as Mistral’s had been and he had ended up helping her work loose the top with a tea towel. The undercurrents had abated to a mild hum as they spoke of matters less immediate than those which had seemed to press when they first arrived. Not quite anti-climatic, but it seemed that Sinclair’s veiled warning had been superfluous. They were well into their second bottle when Cindie caught the thrum of the new set begin. She had been aware of the music and the singer, a longtime favourite, but still she hadn’t ventured from the intimacy of their cote. Mistral rose to place the upended first bottle outside the door and bring in the tray of strawberries, grapes and other fruit someone had thoughtfully placed on a serving cart outside the door. As he carried it over the music became more audible and she recognized the song instantly. An old R&B tune that this singer had covered a few years ago.

It soon became clear that Mistral recognized it as well. His tastes were apparently not limited to the Welsh tunes Mary Anne had heard him singing. With a smile both mischievous and sensuous he began to move his hips in time to the music as he came towards her, lip synching the throaty vocals which wound their way into their den. He placed the tray upon the table and as he plucked up a berry and bent low over her upturned face. “I did promise you a private performance, did I not?”

She gaped open mouthed as he began to tease the fruit with his tongue as he glided back to the song’s low steady beat. He couldn’t possibly mean. . .

He did mean.

If the strawberry was meeting its demise it could hardly complain about the care with which it was dispatched. That alone was a sight for which women would surely pay and pay dearly to see. Teeth, lips and tongue danced for her until the berry was only a vague reddish stain upon a mouth which could not quite suppress the merriment of its owner at the reaction his impromptu show was engendering. A private performance well appreciated. Now the fingers which before had been but a frame for the dancer’s appetizer began their pas de deux.

Cindie was almost as undone as the top button of his shirt by the time it was released from its eyelet. And there were more. Seven more to be precise. She counted while she still had wits enough to do so. It didn’t seem likely said wits would linger much longer.

Each button was given the care and attention it deserved. Each undoing more profound than the last. La mort pas les boutons. In an ecstasy of torment the silk was caressed and fondled and put through its paces as he stretched and wove his dance.

At one point he moved toward her as if to allow her the act of removal. It was a feint and he eased out of the garment himself moving with rippling grace as he freed first one shoulder and then the other from the confines of the fabric. The hands were in full play by now and they accentuated the hypnotic effect of pectorals that seems to shimmer in the soft glowing lamp light. The focus shifted from his hands to his hips as they began to carry the thrum of the music, leading it along its inevitable course. Biceps stood out on skin fevered with exertion and restriction and the resulting patina of clean sweat. With a fluid deliberate motion his footwear came off to land on either side of her. She was taut with anticipation and riveted by …all of it.

After an interlude of pagan motion her eyes were drawn by fingers making for what to her was uncharted territory. The button of the trousers into which he had changed was given even more attention than the top button of the silk shirt which lay in a spent heap on the floor. Surely this was more than mortal woman could bear? A hip thrust and an arm extended then returned to undo the fastening.

She would bear it.

These same fingers now emoted achingly slowly up and down the center of his body. Eyes that had begun the dance in merriment now were deep in inward concentration as he wound out the foreplay of the song. A slither of enticement that bespoke control rather than abandonment as he teased at the zipper elicited a sound from her and a twitch from him. His body moved freer now, using the room, causing her to shift in her seat to follow his motion. The trousers were lost in his journey and landed next to he shirt. The bottom of one of the pant’s legs draped itself over the shirt collar. There was no self consciousness to his gavotte. Pure sinew and muscle and artistry displayed for her pleasure alone. Private.

He was wearing only his pants now. Even those seemed superfluous as he continued to move and breath and be. It seemed to her that all the times she admired the way clothes hung upon him that they were in fact a crude adornment serving to mask the beauty of the wearer. Like requiring a panther to wear trousers and street shoes to hunt. There was no sense of dignity lost, only of essence found. He paused and looked to her… he would continue, to bare all, his body, himself, if she wished it.

Cindie
Any odds on whether Cindie and Mistral will make it to work tomorrow?, - Saturday, December 07, 2002 at 19:01:36 (PST)

How long is that guy going to have to stare at that SPAM?
a concerned citizen
- Friday, December 06, 2002 at 12:33:14 (PST)

The Imperial Palace:

Rupert Cadell has had a trying day. Between the late arrivals and the odd Irishman creating various types of havoc not to mention his usual duties, he missed dinner. Seating himself in the officer's mess he props his cane next to him, stretches his aching leg to its full length and takes a sip of what feels like his twenty third cup of coffee for the day. Pushing it back he smiles when the server appears bearing a covered dish. The dish is set before him and he unfurls his napkin and places it on his lap at the same time the server removes the lid with a flourish. SPAM. Rupert stares morosely at the slab of vaguely pink meat product.

Cindie
Rupert, perhaps an apple from the fruit bowl?, - Tuesday, December 03, 2002 at 14:12:21 (PST)

Okay, all together now!

"All you don't need is spam...all you don't need is spam..."
Alice
Whoops, sorry, lapsed into a Beatles moment there..., - Tuesday, December 03, 2002 at 06:16:20 (PST)

*starts to sing along*

SPAM, SPAM, SPAM, SPAM...

everyone runs

Nice to know people like to spam us, eh? It's Spam Season! Everybody get out your equipment!
Alice
*calls Pizza Hut* Thank you for calling Pizza Hut, this is Mr. Rickman. (me) WHAT?!, - Tuesday, December 03, 2002 at 06:13:55 (PST)

"No anchovies? You've got the wrong man. I spell my name--DANGER!"

*click*

Voice on phone: "What?"

MA
Sorry, brief lapse into Firesign Theatre, there . . ., - Tuesday, December 03, 2002 at 05:46:18 (PST)

"Beautiful spam...."
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Rickman delivers -- hold the anchovies! AR the pizza delivery guy? "Pizza pizza!", - Monday, December 02, 2002 at 22:25:32 (PST)

Sorry, I don't think Mr. Rickman delivers, although he does seem to like red. Don't know about the bow, however.....
a concerned citizen
- Monday, December 02, 2002 at 22:17:34 (PST)

Hey! I was going to start the spam song! (I thought some folks might get irritated.) ;)

"Spam is for eating, nor for posting...AGAIN! Spam spam spam spam..."

The crowd quicly sticks earplugs in when Diane sings.
Diane <potions_masters_baby@aol.com>
I have to learn to be bolder, - Monday, December 02, 2002 at 20:08:42 (PST)

*Flourishing conductor's baton* All together, now:

"Spam Spam Spam Spam . . ."

MA
They never give up, do they?, - Monday, December 02, 2002 at 19:19:19 (PST)

i want alan rickman for christmas, wearing nothing but red boxers and a big bow around his neck. yum yum give me some.
robin <bararti@aol.com>
- Sunday, December 01, 2002 at 10:28:08 (PST)

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