January 1st - January 15th, 2000
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Good heavens, "Hans . . ."
MA
Staggering about, trying to hold onto the wall . . . *thud*, - Saturday, January 15, 2000 at 13:58:40 (PST)
Mist. Grey on darkness, a thick, wet heaviness. Warmth, no air between the woven net.
Suspended. Shrouded. Then, expanding, separating, the mist inflates itself, lets air inside itself, forming spaces between the thickness. Something moves. Something light.
The movement is light, upon a woman's neck. The light is heat.
Upwards, up the neck, towards the ceiling, where rain starts to fall from tiny endlets, down, down towards her, showering down upon her, the water falls back, I fall, the water, on her back.
She turns, walks slowly, her long toes dark against the darker tiles, down the steps, into the mineral pool.
A thousand years, a thousand more,
A thousand times a million doors to eternity
I may have lived a thousand lives, a thousand times
An endless turning stairway climbs
To a tower of souls
If it takes another thousand years, a thousand wars,
The towers rise to numberless floors in space
I could shed another million tears, a million breaths,
A million names but only one truth to face
Around the pool, an empty cathedral. Windows of colored glass, shining through the mist. Alive, they actually change their colors, telling secret stories I cannot unfold.
The arched niche, statueless, stands empty. Water slides down the stones, the walls, driplets, rivulets, amulets of love.
Under water, she shoots out from the steps, across the pool, her long hair behind her in the green water. The green water Emeralds, jewels, not water at all as she begins to walk up the steps at the opposite end of the pool, the jewels fall away from her, in shame. She rises from the water, pearlescent, her skin white, her hair still dark, a veil of strength, emerging from the jeweled pool. Walking towards a pair of heavy doors, with carved shields, a history of man . . .
. . . I still love you
I still want you . . .
A thousand times the mysteries unfold themselves
Like galaxies in my head.
She walks, outside, along a path, upon a log, becoming a steel girder far above the streets below, walking, fearless in beauty and in animal stealth, and stepping off, unafraid to walk across the ocean.
I may be numberless, I may be innocent
I may know many things, I may be ignorant
Or I could ride with kings and conquer many lands
Or win this world at cards and let it slip my hands . . .
. . . I've kept this single faith, I have but one belief
I still love you
I still want you . . .
As she walks upon the ocean, I reach out for her. As I reach, she turns, her hair is a mane; a lioness, she pauses, then springs upon me.
And then she is a wave, an ocean wave, and I am drenched, devoured and complete.
Hans
- Friday, January 14, 2000 at 22:08:14 (PST)
The following post may be read with the song "A Thousand Years"
from the album "Brand New Day". Words by Sting, music by Sting and Kipper. May I suggest reading slowly, as if reading aloud, and pausing between paragraphs.
;-)
- Friday, January 14, 2000 at 22:03:37 (PST)
(Poking nose into the set) Thank-you for the nice birthday wishes. Wanted to toast to Claudia a bit early (it's only Saturday in NZ) before she got too blotto. *grin* Cheers, Clods. *CLINK* Happy Birthday! :-)
Renie
I'm sure she might want to slink off with Ed, too . . . , - Friday, January 14, 2000 at 16:26:05 (PST)
If it's any help, I forgive you.
Mary Anne is astonished by just how much it does help, how the tightness inside her stomach eases so that she realizes that she had been holding herself tense as if expecting a physical blow. What, from Andrea? You know she would never . . .
No. It was not Andrea that worried her.
"It does help," falters Mary Anne, swallowing back tears. No, she will not cry. Not now. Later, perhaps, when she can be alone; Andrea has been upset enough already. "It's just that I've been so afraid."
"Not of me, I hope."
"Well, not exactly . . ."
Andrea frowns a little—not in censure, but in concentration. "Does this have anything to do with what happened when we were on the Tardis? When we ended up in HIS hospital room?"
"Yes, that and how you seem to have this . . . link . . . with The Interrogator. " Mary Anne pauses; how much further can she pursue this? But Andrea had seemed more relieved than otherwise by Mary Anne's confession, as if the pieces of a puzzle were fitting themselves together. "I was afraid because I wondered if you—no offense--?"
"No offense. You wondered if HE could influence me, because sometimes I could feel what HE was feeling. That I might somehow be under HIS control."
"Are you?"
Andrea actually blinks in surprise at the bluntness of the question. "I don't know." Then, with the least flicker of a smile, "If I were, do you think I would know it?"
"You might," replies Mary Anne, bitterly. "If The Interrogator wanted you to know it—if HE wanted to bring it home to you that HE was in control, and not you—HE would certainly allow you to know it. In fact, HE would insist that you do. The fact that you don't know might be the best possible sign—"
"But not good enough," puts in another voice, from the doorway.
It is the voice of Doctor Mesmer, and Colonel Brandon is right behind him.
"We cannot take any chances." Mesmer moves nearer, his eyes sweeping over Andrea, examining her for symptoms of distress, but she seems calm enough; it is Mary Anne who is displaying signs of agitation. And well she might, from the way Brandon is looking at her, his thoughts clear upon his face. I had thought you would sit at Miss Andrea's bedside. A soothing presence for her. Had I known that this would happen . . .
MA--Andrea didn't break her promise, sir!
Magda, I know just what you mean . . . Magda, I know just what you mean . . ., - Thursday, January 13, 2000 at 20:37:02 (PST)
"Day the Thirty-ninth of my Exile, in the month of December – In which we increase the number of our acquaintances in the shire."
How long we sat there, I have no idea. But my feet were cold and my hands were numb when we heard the sound of approaching riders. Joya released me. I stepped over to the dead animal and wrenched my sword free. After a fast swipe on the remains of my cloak to clean the blade, I turned to face the new arrivals.
They were walking their mounts, apparently in no great hurry. Finally a rider appeared through the foliage. He was a young man, alone but leading two riderless horses. A closer look revealed them to be ours.
"What's this? Looks like I missed some good sport." He pulled up. The sudden halt caused a hank of his badly cut blond hair to flop forward over one eye. He brushed it back with one hand as he surveyed the carnage around him. "Where is everyone?"
"We are alone, sir." Joya stepped forward as well as she could. "I am Joya de Clifford and this is George."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Adam de Fulville, son to Robert of Fulville of Lincoln." The young man returned my nod and bowed low to Joya before dismounting. He stepped closer to examine the dead boar, then looked up. "What do you mean, you are alone?"
"I mean exactly that." A smile tugged at the edge of Joya's mouth. "If you are interested in that rude animal, you might know that George killed it on his own."
"You did? Alone?" He looked up at me with considerable respect. "Single-handed? That is truly amazing."
"George has a good, strong blade." Joya said serenely. "As I can well attest."
I coughed hastily. "A pity you did not come by earlier. I could have used your help."
"And right glad I would have been to offer it." Adam straightened up, pulling his attention away from the boar with reluctance. "I am on my way to Barnesdale to offer my services to the new lord there. But that snow cloud looks threatening to me and I thought I'd follow this trail to see if there were any shelter near by." He slapped his gloves against his thigh and gazed at us with limpid appeal in his eyes.
Joya and I looked at each other. The last thing we wanted was company but to turn away a young man of good family without very strong reason would invite the very attention we were trying to avoid. And his comment about a new lord in Barnesdale had to be investigated. We decided in the same second.
"You are welcome to return to our lodge and share our meal, sir." Joya turned her most charming smile on him. "It will be too late to go on to Barnesdale tonight. You must stay with us. We have room enough to spare."
His newly acquired maturity fell away as he beamed at her. "Such an offer, my lady, is right welcome. I gladly accept. But please, you must call me Adam."
"And you must call me Joya." She matched him tooth for tooth as they smiled at each other. "In truth, you have done us great service by returning our horses."
"I knew not what to think when I caught them." Adam untied the reins from his saddle. "But at least I knew there were other people close by."
A cold wind blowing on our backs reminded us forcibly of the urgency of haste. I pulled my horse over to the boar and heaved the carcass over the saddle. There was enough meat for a two or more days. I bound it with strips torn from my cloak, strapped the spears in place as well and then tied the reins to the saddle on Joya's horse.
"We'll have to share a mount." I swung myself up onto Joya's mount and reached down to pull her up in front of me. She set her foot in the stirrup, grimacing only slightly at the pain. "If that pleases your ladyship."
"It is acceptable, George." With great care, she adjusted her gown so that it draped becomingly. Adam, mounted again, watched with amusement.
"Then we are off." I nudged my horse forward into a careful walk. "Master Adam, if you will be so good as to follow us?"
I had not realized we had gone so far during our ride. The snow cloud seemed to be coming on fast and it was now a deep shade of grey. Once Adam called for a halt so that he could adjust the knots holding the boar on my horse. The sun disappeared below the level of the treetops and shadows deepened around us; we hurried our mounts slightly.
Joya leaned back against my chest. Wriggling slightly, she settled herself. "I suppose you're angry with me." Her tone implied a lack of concern about the answer.
"Of course not." I had one arm around her waist to hold her steady. Trying to match her tone, I added, "I always enjoy a good boar hunt."
"That's too bad." She began to hum lightly as she wrapped a strand of her hair around her finger.
I waited as long as I could. Finally I surrendered. "Very well. Why is it too bad?"
"It's too bad because if you were angry," She reached down to lay her hand on my thigh. "Then I would," Her finger began to trace an ever-widening circle on the leather. "Do whatever I could to help you get over it." She stopped and gripped my leg firmly, squeezing slightly. Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Please George, be angry."
I took a deep breath. And since that one didn't work, I took another. "When we get back to the lodge, my lady, I suspect I will be very angry."
She tilted her head back against my shoulder and looked at me. "Promise?"
"On the hilt of my sword, I swear it." I lifted my gaze to the road ahead. Joya laughed quietly and settled down. Another sharp wind blew down the road behind us. But I didn't feel cold any longer.
"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."
Magda
There is a distinct echo in this place lately., - Thursday, January 13, 2000 at 16:06:52 (PST)
Finally! Andrea has the answer she had begged Brandon for. An explanantion for the unbearable pain. The pain is merely a memory now, but a vivid memory. A part of her being.
Yes. She has her answer. But, at what cost? -- at what cost to her friend, Mary Anne?
All Andrea ever wanted was to know the truth. Not to blame. Not to judge. Certainly not to add to another's suffering.
Suddenly aware of the placement of her hand over the phantom injury, Andrea allows the hand to drop into her lap. Calm now, she is released from her nightmare.
Listening to Mary Anne's heartfelt apology, Andrea is again moved to tears. Gentle tears. How can she ease her friend's regrets? "If it's any help, I forgive you."
Andrea
Welcome back, Therese!, - Monday, January 10, 2000 at 16:08:02 (PST)
Dev's Guest Quarters--Delaford
Dev sat silently, Therese convulsing tearily in his arms, hazel eyes darkened with concern. McCoy hovered warily nearby, equally aggitated. She held a hypo in one hand, and looked to de Valera once again. His silent cesure spoke all, and she returned the sedative to her bag, equally at a loss.
Two pair of eyes turned to the threshold as the door opened slowly, and Dev waved McCoy toward the unknown visitor hastily. Therese was certainly in no condition to receive visitors. Crossing quickly to the now open door, Joanna was taken gently but firmly by one arm, and moved aside. Father Grigori Rasputin entered the room slowly, his features haunted.
"Out! See him out!" Dev's voice cut harshly through the silence of the room, causing Therese's body to flinch in his arms. He tightened his grip around her shaking shoulders, his touch tender.
"No." The priest's word was soft, yet carried surprising force behind the single syllable. "Ees little Russian woman. . ." He paused, seeing Dev's angry glower. "Ees little American woman of Russian descent. There is much pain." He took several steps closer to the bed; Dev's shoulder's straightened perceptibly, his irritation obvious.
The Russian's features grew taut and he brought one hand to his chest, fist clenching against his black tunic. "I feel the pain," he repeated, and lowered himself to sit at the foot of the bed. "Give her to me, I will ease her soul."
Dev turned his shoulder to the other man, his action protective and instinctive. "Remove yourself from this room," he said, his voice hard and low.
"Ees not time for differences between men," Rasputin growled, his tone condescending. "Allow me to help her where you cannot."
Dev glared at the other man, remembered all to well his advances upon this woman at the wedding reception, and tightened his grip. He was surprised to feel a gentle hand upon his shoulder, and looking up at the touch, found wide blue eyes regarding him. "Let him try, Dev, let him try. . ." Joanna McCoy looked at him beseechingly.
Something within her appeal, or perhaps in the realization of his own ability to help allowed him to wrap Therese more securely in the coverlet and pass her into the Russian priest's open arms.
She protested slightly at the transfer, then nestled into the other man's embrace. Rasputin held her tightly with one arm, the palm of his other hand pressed against her forehead. He began to chant softly in his native tongue, his rich barritone voice rythmic and soothing. They remained that way for long minutes, the room silent save for the repetitive Russian words, and the soft sobbing of the woman in his arms. Dev folded his arms impatiently, hovering over the seated figures, features wary.
Gradually, almost unperceptibly at first, Therese began to quiet. Her shoulders did not shake with as much force, and her sobbing gasps became less frequent. As she began to calm, the strain of Rasputin's burdon became harder to bear, and his haggered features showed his cost.
"Shall I take her for you now?" Dev asked, humbled that this stranger had begun to succeed where he had failed.
The Russian shook his head silently. "No, ees not yet time." His palm left her forehead, the fingers of that hand brushing over the side of her face, and tracing their way down her throat. He opened the flat of his hand once more against the base of her neck, the heel of his palm resting upon her collarbone. Therese reacted to his touch with a gasp and a shudder that coursed through her entire body; McCoy held Dev back with a firm hand his anger clear.
Rasputin's chanting halted abruptly, broken by a long, gutteral groan of pain that echoed throught the chamber. Therese sucked in her breath sharply, a sharp cry coming from her mouth as her tears ended abruptly. She looked up from her position on the bed, confusion plain upon her features, her eyes red-rimmed and teary.
"Take. . .her," Rasputin could barely voice his command, and pushed Therese toward Dev's outstretched arms weakly. He struggled to his feet awkwardly, boots slapping against the stone wall of the chamber as he rocked on his feet. He was steadied by the supportive arm of Joanna McCoy, and he looked into her pleasant features with a contented air.
"Ees. . .goot," he commented to her with a weary smile as they left the room together. "Now healing begin."
Therese
Magda, my little pot belly pig easily jumps two feet--hope she never decides to go after George! , - Monday, January 10, 2000 at 12:20:42 (PST)
Andrea's room:
For a wonder, Mary Anne does not hear the approaching footsteps, for she suddenly blurts out: "It was me, Andrea."
A puzzled silence.
"How do you mean . . . it was you?"
Mary Anne swallows hard. No going back, now. "I mean . . . the time when you knew HE was being hurt—being tortured—because you could feel the pain in your own body. I was the one torturing HIM."
Andrea suddenly remembers questioning Brandon about this incident, and his cryptic words: "I was there." But Brandon had also denied being the torturer . . .
And Mary Anne goes on—frantically. "If I had known I was hurting you, too . . . I'm sorry, Andrea; I didn't want that to happen--!"
But would it have mattered? wonders Mary Anne. That thing she had become, that evil caricature . . . would the knowledge of Andrea's suffering have made any difference to HER?
"I didn't want any of it to happen . . ."
Dot remains quiet. She had, of course, heard rumours: the strictest security is not proof against gossip. Not entirely. But to be in on this astounding story, here, now . . . for a moment she wavers between those security protocols and concern for the women before her, and concern wins. The less she interferes, the sooner this will be over, and perhaps both demands can be met. And she, whatever happens, will remain silent.
Andrea, softly. "But . . . how? And why?"
That soft voice--compassion? Shock? Mary Anne hardly dares to look Andrea in the eyes, wondering how those eyes will judge her. Am I on trial, now?
"The why should be pretty obvious. As for the how . . .it's a long, ugly story, but I'll keep it short. About the time HE was due to come to trial, I had a case of artron radiation poisoning in the Tardis. The Doctor treated me with adrenalin supplements, among other things, so I was—" Mary Anne shakes her head. This is sounding so absurd, already. "—much stronger than usual, physically."
A deep breath. "At the same time, HIS people were experimenting with a machine that affects the brain. What they did—" There just isn't any good way to explain it! "—was set up a link between me and . . . The Interrogator. But what happened was . . . we, well, switched personalities, in a way. I became evil."
Andrea's lips move a fraction in what might be a smile, under better circumstances. "An evil twin, Mary Anne?"
Oh, God, she's not believing a word of this. She is going to think I've gone insane or something. Helplessly, Mary Anne looks over at Dot, who remains warily posed for whatever action is necessary but makes no move to intervene.
"I know it's hard to understand—but yes, that's what it was like. I was evil, and HE became . . . good."
It is beginning to sink in, and Andrea bites her lip, then ventures, "What you're describing is incredible."
"You mean, impossible. It's what I would have said—before it happened."
"You say that you were the one who tortured HIM, but—but HE was in prison at the time, awaiting trial . . . how did you--?"
"As I said, I was stronger than usual. Enhanced physical strength, and speed, and agility, along with HIS memories and skills. Andrea, this is going to be hard to believe, too, but when THEIR experiment really kicked in, it's like my private agenda took over. I wanted revenge for all HE had done to me, so I abducted HIM—"
"But HE was in prison and on trial already! Why--?"
"I didn't think they'd sentence HIM to death unless they could prove a capital crime, and they didn't seem to be having much success. So I broke The Interrogator out of jail. I was able to get HIM out of there, and I took HIM away to where I could--"
Mary Anne would make herself go on and tell the whole bitter truth, but cannot when she glances up and sees that Andrea has unconsciously raised one hand and is pressing it to her chest, over her heart, and is grimacing at the memory of that searing pain.
Mary Anne had maintained her composure all morning, but the sight of Andrea re-living HIS agony undoes her self-control, and she is reduced to hiding her face in her hands, repeating, "I truly didn't want it to happen! Not even to HIM, but especially not to . . . an innocent bystander." One of my friends. "I'm sorry, Andrea. God knows, I'm sorry . . ."
MA--and the decision is: To speak.
Yeah, Magda,I had been kind of wondering who tied up whom . . . *chuckle*, - Sunday, January 09, 2000 at 20:08:09 (PST)
Happy birthday, Renie.
MA - there's going to be unexpected company for dinner, so an extra large meal of pork will be very convenient.
Magda
Of course she's not worried - you don't think those cords belong to George, do you?, - Sunday, January 09, 2000 at 17:44:45 (PST)
"There is nothing," said the Doctor, checking the readouts on the medical computer.
Claudia lay on the examination table, her legs bare to allow easy access for the scanners and probes which tested the area around her implant. Ed stood at the head of the table, his hands on her shoulders, looking more like he was holding her down than comforting her. His eyes were remote, and stared blankly at the wall ahead of him. She hadn't told Ed all she had told Renie yet, but he wasn't stupid. He was still suffering the pain of losing her, even though she was physically in front of him.
Renie sat in a chair close by, she leaned forward and rubbed at her face, with expressive hands, trying to stay focussed. She was tired. The talk with Claudia earlier, and the emotional strain was taking its toll on her already burdened body. She needed to take things a little easier and look after the child that grew inside her.
"There must be something," said Claudia. "I was hallucinating for God's sake. There was some weird stuff happening around me and to me. I know I can't blame a drug for the things I did. But I'm sure it affected some of my reasoning."
"If there was a drug, there is no trace of it now." Said the Doctor. "The only thing that is different is the signal has changed slightly."
"Could that be because we are in transit – its getting confused?"
"No… no, that's not it. We landed some time ago. In fact there are quite a few curious Unit and Alliance personnel waiting outside for the doors to open, so we'd better not keep them waiting too long."
"That's just great. So I can't use the implant in my defence. Do you think they will jump on me, and wrestle me to the ground? How many men and women to you think it'll take to bring me in?"
"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Renie, more harshly than she had intended. "You're going to walk out those doors and give yourself up, and hope that they believe everything you have to say. Perhaps they'll be lenient on you if you can help with evidence against HIM."
"OK. Just take the thing out Doctor, then I'll go give myself up."
Ed still stared blankly ahead, as if he heard none of this, but his fingers suddenly tightened their grip on Claudia's shoulders, and he shuddered.
"I can't do that, I'm afraid," said the Doctor. "Not after the device that was attached to Therese, I can't take that risk. The instruments show nothing, but I'm not risking setting off some hidden explosive device, which might take your leg and half the sick bay with it."
Claudia
- Sunday, January 09, 2000 at 17:42:49 (PST)
MA--Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.
Renie--Happy Birthday!
Andrea
- Sunday, January 09, 2000 at 16:54:33 (PST)
Taking a moment to say: Happy Birthday, Renie! 8-)
Magda: wouldn't an old boar like that be a bit tough for dinner? Chuckling over yet another good line: "Nothing seemed to provoke this animal like being excluded from a conversation."
MA--you know, Joya doesn't seem too worried about that threat of a spanking . . . *wicked grin*
And hang in there, Andrea; I'm working on my next post! , - Sunday, January 09, 2000 at 13:53:16 (PST)
"Day the Thirty-ninth of my Exile, in the month of December – In which the partnership is saved."
I dug in my spurs. There was no recurrence of the scream. My horse raced down the path that Joya had taken. Pushing through the branches with one hand, I pulled up and looked at the scene in front of me.
Joya was perched on a broken tree limb in a small clearing just beside the trail. She was favouring her left foot and clinging to another branch to keep her balance. Her attention was riveted on a large black pile on the ground in front of her. As I watched, the pile moved and grunted energetically. It was a boar, easily the largest I'd ever seen.
It grunted again and advanced until it stood just beneath Joya. She was only two feet off the ground but it was enough protection from the animal's six-inch tusks as long as she could keep her balance. The boar was aware of this and seemed to resent it. It shook its head, then backed away and pawed the ground, sending back a shower of dirty snow and mouldering leaves.
I dismounted and released the spears from my saddle. The noise distracted the animal. It turned to peer in my direction. I left my horse untied, free to run away if the beast attacked. (A boar can kill another animal several times its size with little difficulty.) My horse took the initiative and cantered back up the trail to safety. The motion distracted the boar and I took advantage of it to leap to Joya's side on the branch.
I don't believe that she realised my presence until that moment. She stared at me with large round eyes, a weak smile on her lips and her breath misting the cold air. "I suppose this isn't the time or place to admit that I should have listened to you."
"You're right, it's not." I looked her over carefully. She didn't seem hurt in any way, except for her leg. At least there was no sign of blood. "But when I get you back to the lodge, you're going to be soundly spanked."
She smiled and blinked the wetness out of her eyes. "Oh, George! I just love it when you talk dirty." Her laugh was weak and ended too soon on a moist hiccup.
The boar indicated its displeasure at being excluded from the conversation. It ran back and forth in front of our branch huffing foggy breaths into the air. I examined it closely. It was a mature animal with grey whiskers framing its snout. Small red eyes glared up at us. Defiant squeals pierced our ears.
"What are you going to do?" Joya's voice was steady but thin.
"I'm going to kill it, of course." I infused my voice with the confidence acquired from years of lying to the king's treasury officials. "I just want to make sure I hit the right spot."
Actually there is only one right spot: the heart. Any other place means an angry wounded animal with an incentive to strike back.
"Have you ever killed one before?" She took a firmer grip on the branch beside her.
"Of course I have. At least six that I can remember." This is not a lie. But on those other occasions there were other hunters, a wooden palisade trap and half a dozen hounds specially trained to hunt boar. Even then the killing had not been swift. Memories of dead dogs and wounded men with bloody gashes down their legs came flooding back into my mind with an awful clarity.
"Well, take your time." Her laugh was a little stronger. "Don't rush on my account."
The boar backed up and charged our branch again. It shrilled angry challenges in a hateful tone. Any small hope I had that it might grow weary and leave of its own accord dissolved. This animal possessed a singleness of mind that was almost religious. I shifted my attention to the ground, seeking the best place to take my stand. I jabbed the spears into the earth to get them out of the way. I tossed my cloak over a branch so that my movements would not be hindered, then pulled out my sword. The boar rushed forward and I whacked it soundly on the snout with my weapon. It retreated several feet, shrieks of pain ringing through the trees. I dropped the sword, pulled one of the spears free and jumped to the ground.
I crouched in the proper manner, my right hand aiming the spear, my left holding the end to push the shaft home with all my weight. My sword lay beside me, ready if needed. I braced my feet to get as much purchase against the snow as I could.
The boar had recovered from its hurt but its temper had gone up by several notches. It shook with suppressed feeling, then backed up slowly and began to paw the ground. I took a firmer grip on my weapon. A series of increasingly loud snorts followed, then the beast charged.
It took every bit of fortitude I possessed to stay completely still while the animal advanced. Had I lunged forward to meet it, my spear would have glanced off one of its broad shoulders and I would have been gored badly. Keeping still was crucial. It would be hard enough to find the most vulnerable spot. It wasn't helpful to my plans that the boar had obviously been hunted before and knew a few tricks of its own. Just before it came within the circle of my reach it veered and came at me from the side. I shifted quickly and held it off but at the price of losing track of my sword. I backed up carefully until I stepped on it, then took up my position again.
The boar was several feet away again. Once more it pawed the ground and charged straight at me. This time it lowered its head until it reached the spear, then thrust up suddenly to entangle my weapon in its tusks. The sound of ivory scraping against iron was loud in the air. I used all my weight to keep from being thrown off balance. We grappled unsteadily, pushing against each other for what seemed like hours. At last the animal retreated again.
I was panting with exertion. The ground around me was a morass of snow, slush, mud and bracken. I had to bring this to a close quickly. Cudgelling my brain, I had an inspiration. Without taking my eyes away from the boar, I called to Joya. "Can you reach my cloak?"
"Yes! Right here!" She shrilled at me. "I've got it!"
"Good. When the boar is close enough next time, throw it over its head." I assumed my crouch again and waited.
Nothing seemed to provoke this animal like being excluded from a conversation. It stood in the middle of the clearing and stamped its feet. Steam rose from its nostrils as it squealed loudly. Then we had more pawing of snow and dirt, and the animal charged again.
As it approached my spear this time I backed up until I was just in front of the branch and could see Joya out of the corner of my eye. The change in my position checked the boar momentarily. In that second Joya threw my cloak out and covered its head, blinding it. At the same time I lunged forward with my weapon.
The unexpected darkness eroded whatever was left of the beast's temperament. It stumbled as it tried to dislodge the cloth. Screams of porcine rage echoed through the clearing until silenced abruptly by my spear slicing into its throat and down to its chest. A loud gurgling sound followed as it began to choke on its blood. I pushed with all my strength until half the spear was imbedded. My arms ached with the strain. Finally I flipped the animal onto its side, using the shaft as a lever, then released it to snatch up my sword. Stepping forward, taking pains not to slip, I plunged the steel straight into the boar's heart. Leaning with my full weight, I held it there as its legs kicked convulsively, then gradually ceased. Finally I let go and stumbled back to the branch, sinking down onto its reassuring firmness for support.
The clearing was a sea of blood, snow and mud. I was drenched with sweat and sprayed blood. My chest heaved as I sucked in air to fill my lungs, my arms trembled with fatigue, my fingers were numb, my knees could not have supported me if I had tried to stand. I felt like I'd been beaten by at least three men.
"Oh George!" Two warm arms slipped around my shoulders from behind. I was pulled back into warmth and soft fabric. Joya leaned forward until she could press her cheek against mine. "Oh George."
I reached up and grasped her hands. For a long time we sat there on the branch, not saying a word but in perfect communication.
"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."
Magda
Glad you liked the line; what do you think of pork for dinner?, - Sunday, January 09, 2000 at 13:29:08 (PST)
Yes, I laughed at that one, too. I think "Been there, slain that" is a good candidate for FOF Line of the Week!
MA
Hmmmm--to speak or not to speak . . . ?, - Saturday, January 08, 2000 at 19:04:54 (PST)
Andrea would like very much to speak with Mary Anne about the man who saved her life. And, that is the way Andrea continues to view the one others call The Interrogator. The man saved my life.
However, Andrea remembers well the promise she made to Colonel Brandon. So, no. She will not discuss HIM with Mary Anne.
Silently, Andrea mulls over how she will manage any future pangs that are not her own. Unexpected and incomprehensible pain. If she were with HIM, at least she could see the approaching blows and prepare herself. Or even help to defend HIM against HIS attackers . . .
But, Mary Anne is waiting for her to speak.
Andrea can say nothing more, not to her.
As footfalls resonate in the hall . . .
Andrea
LOL! "Been there, slain that.", - Saturday, January 08, 2000 at 16:01:43 (PST)
“Day the Thirty-ninth of my Exile, in the month of December – In which the partnership is in danger of ending shortly after it’s begun.”
We began planning that night and continued today. Joya is determined that we leave no stone unturned in our search for possible revenue.
She itemized every household cost that could arise in the next six months. Wedding expenses, she assured me, are notorious for going over their budget limits and could easily be inflated to bring in a little extra coin. Good velvet in rich hues of blue or green are apparently much more expensive than brown or grey.
“This dress of mine, for instance,” she said, stroking the fabric of her skirt, “cost well over forty marks and that was three years ago. It’s bound to be more expensive today. Everything is, isn’t it, Dobbin?” She leaned forward and patted her horse’s neck.
I hadn’t spent much time exploring the woods, since I had planned a quick departure. But now that I’m staying, I need to get some idea of the landscape and so we have gone riding every day. An additional advantage is that we have can talk openly without worrying about being overheard by the servants.
And I can do some hunting as well. Although I’m not as fanatic about it as King Richard is. He can stay in the forest for days, tracking and killing everything he finds. I find this sort of thing incomprehensible. I usually find that a morning’s work is enough for me; “been there, slain that” is my attitude.
But there are practical considerations that have to be kept in mind. Food goes bad easily before the middle of winter when the servants can pack it in ice. Fresh game can be very appealing to a palate bored with dried beef and smoked hams. So when we set out, I had two spears strapped to my saddle in case we ran into anything worth chasing.
“Then by all means make sure the bride has at least a dozen new dresses.” I scanned the woods around us for predators. “And don’t forget the jewellery.”
“Ah, but she won’t be buying any jewellery.” Joya gave me a sidelong glance under her thick lashes that had me shifting in the saddle. “I’ll tell Sir Mauger that I was able to talk her out of wanting it. Instead she’ll have elaborate embroidery on all her garments.”
“Brilliant!” I can appreciate a masterly stroke when I encounter one and provided there are no witnesses, I am willing to acknowledge it. “But who will do the fancy embroidery?”
“Oh, she’ll do it herself. All those years in a convent,” she grimaced, “it was probably the only thing she was allowed to do.” She kicked her horse and it cantered ahead on the path.
We were on a trail that meandered through the woods to the Barnesdale road. The weather continued fine although a large grey cloud extending from one end of the horizon to the other threatened heavy snow before the evening. I kept a wary eye on it.
“All right, it’s your turn now.” Joya threw the words over her shoulder. “Have you come up with any ideas?”
“Not yet.” I was a little disturbed at how far ahead of me she was. “Come back here! You don’t know what’s up ahead.”
Her laughter floated back to me on the breeze. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been riding almost since the day I could walk. Don’t worry about me!” She waved her hand and spurred her horse on again, disappearing between the low-hanging branches of the firs along the trail. Small tufts of dislodged snow drifted down the ground.
I was irritated. Her bold manner is one of Joya’s greatest attractions but what is acceptable in the bedroom can be dangerous outside it. We still had no idea what or who was in these woods: outlaws, bears, even a concealed hole could be dangerous. I was torn between pursuing her or keeping a steady pace and waiting for her to return. How I would have decided, I do not know because my thoughts were interrupted by a scream. It was followed by the sound of a horse galloping at high speed.
It would seem that milady Joya has had a fright and is returning to my side for protection. I smiled. Perhaps I will forgive her after she has made a suitable apology in a manner that I deem appropriate to the offence of inconveniencing me. I pulled up and waited for her to appear, intending to inform her of my conditional magnanimity.
My words died on my lips. It was indeed Joya’s horse running towards me, its eyes rolling in terror and its flanks heaving.
But there was no one in the saddle.
“Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again.”
Magda
- Friday, January 07, 2000 at 18:36:05 (PST)
Andrea's room:
Forgetting everything else for the moment, Mary Anne grieves with Andrea and Dot, though she does feel like the outsider of the gathering. Despite her skill with a sword, these others are the true warrior women, and not she. Mourning for the fallen . . . on one side of her is Andrea, who, for all her gentle demeanour, had fought in the Nottingham revolution; she has looked closely into the face of war. And Dot, of the Alliance Rose . . . it is a little disconcerting for Mary Anne to witness such a free flow of tears from this woman who, from what Mary Anne has seen of her, is always competent and steady-minded. Still, those bags on the lawn . . .
"I'm sorry, Dot," whispers Mary Anne. "Friends? Were any of them close to you?"
"Close?" replies Dot, pausing to drag her sleeve across her eyes. "Almost all of them. In the Alliance--it's hard to explain, but most of us that spend any time together, we're like brothers and sisters to each other."
Mary Anne's eyes blur as she listens, and she turns a little toward Andrea, murmuring, "Are you going to be all right?" For surely this must remind Andrea of some very unhappy times, family and friends lost in the wars against the Sheriff, homes burned, lives destroyed.
Come to think of it . . . Mary Anne stirs uneasily when it suddenly occurs to her that she has seen neither George nor Hamlet for quite some time. That could mean trouble later.
But Andrea is speaking, and Mary Anne's attention is caught and held, as Andrea says, softly, "There's been a battle--more than a battle."
"More?" Mary Anne swallows. "How . . . do you mean?"
As if by a mutual signal, the women step apart. Perhaps that signal is the little tremble that passes through Mary Anne, a tension that fastens her eyes on Andrea, who has left the window to go and sit on the end of the bed. Dot leans against the wall beside the window, her tears under control, though her eyes are red with crying and she avoids looking out at the lawn.
Moving carefully, Mary Anne finds a chair and seats herself, never looking away from Andrea, who is staring down at her loosely clasped hands.
"How did you mean, more, Andrea?"
"I mean, I felt it. Like before."
Mary Anne does not move.
Like before. The Interrogator has been captured, and Andrea felt it all. That tie to HIM . . . it's still there, all right.
Dot now has something to think about besides the bags on the ground outside, and Mary Anne waits to see if Andrea will tell her more. Her gaze flickers briefly toward the door, which she had left partially open when she slipped into the room, and she wonders whether she should just run, run now, and get out of this room . . .
Andrea knows there has been a battle, and more than just a battle. What else might she know?
MA--or what else might she learn?
Anything in particular you'd like to hear, Andrea? Since Brandon and Mesmer will probably show up any minute . . . ;-), - Thursday, January 06, 2000 at 20:04:30 (PST)
Expecting Andrea to be in bed asleep, Mary Anne raps lightly on the door and pushes it open just a few inches. Peering in, she can see the bed. The empty bed.
Mary Anne opens the door wider to reveal two figures in silhouette against the window. Two women, with their backs to her. They do not hear her enter.
As she approaches, Mary Anne recognizes Dot with her arm around a shivering Andrea. Or, is she crying? Either way, "Shouldn't you be in bed?" Spoken quietly with the least hint of a reprimand.
The two women turn slowly toward the chastiser. Andrea smiles weakly through her tears. Happy to see her friend but obviously grieved by . . . something. Her soft voice trembles. "Mary Anne, there's been a battle."
Dot makes no attempt to hide her own grief. She and Andrea had been leaning on each other. They resume that pose now, facing Mary Anne.
Suddenly, the thought occurs to Mary Anne that the body bags may be visible from this window. With the damage already done, she can only comfort. "Yes. I know." She steps toward the women and slips an arm around either waist.
Three heads bow forward and touch, as tears flow freely.
Andrea
MA: Now that Andrea is awake, do you have anything you'd like to say?, - Thursday, January 06, 2000 at 16:11:38 (PST)
“Day the Thirty-fourth of my Exile, in the month of December – In which a partnership is forged – but for how long?”
“That would be quite a pile of gold.” I leaned back and stared up at her. “What do you care about Nottingham?”
Joya got up from my lap and walked back to her chair on the other side of the table. With the same languid grace that governed all her movements, she resumed her seat. “I don’t care anything about Nottingham. I need gold for other reasons.”
“Like what?”
“I’d rather not say.” Her gaze was shuttered and her voice took on a distant tone.
“Now see here, darling.” It was time to assert some authority. I put my elbows on the table and leaned forward. “It’s one thing to have fun together under the covers. That’s playtime. But anything to do with gold is serious business. And if we’re going to do serious business together, then we can’t have secrets from each other. Otherwise you can forget it.”
Joya didn’t say anything. The minutes dragged past while I tried to read the expression on her face. At last she nodded reluctantly. “You’re right. If we can’t trust each other, then we won’t succeed.” She mimicked my stance and cupped her chin in her hands. We were only inches apart. “I need the funds to get to France. I have friends in Provence who can give me refuge. There’s no one for me in England. No friends, no family. If I can’t get to France, then I’ll have to enter St. Benedicta’s or some other convent. I couldn’t bear it.”
The thought of this vibrant woman being immured behind the thick walls of a convent was ridiculous. She had too much spirit for a fate like that. I was amazed that the Abbess at St. Benedicta’s hadn’t realized it. But there was a hunted look in Joya’s eyes that told me clearer than words that she was serious. For a long moment neither of us spoke.
Finally she shook off her sober air and tilted her head to one side. “And you, sir? What are your plans? I assume you want to return to your shire. Or have you other dreams?”
“No. I want my birthright back. And I want my revenge on Locksley.” A sour taste filled my mouth at the mention of that name. I deliberately changed the subject back to the main point. “What makes you think Mauger has that much gold? I’ve seen his manor; it’s very rundown.”
“Sister Ysabella told me about him. He’s not gentry; he got his holding through personal valour, not inheritance. He’s never known how to run things and he’s never had a good steward since the old one died. She said it broke his wife’s heart how badly he let things go to seed because he couldn’t let go of any funds to keep things running well.” With a sudden motion, she tucked her legs underneath her and let the edge of her gown trail on the floor. I caught the barest glimpse of ankle before she adjusted her garment. “But it’s still valuable land and it produces good harvests. He’s got six mills leased and other investments in Barnesdale. He’s got the gold. Don’t doubt that.”
“If he’s such a clutchfist, how are we going to pry anything out of him?” I was becoming fascinated.
“Not all at once, that would just get his back up.” She gestured airily with one hand and mimed picking a pocket with the tips of her fingers. “But we can take irregular amounts over a period of time and he’ll never feel the difference. Especially since he’s going to bill the king for as much as he thinks he can get over this marriage business.”
“Accepting for a moment that you’re correct, just how are we to get it? Have you thought about that?” I was impressed in spite of myself; she’d obviously been thinking about this for some time.
“I have. But before we discuss that, I need to know: do we have a deal?” The playfulness faded as she stared at me with solemn eyes. “We can both use the extra funds, George.”
I considered. This was definitely going to be more complicated than my original plan but it would solve the problem of finding extra funds. On the other hand, every day I spent in the area was one more day when I could be seen and recognized by someone from Nottingham and turned over to the authorities. I weighed the possible dangers carefully.
Looking across the table, another option occurred to me. “What’s to stop me from simply taking you into the sheriff and claiming a reward for turning in a beautiful thief? That would bring me some extra funds without too much delay.”
She smiled in a manner that suggested she’d expected better from me. “And what would stop me from buying my freedom from a grateful king by turning over the rebel sheriff of Nottingham to him? Really, George!”
Damn. “Just asking, darling.” I summoned up a smile.
“Then what else is holding you back?” Joya smiled at me. “Any moral objections to the idea?”
“I’ll fight them down.” I turned the idea over in my head. There were risks but no different from the ones I was running already. And the payoff would be worth it. After all, unlike Joya, I had seen the money chest. I made up my mind. “Very well, I agree.”
“Good!” She rose to her feet and smoothed her gown with one hand, then turned and walked to the door. “We’ll make our plans tonight after supper. Don’t drink too much wine, you’ll need a clear head.”
“Wait a minute!” I said. She paused on the threshold and looked back at me. “What’s wrong with right now? Where are you going?”
“I’ve got something to do right now, George, to get ready for tonight.” She smiled her special smile again and floated out. “I have to tie the cords around the bedposts again and make sure they’re tied tight.” The door closed soundlessly behind her.
I fell back into my chair again, thoughts of after-supper negotiations whirling through my mind. There was no way around it, she was right about our relative values to the authorities. Partnership was the only way either of us would benefit. But that didn’t mean partnership was the only option open to me.
How long I sat there, I couldn’t tell. But when I was summoned to the evening meal, I had worked out a few plans of my own. I would take part in extracting additional funding from Mauger, then I would find a way to turn Joya over to the authorities in a safe manner. Thus I would have her gold as well as my own. And in the meantime, I would continue to enjoy the benefits of her personal friendship until such time as she began to bore me.
Needless to say, I was in a very good mood when I went in to supper.
“Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again.”
Magda
- Tuesday, January 04, 2000 at 17:02:40 (PST)
Cold, greyish-yellow light, which blurs as the scene dissolves . . .
And re-forms as light through the heavily-barred window of an armored vehicle . . .
Slowly, figures become visible in the gloom: armed men and women in uniforms of the Alliance Rose, UNIT, and the Imperial Guard. All seated, silent, and intently focused, their gaze directed toward The Interrogator.
HIM.
HE sits at the far end of the transport, well away from the doors, and anyone unaware of this man's crimes and fearsome reputation (if any such could be found in the Realm) might be moved to pity at HIS condition, fettered hand and foot with heavy chains ending in a padlock, fastened to a steel bolt against the wall behind HIM.
The Interrogator sits with HIS eyes closed. It would be hard to say whether this is an elaborate show of unconcern--or outright disdain--or if HE is truly weary and verges on sleep. HIS escorts have no way of knowing; nevertheless, they do not relax their vigilance for a moment. They have their orders: The Interrogator is to be delivered to the Imperial Palace for the Empress to preside over HIS case--and HE is to arrive in perfect condition.
That implicit warning had been necessary, for even among such well-trained personnel the temptation is immediate and obvious: to abuse the prisoner as HE has abused so many others. Why not look the other way for a few moments, if you were in charge of these people? If they chose to return HIM some pain for all that HE has inflicted, well . . . The Interrogator is quite at their mercy, chained there . . .
But--no. The men and women guarding HIM, hand-picked for this assignment, prove their worth and leave HIM in peace, making HIM the target only of looks when they might visit upon HIM the force of blows.
If this causes HIM any secret amusement, HE does not show it. Being safe for the moment, this man chained to the bench loses himself in thoughts of what has been, and is . . . and what will be.
What has been. Interrupted by the raid, just when HIS experiments with that Therese woman were at such an interesting stage, Pity, that. There could have been so much more. And Claudia--what of Claudia? Or Andrea--how she has continued to fascinate and trouble HIM.
What is. Without even being able to look out the window or see what is about them, HE can guess several things about the route of this convoy: it will avoid the borders of the Realm and make for the capital by the safest route, through the heart of Realm territories. No chance of verging on THEIR lands; no risk of a counter-raid.
At this thought, HE does smile, a little, and the Alliance guard nearest HIM grits her teeth to avoid moving away.
A rescue? Not likely. There are few in THEIR organization more powerful than HE, and those few are unlikely to risk power and position to extricate HIM from difficulty. HIS own particular people might try: not out of loyalty, but out of fear for what HE might do, later, if they did not make the attempt. Suppose, just suppose HE did escape and came for them--good for a few sleepless nights.
What will be . . .
That is the daunting prospect. What will be, is that HE will appear before the Empress herself, a privilege--The Interrogator smiles again, inwardly, over HIS own word choice--granted to few. More often, she is content to let the machinery of justice in the Realm run itself. Ah, but look what happened the last time . . .
HE ponders. What would be the best approach to take with Her Majesty? The Interrogator would probably share the opinion oft-repeated by Sherlock Holmes, that it is a capital error to theorize without data, but HE is also a believer in as much advance preparation as possible, and so HE investigates the options, such as they are.
What would serve best? A show of defiance? Perhaps. The Empress is reputed to admire courage--but it would be a delicate balance, there: audacity without insult.
Or would a show of submission be preferable? She is also reputed to be merciful . . . though HIS lip curls slightly at the idea of falling at anyone's feet, even those of a beautiful and noble woman.
That curl of HIS lip turns into a thin smile. HE does not make the mistake of assuming that The Empress is no threat to HIM because she is a woman; through bitter experience, HE knows how dangerous an adversary a woman can be. And this is no ordinary woman.
Still, it presents certain . . . possibilities.
HE shifts about slightly in HIS chains, and there is a subdued ripple of response through the transport as all within it react to HIS movement--and HE is fully aware of it, for HE opens HIS eyes and smiles at HIS captors before closing HIS eyes again and sinking back into HIS thoughts . . .
MA--Think The Interrogator can soften up Her Majesty? *evil grin*
Love the new sound file, BTW--swoooooon . . ., - Tuesday, January 04, 2000 at 06:03:26 (PST)
Delaford:
Mary Anne does not overhear the final part of the conversation between Brandon and Mesmer, but it is no matter; by the time she reaches the staircase that leads to the upper floors, she has plenty of misgivings of her own and hesitates, part of the way up the stairs. No harm, surely, in going to sit for a while with Andrea, who has been sedated and will probably not even know she is there. Mary Anne had thought it might be good to sit quietly for a while and that it might help her nerve herself to check on Therese. But now that she thinks it over . . .
Mary Anne tries to tell herself that she is only tired, that she has passed an extremely difficult night and a trying morning. Perhaps that is why her imagination will insist, suddenly, on conjuring up horrific possibilities. She has certainly not forgotten Andrea’s mysterious connection with The Interrogator. Suppose . . . suppose I were sitting there, and all of a sudden Andrea spoke to me . . . only what if it wasn’t Andrea? What if . . .
The very idea of Andrea turning toward her and speaking, face blank and her eyes empty of all will except HIS, chills Mary Anne to the bone and she wraps her arms about herself, shivering and trying to rub the cold creeps away. Get a grip! You make it sound like you should take an exorcist up there with you. Hmmmmm—wonder whether Father Grigori’s any good at that . . .
The very idea brings on a dry chuckle. Right. Someone would have to cast some stuff out of the good Father first . . . like, say, several gallons of Madeira . . .
Besides, who am I to be so put off by what might be going on inside of Andrea, because of HIM, when I’ve--
She cannot finish the thought.
Dev. Mary Anne pictures him as clearly as if he stands before her: Eamon de Valera, revolutionary, politician, statesman—yet none of these resounding public titles reverberates so strongly to Mary Anne as the more personal ones . . . such as, lover and protector of Therese. And after what that poor woman has been through . . .
If Dev knew . . .
Instant internal protest. Oh, that is doing it up a bit, isn’t it? What do you think, that he’d kill you? Use your head. You’ve had Dev in your corner since he was so miserable in the conservatory while Therese was still angry with him. Do you think he isn’t grateful? And he’d know it wasn’t your fault, what happened with The Interrogator . . .
Perhaps he might understand—some other time. But for now, his eyes and heart are filled with the wounded Therese, tortured and terrified, riven with that anguish that is like no other: knowing that life can never be exactly the same again.
Lingering uncertainly on the stairs, Mary Anne has time to ponder her motives in going to check on Therese. Yes, she wants to help if she can, and is uniquely qualified to do so. But how much of it was me just asserting myself to prove to Christopher that I’m not going to be some docile, obedient little doll? I knew he had misgivings about it but I pushed on, anyway. And yes, the little game of snaring Brandon with his own words, that it had been his suggestion that she could help Therese . . .
Shaking her head, Mary Anne gives up trying to unravel her own motives and shortcomings: truly, "Know Thyself" is one of the most difficult tenets of philosophy. There are times when she feels she understands almost everyone else far better than she knows herself.
But one thing she knows for certain is that she has been standing on the stairs long enough. Only a few moments, but still, more than enough time to know that she is stalling, and there will be no more of that.
Mary Anne raises her head, and a shift of camera angles reveals the defiant and characteristic lift of her chin, caught in the thin, watery sunlight of early afternoon in winter, as she moves up the stairs.
The camera turns back toward the upper-story window, a rectangle of that cold, greyish-yellow light, which blurs as the scene dissolves . . .
MA--sure he did, Fausta; that's why Mary Anne didn't recognize him at first! 8-)
On my way, Andrea . . . , - Monday, January 03, 2000 at 20:48:14 (PST)
Did Alexander Dane remove his alien "hairdo" yet? I'm trying to visualize . . .
Fausta
- Monday, January 03, 2000 at 10:26:35 (PST)
Upon hearing Mesmer say that Andrea has some kind of a "connection" with The Interrogator, Brandon experiences a sudden urge to run after Mary Anne. He remembers the incident on the Tardis, when Andrea brought them all to HIS hospital room. Although she intended no harm . . .
It seems that the doctor reads his thoughts. "I am sure that your wife is perfectly safe. However, if you'd like to follow her, I will accompany you."
Brandon recalls also a recent conversation with Andrea. She explained her curse of sharing The Interrogator's pain. Brandon pleaded with Andrea then not to discuss HIS torture with Mary Anne. She promised what he asked. But could she keep that promise in her current condition?
As the two men rise from their chairs, Mesmer lowers his voice. "I would not burden Andrea with this, but I must tell someone, Brandon. If I cannot help her, . . . That is, it is possible that the only one who can sever this connection, is the ONE who created it."
Andrea
Welcome to Alexander Dane!, - Sunday, January 02, 2000 at 19:02:49 (PST)
“Day the Thirty-fourth of my Exile, in the month of December – In which the Lady Joya and I reach a new level in our relationship.”
“I thought you looked familiar from the first moment I saw you in the garden. Then when you told me your name it jogged my memory.” Joya settled herself more comfortably in her chair. “But I wasn’t completely sure until we got to Barnesdale. Then I remembered seeing you at court several years ago.”
“At court? Surely you must be mistaken. What would a mere knight like me have to do at court?” I tried to look astonished and flattered at the same time. Meanwhile I considered the narrow range of options available to me. Strangling her would take quite a while and she would struggle the whole time. The noise might attract the attention of the servants.
She ignored me. “It was at King Richard’s coronation. You were one of the barons who were reconfirmed as sheriffs. I remember that you looked so bored with the whole thing.”
With an effort I managed to recall that occasion. I saw again the king’s great hall at Winchester, lit with a thousand candles that obscured the ceiling with a cloud of smoke, filled to capacity with dozens of men taking turns kneeling in front of the throne to receive their honours from the king’s hands. What I did not see was Joya or any other woman or girl, for that matter.
I leaned back and folded my arms. “You have mistaken me for someone else.” One good hard knock on the head and she’d be out cold. I could take her into the woods and drop her into a convenient ditch or stream where no one would find her until spring. But I was not familiar enough with the surrounding area to know where to look.
She smiled and wagged a finger at me. “I don’t think so. I admit I was confused about why you would be in Yorkshire or working for a nobody like Mauger. But I’ve been talking to Thomas and he told me about the rebellion in Nottingham and the uncertainty about the former sheriff’s plans. It really wasn’t hard to figure out. Now come on, George. Stop wasting time.”
It was no use. Stabbing her with a sword or dagger would be far too messy and impossible to conceal from the servants. Negotiation seemed to be my only choice. I assumed my most ingratiating demeanour. “You’re right, Joya. No more arguments.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Now we can get on with making some plans.” She rose and walked around the table to my side. Even though I was in no mood to appreciate it, a part of me was vividly aware of the grace that infused every one of her movements.
I watched her warily. “Plans for what?”
Joya dropped into my lap and slipped her arms around my neck. She pulled me closer until our noses were bumping together. “Why, to gouge enough gold out of Mauger to buy all of Nottingham, of course. What else?”
“Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again.”
Magda
MA - she hasn't even started yet, - Sunday, January 02, 2000 at 11:59:50 (PST)
All was confusion around her. The sounds were overwhelming, terrified bawling cattle, men shouting instruction and encouragement, children shouting with glee or crying in fear. Above and under it all the rush of water, pushing at the wagon, pulling at the wagon.
The oxen, calm and seemingly oblivious to the melee around them moved slowly and steadily forward. Dana wondered if they knew what they were about, simply responding to command, or now that they were chest deep in water, working on survival instinct. For that matter, what was she doing? PL's instructions swam in her head…."just stay in line, steady hand, don't panic."
She could see wagons pulled onto the islands ahead, a small victory in the larger battle of the crossing. Starting violently on the wagon seat as a whip cracked beside her she shouted, "Yah there, move along girls!"
Dana
- Saturday, January 01, 2000 at 19:25:35 (PST)
FOF set:
Mary Anne, having finished her scene in the Delaford kitchens, is taking a brief break before going on to her next scenes. As The Director does not appear to be on her part of the set at this time, she knows that she can get away with this unscheduled break as long as she keeps it short--though even if he does discover it, he will do little more than glower and grumble, considering how hard Mary Anne has been working lately. And the scenes to come are extremely demanding . . .
As she passes through the hallway outside The Director’s office, Mary Anne’s attention is caught by a man pacing restlessly back and forth: a handsome man, for all that his face is rather careworn, etched with a cynical fatigue—but somehow familiar, though she cannot quite place where she has seen him before.
And now he has caught sight of her, and so Mary Anne makes up her mind and advances toward him, smiling and extending her hand. "Hello—I’m Mary Anne. Are you new around here?"
The stranger hesitates, then accepts her offered hand, pressing it very briefly before releasing it. "Perhaps I shall be, soon. My name is . . ." Again, that mysterious pause. " . . . Alex. And I’m waiting for . . ." He inclines his head toward the closed door of The Director’s office.
But Mary Anne is still studying his face, as if trying to grasp something that just barely eludes her. "Alex . . ." And then, the light breaks. "Dane? Alexander Dane?"
Dane nods, and a slight shudder runs through him as if he is bracing himself for something both unpleasant and inevitable.
Mary Anne has stepped back and is beaming at him, her face alight with admiration. "Why, I remember you now! I saw you in—"
Dane scowls and his mouth twists as if sucking lemons. "Yes, I know—"
"—Richard the Third!"
Dane’s jaw sags. And sags some more. Then, after an audible swallow, he falters out, "You . . . saw my . . . Richard the Third?"
"Yes, yes!" Mary Anne is laughing with delight, and then assumes the properly solemn expression one dons for announcing Historic Occasions: "I was there . . . for the Night of Five Curtain Calls!"
"No!" protests Dane, beginning to enter into the spirit of the thing and arcing an eyebrow at her. "You’re much too young to have been there—"
Mary Anne demurely lowers her eyes, though Dane can still see them twinkling at him through her lashes. "Well, I might appreciate it much more if I saw it now, but despite my, um . . . advanced youth at the time . . ."
Dane is grinning openly now, the smile a startling flash of white in his world-weary face.
" . . . I enjoyed it very much—it gave me an interest in the character that I’ve kept ever since. Both literary and historical. I even played Lady Anne once in some scenes at a Renaissance fair, and I planned the whole thing as if I were playing opposite you." A reminiscent sigh. "I remember the reviews--The Black Plantagenet, they called you. I remember when the lights started to come up, no one could even see you on the stage at first—and then your voice just spoke out of nowhere because you were out in the audience with us, in the aisle. It would have frightened the devil himself!"
A silence falls, and Mary Anne looks a little uneasy. "I’m sorry, I know I’m gushing—you’d probably like to be left in peace—"
Dane holds up his hands in protest, shaking his head. "No, no! Quite the contrary, I assure you." A wry, teasing grin. "I don’t remember whether any of those reviews mentioned how vain I am?"
"Dane the Vain?" retorts Mary Anne. " Yes, I remember reading that one, too. Well, if what I saw is any measure of what you can do, I’d say you have plenty to be vain about." A pause. "So what brings you here?"
Another smile, this one more sardonic. Forced. "A job. I’ve, ah, had some experience in . . . series work." Dane leans against the wall, tiredly, as if it is the only thing holding him up.
Mary Anne looks at him for a while, then ventures, "Well, it’s good work we do here, certainly nothing I’ll ever be ashamed of."
"I know. I’ve seen quite a few of the episodes . . ." But the expression of vague distaste lingers.
Mary Anne. Quietly. "Please don’t judge us too harshly until you’ve had a chance to see what it is we do here." Then, with a mischievous glitter in her eye: "No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity."
Dane stares at her for a moment in disbelief, and Mary Anne returns the look, holding his gaze, challenging. He pushes himself away from the wall, laughing softly. "But I know none—and therefore am no beast."
Mary Anne is almost tempted to back away, but now the wall is behind her, and Dane is directly in front of her. "O, wonderful," she manages to whisper, "when devils tell the truth!"
And now Dane lets himself go, playing it to the hilt, hamming it up as he seizes Mary Anne’s hand and raises it to his lips before gorgeously intoning, "More wonderful, when angels are so angry . . . "
And they simultaneously burst out laughing.
"Angels?" puts in a third voice. "I would hardly go that far."
Dane and Mary Anne turn to see that the door to The Director’s office is open and he is standing in the doorway, watching them—who knows how long he has been there? And now he is moving toward them and reaches out to shake hands with Dane, while turning on Mary Anne a scowl of mock-ferocity. "Will nothing cure you of flirting with the new prospects?"
"Flirting?" protests Mary Anne—not at all convincingly, and everyone there knows it. "Why, I was just trying to make him feel welcome—"
"More than welcome," adds Dane, slipping Mary Anne a surreptitious look that almost sets her giggling again.
"Get back to the set, Mary Anne," commands The Director, escorting Dane toward his office.
"Yes, sir," replies Mary Anne, but then tosses a quick aside to Dane. "Don’t worry about him too much—he’s tough, but he’s very, very fair. He never killed anyone here who didn’t deserve it."
"Mary Anne--!"
"Yes, sir, I’m going!"
Heading for the door, Mary Anne turns once more to Dane, the gleam of pure devilment in her eyes. "But never fear. If anything happens to you . . ." She strikes a pose. " By Grabthar’s hammer, I shall avenge you!"
Dane’s response—as Mary Anne turns and flees the hallway—is a protesting splutter, half-snort, half-chuckle, as The Director advises, "You want to watch that one; she’s our resident mischief-maker . . ."
MA--just a bit of fun and self-indulgence. You'd knew he'd be joining us sooner or later!
Hey, that Lady Joya's a smart one, isn't she?, - Saturday, January 01, 2000 at 19:00:59 (PST)
“Day the Thirty-fourth of my Exile, in the month of December – In which the Lady Joya gives me yet another surprise.”
The melted wax adorned the parchment like a great smear of blood. I waited until it dried, then handed it to the steward. “You’ll have to read it to him when you get there. Make sure you tell him that I will send him a more detailed report in a week.”
Thomas slid the document into the pouch attached to his belt and acknowledged my order with a bow that flipped his lank blond hair into his eyes. He was quite young to hold such an important household position but he was serious beyond his years so perhaps that explained it.
“Should I ask the Lady Joya if she has any errands for me to Sir Mauger?” With one palm he brushed his hair back into place. His face took on a bovine expression and his jaw slackened. “No task would be too difficult if Lady Joya requested it.”
I eyed him distrustfully. “No, that won’t be necessary. Be off with you.”
He blinked in disappointment, then bowed again and left the room.
I drummed my fingers on the table as I mulled over Thomas’s request. It was possible that Joya needed some items from Mauger’s manor in order to prepare for Melisant’s arrival; the domestic requirements of young ladies were a sealed book to me. Obviously no one could be allowed to communicate with Mauger except me if I was to keep him in the dark about my plans to hang onto his money. But it would not be easy, especially as the household grew in size. The sooner I left with the money, the better.
My original plan had been to bring the companion from St. Benedicta’s before departing, ostensibly to hire mercenaries to guard the lodge. I thought that an old nun would wait a week before worrying and then another week before sending a message to Mauger. I would have at least two, perhaps three weeks before I had to worry about pursuit and I would have a pouch of gold in my possession.
The problem was that I still had not quite determined where I would go when I left. It would be easiest to ride north but there was nothing for me in that direction. Nottinghamshire was south and now in Locksley’s control. I could go west to Lincoln and then to the coast until I could take ship for France. That was probably the wisest option but also the most expensive. I would be out of gold by the time I landed in a foreign country where I would need it more than ever.
And then, of course, it was not an old nun that I had brought back with me and who kept me awake most of last night. Just the memory of what we did last night undermined all my resolution. No doubt in a week the attraction would begin to pall but until then I had a most pressing incentive for staying.
I stopped drumming on the table and hit it a blow with my fist. If only I had been able to extract more gold from Mauger before I left his manor. But that was past and the opportunity would not come again unless I could come up with a reason for going back there. I was concentrating on this matter when a voice broke into my thoughts.
“You look thoughtful.” It was Joya, leaning against the door. She glided into the room and dropped into the chair across the table from me. “Are you worried about something?”
“Not at all. Everything’s fine.” I gestured at the papers in front of me. “Just getting my report off to Sir Mauger.”
“Yes, I saw Thomas before he left.” She leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hand. “Have you worked for Sir Mauger long?”
“Uh, no. Actually this is a special arrangement. I don’t serve him at all.” Somehow the idea that she could see me as a vassal of that old boar irked me considerably. “I am here to guard you and Sir Mauger’s stepdaughter until the wedding.”
“I see. That’s interesting. I’ve been trying to figure out why you were here.” She gazed at me silently for a moment. “It’s not where one expects to find Lord Nottingham, is it?”
“Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again.”
Magda
- Saturday, January 01, 2000 at 16:16:26 (PST)
Damn it. Why couldn't she wait? Scowling at the beasts tamping at the frothing water's edge, Sinclair hailed O'Hara to stop the herd. From his vantage the lone horse ploughing the Snake seemed in imminent danger of being jostled by these latest entrants.
Smile exaggerated in it's whiteness against the mud caked spectre, PL hollered happily "Fine and dandy". Taking Sinclair's furious gestures as encouragement to give the whip another lazy revolution.
There was no way round into the water.
Digging his heels sharply, driving his mount into the cattle, he tried to force passage. Futile. Closing around the horse a hundredweight of ruminant denied accelerated access to the river. Sinclair begain to flail with his reins, caught on land in precisely the manner he feared for Claire.
Claire
Still running centuries behind in Gold Rush Happy New Millenium!, - Saturday, January 01, 2000 at 14:16:03 (PST)
Thank you, dearest. Snuggle from a certain German gentleman, hmmmmm? So, he decided to show mercy after all . . . or no, perhaps he's showing none even as we speak! *chuckle*
MA--It's official: The Realm has entered 2000!
What was the line from Die Hard? "I can't wait to see what they do for New Year . . ." ;-), - Saturday, January 01, 2000 at 09:19:33 (PST)
Happy 2000 you lot! To all the wonderful ladies and irresistible men of the Realm, and to Suzanne, Reigning Empress!
With a special holiday snuggle for a certain German gentleman . . . Mmmmmmmm . . .
Cheers!
Renie (and a warm hug for you, dearest!) , - Saturday, January 01, 2000 at 09:03:49 (PST)
