Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

"Day the Hundred and third, in the month of February - In which Krone and I prepare to fight and Joya wishes me luck."

It had snowed during the night. I noticed it as I followed the royal entourage after matins, walking several paces behind the king and just in front of my jailers. Too dark to see on the way to the chapel but clear enough in the pale dawn light.

The king saw it too and frowned. "Someone sweep the courtyard clear. I want no impediment to a fair fight today." He looked over his shoulder. "I daresay I can speak for both of you?"

I smiled and nodded but of course that wasn't good enough for some people. Walter of Krone stopped in his tracks, forcing those behind him to skid to an abrupt halt to avoid crashing into him, and threw back his cape, revealing his sword beneath. With one hand on the hilt and another on his chest, he stepped forward and declared in ringing tones, "Sire, you may always speak for me and I will be my privilege to obey."

The king smiled affectionately at him, gave me a look of pity and resumed walking. As we approached the doors of the great hall, servants wearing the royal colours bustled forward to open them. We paused to allow the royal couple a ceremonial entry. The cheers of the peasants in the hall were loud and long. I scuffed the heel of my boot on the ground. It seemed to go on forever. Finally the rest of the entourage began to proceed inside and I was following when someone plucked at my arm. I looked down into Joya's blue eyes. She smiled and with a quick movement of her head indicated that I was to wait. My guards appeared to be oblivious so I held back until everyone else was inside. Finally we were alone in the foreyard. I kept a wary eye on the servants still standing on the steps but they didn't seem inclined to interfere. Joya ignored them.

"All ready for battle?" She ran one finger down the front of my tunic and smiled up at me. "I haven't had a chance to wish you luck yet."

I tried to determine her mood. She seemed cheerful enough but in the half-light of dawn, I couldn't read her expression. "Very kind of you but any luck I need is in my sword-arm. Don't worry." Although I couldn't help noting that there was not a hint of worry in her eyes. "Krone is one who will be carried off the field today. I intend to win."

According to every romantic ballad I had ever heard, it is customary at times like this for a woman to throw herself on a man's chest and tearfully beg him to take care of himself and come back to her in one piece. I believe it is a fairly firm literary convention. No doubt Melisant would have already done it by now if it were Adam who was going into battle. But Joya gave no sign that she had even heard of such a thing. She seemed to be quite cheerful about the upcoming fight.

"I know you do, lover. I'm not worried." She paused, her head tilting to one side. "Aren't you going to tell me not to call you that?"

I reached up and enfolded her wandering fingers in my hand. "No, I'm not."

She stared at me in silence for a moment, then a radiant smile lit up her face and our surroundings. "Why, George, that is the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."

Before I could respond, a shout rang out and echoed off the stone walls. "Lord Nottingham! The king requires your presence. Where is Lord Nottingham?"

My guards came alive again and moved in my direction. Time for a quick farewell. I leaned closer to Joya. "Excuse me, sweetheart, I have to go kill someone."

Her smiled widened and she stood on tiptoe to kiss my nose. "Don't get spattered."

The guards arrived and I turned to go. We advanced over the snowy cobblestones and up the steps to the great hall. The servants, now shivering in the cold, opened the doors for us. Light and noise spilled out of the room to greet us. The king and queen had taken their places on the dais. Krone stood in front of them, wearing his mail and holding his il one of you falls. Should either of you be injured there will be a pause while your wound is bandaged. But there will be no respite. Is that understood?"

We both nodded. The crowd rumbled in approval.

"Good. Then let us proceed." The king stood up and the whole procession was on the move again. But this time Krone and I walked immediately behind him. Agitated whispers broke out as we passed but we looked neither to the right nor the left, and each of us ignored the other. In a matter of hours one of us would be dead.

And it was not going to be me.

"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
And five to go..., - Friday, December 15, 2000 at 17:29:42 (PST)

Mary Anne’s cubicle:

Mary Anne looks hard at Cindie for a minute, frowning as if trying to remember. But then her expression relaxes, and she laughs a little as she exclaims, "Oh, that!" Then: "You can’t be comfortable perched down there like that, with nothing against your back. Drag up a chair and put your feet on the couch."

Cindie hurries to comply, more because she is anxious to hear what Mary Anne has to say than because she thinks she’ll be more relaxed or comfortable. Tired as she had been from the party, she had lain awake a long time, thinking of Mistral, before she had finally dropped off to sleep. And even when she had slept . . . she shakes her head, as if trying to clear something away, and looks up to see Mary Anne watching her.

"So." Mary Anne drums her fingers on the couch. "The Mysterious Mister I. Let me see how I can put this . . ."

Any way, thinks Cindie.

"All right, then," Mary Anne continues, and Cindie starts a little at the timing, at how it is almost like a reply. "When I saw you with him that day at breakfast-I didn’t think he was going to react to you the way he has. I thought there was going to be some flirtation and I didn’t know if you’d been around the set long enough to know much about him . . ."

"Like?" persists Cindie.

Mary Anne grins. "Really ready to get to the good stuff, aren’t you?"

Cindie rolls her eyes. "I didn’t mean-I mean, I don’t mean whether there’s lots of juicy gossip about him around the set or anything like that . . ."

"I wouldn’t mind knowing that myself!" quips Mary Anne.

"I just . . . wondered what he’s like, that’s all. What kind of person he is . . . really."

"You mean-when he leaves The Interrogator here and goes home, right?"

"Yes. I think that’s exactly what I mean."

"Hmmmmmm," Mary Anne ponders. "Well, most of what I see of him is when he’s right here, and The Interrogator is very much in the picture! But . . ." Again, Mary Anne is silent for several moments, thinking.

"Okay," she finally offers. "Here’s how he seems to me. You’ve seen a laser beam before, haven’t you?"

"Only in school science films," admits Cindie. "And-" Grinning. "-in the movies, of course. Remember the industrial laser in Goldfinger?"

Mary Anne lowers her voice into a Scots-accented rumble in the style of Sean Connery. "Do you expect me to talk?"

"No, Mr. Bond," Cindie snaps back, "I expect you to die!" And then the two of them are laughing together so heartily that there’s is a grumble of "What in the name of-what is going ON over there?"

Alexander Dane, from several cubicles away.

"Sorry," calls Mary Anne, getting up from the sofa and hurrying over to close the cubicle door, then returning to the sofa. Then, facing Cindie once more: "I was just thinking that Mistral is like that . . ."

"Like Goldfinger?!"

"No, no!" giggles Mary Anne. "Let me finish! And we’d better cut it out with that movie, or first thing you know I’ll be singing the theme song and The Director will never let me on the set again."

Their laughter dies down and Mary Anne explains, "Mistral-well, you know that a laser is just light, don’t you? That’s all it is. Boosted, of course. Amplified with radiation, but light all the same. If you remember the industrial laser in that movie, you’ll remember seeing it cut through metal. But-" A pause. "-a laser can also be used for as delicate an operation as eye surgery. The same phenomenon. The same device. But two entirely different effects, depending on . . . how it’s wielded."

Cindie swallows. "So why do you think this is appropriate for Mistral?"

"I suppose . . . because he’s such an intense man. So much energy, but it’s under control. And believe me, when he’s upset, it does seem as if he can cut through metal."

Cindie nods, remembering the party. "You’re telling me."

Mary Anne looks her visitor straight in the eye. "I’ll tell you the truth-showing up for the party in that costume . . ." She purses her lips in a low, soundless whistle. "Frankly, I’d underestimated you. It took guts."

"But I wasn’t trying--!" Cindie stops, wondering how to proceed. "Yes, I was trying to give him a signal that I wasn’t afraid of him. I didn’t think he’d believe I meant to hurt him or torment him or anything like that."

"I’d say he figured it out." Dryly. "If that kiss he gave you was any indication."

Cindie blushes. "I’m glad he saw it that way."

"I’ll bet you are!" teases Mary Anne. Then, more seriously: "Mistral doesn’t play by the rules, you see. That’s another impression I get of him-that he’s a good man, but it’s on his own terms. His standards are high, for himself as well as everyone else, but they are definitely his own standards; he’s worked it out for himself about ethics and propriety. Sometimes he’ll surprise you by doing just the opposite of what you’d expect. He’s one of the most intelligent men I’ve ever known-a real independent thinker, and those are rare, let me tell you. And I don’t know of a better man to have on your side."

"You’re good friends, then?"

"To a point, yes. There are things I only talk to Christopher about-"

Now it’s Mary Anne’s turn to blush a little, and Cindie’s to smile mischievously. "Well, I should hope so."

Mary Anne fans herself with one of her cushions. "Well, more about that some other time! Yes, Mistral and I talk about . . . things. Sometimes. But only up to a certain point. It’s such a cliché to say about someone like him, ‘He’s a very private man,’ but it’s true. Maybe-" A friendly smile. "Cindie, maybe he just hasn’t found the right person to tell everything to, yet. Then again, maybe he has."

Before Cindie can follow up on this interesting topic, there is a knock at Mary Anne’s door and one of the messengers put his head in. "Sorry, Mary Anne, but could you come out for a minute? The Director has some questions about your next sets of scenes-he said it wouldn’t take long."

"It never does," grumbles Mary Anne, sliding off the couch. "He knows I’m not slated again until this afternoon. Oh, well." Sarcastically. "Duty calls. Wait a minute, Cindie, and I should be right back. Make yourself at home."

Cindie remains where she is for several minutes, inspecting the cubicle for ideas about how she can personalize her own workspace . . . and as her gaze returns to the chaise longue she catches sight of Mary Anne’s discarded book.

May as well read a bit while I’m waiting, thinks Cindie, reaching out to pick up the book and flip through the pages . . .

MA--humming to myself, now:
"A spider's touch...from this cold finger...beckons you to enter his web of sin...but don't go IN!!" *clearing throat* I'd better leave it to Shirley Bassey . . . ;-), - Thursday, December 14, 2000 at 19:37:01 (PST)

FOF:

Cindie returned to her desk, not certain whether she’d just received a warning or not. She alternated between staring at her computer monitor and moving some papers about. She knew Patrick was scheduled for an early ‘dungeon shoot’ and did not expect to see him, but she was thinking about their parting the night before. They said their good nights at her car door again. They talked for a bit and she received another kiss on the cheek and they went home their separate ways. There was no doubt she was drawn to him. But the intensity and circumspection which she found so compelling were also maddening. She had already resolved to seek out Mary Anne today. The comment she’d made had stuck in her head. It was tongue in cheek and tinged with the friendly bantering that Mistral and Mary Anne seemed to share. But, it had seemed a warning nonetheless and Cindie hoped Mary Anne would elaborate.

Cindie had been quite serious when she reminded him of the incident and was relieved to have received his tacit approval to pursue the matter. She had basically told the man she was going to check him out. He had surprised her by the ease to which he had assented to her asking his friend about his *character.* A good sign she thought. But how would Mary Anne react to her inquiry? She certainly didn’t expect Mary Anne to betray any confidences. She really was eager to hear anything she could tell her though. Rather than sit around thinking about it any longer Cindie headed towards Mary Anne’s work area.

Work area was a loose term in this instance. While Cindie had been meaning for ages to do something to dress up and personalize the space allotted to her, there wasn’t a millimeter of space in Mary Anne’s that she hadn’t made her own. Between the tapestries, the artwork, the oriental screen, the plants, the books, and of course, the piece de résistance, the chaise longue, there was no doubt, no doubt, that a creative soul dwelt within. She found Mary Anne reclining upon the aforementioned piece of furniture. After all, what was the point in having such a couch and not using it? She had been reading but set aside the book as Cindie appeared.

“Got a minute?” Cindie inquired.

Mary Anne sat up and beckoned Cindie over, “Of course, come on in and sit down.”

Cindie did so, perching on the other end of the fainting couch. She turned to Mary Anne and said simply, “I wanted to ask you about …Mistral -- why did you tell me to watch out for him?"

Cindie
Too direct, but please forgive her, she's in a bit of a tizzy. , - Wednesday, December 13, 2000 at 19:22:31 (PST)

Correction made.
Here's a life jacket.
D.o.C.

Throwing myself upon the mercy of the D.o.C. (sigh)... Could you please change "the swim the Nile" to "to swim the Nile" instead? Thank you!
Sandy
Not even bothering to ask for a place in the cells, sentencing myself to taking a dip in the Nile-geronimo!, - Tuesday, December 12, 2000 at 20:40:24 (PST)

FOF Set, early morning:

Alexander hid a yawn behind his hand as he entered the building and passed the security guard. He nodded in reply to the guard's cautious "Good morning" and headed for the canteen where he got himself a large cup of coffee. He checked his watch and groaned under his breath. Another early morning set call, he thought to himself as he walked down the hallway. He grinned as he realized that he was heading straight for Sandy's cubicle. The grin grew wider when he heard the strains of Monty Python's "Christmas in Heaven" drifting his way.

He stood outside her cubicle and saw that she had been doing a little bit of Christmas decorating. A small potted poinsettia was placed next to her Christmas cactus, now in full bloom. The wicker basket that usally housed her chocolate had been temporarily replaced by a cornicopia decorated with holly and pinecones. A small bowl filled with pine-scented potpourri was placed on one side of her desk. She was sitting on the top of her desk on the left side of her computer and pinning some Christmas cards she had received on her corkboard.

"Good morning Sandy," he said softly. Sandy raised her head and smiled warmly. "Morning to you. Another early set call?" He nodded and stretched a bit. "Yes. We're having a run-through of the next scene," he elaborated. Sandy gestured at the doorway. "Come on in," she invited.

He laughed when he heard the next song start playing - as sung by Alvin and the Chipmunks. "You have the oddest sense of humor, Sandy," Alexander observed as he entered the cubicle and took an experimental first sip of his coffee and grimaced. He did see that she also had brought in more traditional holiday music - Bing Crosby and Tony Bennett.

"I know Alex, but you like it very much, don't you..." A saucy smile crossed Sandy's features. Alexander sighed and he reached out, gently touched the tip of her nose and murmured a soft 'beep' under his breath before answering. "God help me, but I do." He noted that she blushed before returning the gesture.

She gazed at him for a few moments in silence through half-lidded eyes before she spoke again. "Am I going to have to dump sand on you so you'll behave?" Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she swung her legs back and forth.

Alex threw up his hands in defeat and he moaned loudly. "Okay! I surrender. I've been enjoying the respite from constantly finding sand in places that are not to be mentioned in polite company, if I can call you that. Besides, you were the one who...." he started to say when Sandy interrupted him.

"Hey! You leaned over. It was an irresistible target!" And a darn nice one to look at too..., she thought to herself wickedly. She felt her cheeks grow warm again and quickly changed the subject. "Besides, I've been getting you to loosen up a little and not take things so seriously." She brushed a lock of hair from her eyes before continuing. "Please note that I've left you and your intrepid bunch of students at the banks of the Nile. Nile equals river. River equals water. Water equals wet...." Sandy blinked innocently.

"You wouldn't!" Alexander paused. "You would...." His shoulders slumped down.

"Don't tempt me, Professor." Sandy winked and followed it up with a quick kiss on the cheek. Alexander grinned and returned it before she hopped down from her desk. She pulled up her seat and sat down in it, indicating that Alexander sit next to her in the guest chair.

Alexander's eyes widened when he realized what she meant. "Good Lord! You want me to smell horrible and catch all kinds of nasty, disgusting diseases, don't you! I thought you liked me...." He sat down next to Sandy with a heavy sigh, drumming his fingers on the desk top. He watched with interest as Sandy picked up a calligraphy pen and started writing something in green ink on a strip of paper in sure, bold strokes.

"Alex, I DO LIKE YOU. Please calm down! I didn't say that YOU necessarily will be going into the drink. 'Sides, you'd just land in a pool - a muddy, chlorinated pool of water, but a pool nonetheless," she reminded him with a giggle. "I could ask them to make it smell for you, if you need additional motivation."

"NO THANK YOU!" He paused for a moment when the rest of what she said registered. "You don't mean..." A thousand-watt smile lit up Alexander's face, his hazel eyes twinkling merrily.

"Possibly. I haven't made up my mind yet." Sandy continued writing, her calligraphy pen making scratching noises as she wrote on the paper. She stopped suddenly, frowned at what she had done so far, sighed, and unscrewed the pen to change the pen nub size and the green ink to red.

"I like that idea already. Do you think they'll agree to do it?" He continued watching her, admiring her handiwork.

"I don't know. Isn't the nose-pulling business bad enough? I feel sorry for them if you want to know the truth. Actually, they're both rather sweet to be putting up with my nonsense. Perhaps it's time for someone else in the ensemble to get a dose of my evil plot bunnies..." Sandy stopped her writing for a moment to gaze at the actor and tried not to burst into loud laughter at his facial expression.

"Kindly inflict your sense of humor on someone else, please! Oh, wait a minute. What do you have here?" Alexander looked inside a box that still contained some Christmas decorations.

"Checking to see if there's some mistletoe in there so you can kiss me again?"

"Will you stop it?! You are absolutely incorrigible this morning. Isn't it a little early for you to have been dipping into the spiked eggnog?" The last sentence was delivered in a sing-song tone. He started whistling to the song now playing on her CD player - "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer."

"Alex, you are totally asking for that script that you suggested - the one where you and the rest of the cast just stand there while a truck drives up, dumps sand on you and drives away. Because I will do it and you can't stop me. I've already been talking to the Director on how I'd set this up too..." she mock-threatened, shaking her fist at him. "Okay! I'll behave, I'll behave!" he held his hands up in surrender again.

"Hmm. If you're not up for a swim in the Nile, maybe the locusts would be a better idea instead..." Sandy mused aloud.

"WHAT?! Have you gone completely insane?!" He almost choked on his coffee and quickly set the cup down on her desk so he inadvertantly wouldn't spill it on his clothes.

"Alex, look at it this way. Locusts would provide historical accuracy, at least from a Biblical sense," Sandy pointed out before blowing gently on the paper in an attempt to dry the ink.

"I don't care! Locusts are O-U-T! That spells out! At this rate, I'd rather end up in the Nile!" Alex exclaimed, shivering slightly.

"Are you telling me that you have a phobia about bugs? If you prefer to swim the Nile, it's not a big deal. Just let me know." She barely managed to keep herself from breaking out in a case of the giggles when she saw his outraged facial expression. "Here we are. I think that this will cheer you up immensely," Sandy said as she rose to her feet.

Alexander looked up at Sandy suspiciously, his hazel eyes narrowed to slits. He watched as she removed her magazine picture of Jim Carrey on her mini-dartboard that she had anchored to the cubicle wall. He noted with mild amusement that it was riddled with dart-holes. She held up a magazine picture of the actor in full Grinch regalia. She took two push-pins from her desk and tacked the picture onto the dartboard. She then took the piece of paper she had been writing on and pinned it underneath with two additional pushpins. The legend: "You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch" was written in fancy Gothic lettering. She turned around with a huge smile on her face as she picked up the six darts and walked over to him.

"Would you like the honor of the first throw?" she asked him, giving him three darts with a flourish.

"You're kidding, right?" he asked in astonishment as he rose to his feet and accepted the darts from her. "I thought for sure that..." he left the sentence trailing. Sandy's eyes narrowed. "You thought I just put the darts in there for decoration, didn't you?" she growled. Alexander merely grinned. "Sheesh! Thanks a lot, Alex," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Alexander shook his head as he laughed at her. "Shouldn't it be ladies first?"

"Nope, I insist. Go for it!" She stepped out of the cubicle and Alex stood in the doorway, holding the dart in his right hand, gazing at it with a raised eyebrow. She leaned over and said to him in a low voice, "You can always pretend that it's Jason underneath all the makeup." A wicked smile curved his lips (that looked rather like the Grinch's smirk) and he threw the dart with relish. It whizzed through the air and it hit the target with a loud WHAM dead-center between the eyes. He stood to the side to allow her to take aim. Her eyes narrowed and she whipped her arm back and threw. It landed with a satisfying smack right between the forehead.

"Nice shot! Do you want to go to the Stag and Thistle after work for a friendly competition?" Alexander whistled in admiration.

"Thanks - and the same to you. That sounds like a good idea. You know, maybe I should have given you some type of weird gimmick. Can you crack a whip or something like that?" Sandy asked, blue-gray eyes sparkling.

"I AM NOT INDIANA JONES, DAMN IT! And thanks for the compliment by the way."

"Shoot, Alex. I think you'd make a rather nice Indy myself."

"Really?" Alexander blinked in amazement.

Sandy confirmed it with a nod. "Really. I almost had you doing a stint down the Amazon River instead of Egypt for your storyline. Of course, piranhas would have been necessary...and the primitive cannibals..."

"Oh, my dear Lord. I'm glad you changed your mind, I think..." Alex's eyes rolled in amazement. "Are you sure you haven't been imbibing this morning?"

"If you don't stop, you're really going in the drink! I'll push you in myself if I have to," Sandy informed him cheerfully.

"And here you said I'd make a good Indiana Jones...." Alexander sighed.

"Alex, don't sulk," Sandy sighed when she saw him scowling. "I'm not sulking." He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her.

"Yes you are. Here, throw another dart at the Grinch. It'll make you feel better," Sandy said with a throaty chuckle. Alexander took aim and the dart went flying across the cubicle. It landed with a loud WHAP to the right of his first throw.

"You're right. It makes me feel much better," he laughed softly. He glanced down at his watch and sighed. "I just hope that this run-through goes much better than the last time. What a disaster," he said, shaking his head in disgust as he went back inside Sandy's cubicle and picked up his coffee, making ready to leave.

He turned back to Sandy and smiled. "See you around 6:30?" he asked. She nodded and returned the smile. "See you then," she replied and re-entered her cubicle. He walked down the hallway to his own cubicle, humming under his breath.

Sandy ~ submitting a little holiday cheer
Apologies for the long post...I just started typing and it kept going...and going..., - Tuesday, December 12, 2000 at 19:45:35 (PST)

Italics added.
Of course I can.
D.o.C.

DoC, can you put italics around the last sentence, as usual? Thank you.
Magda
- Tuesday, December 12, 2000 at 17:39:38 (PST)

"Day the Hundred and second, in the month of February - In which I make a forceful appeal to Adam - with unfortunate results."

"That were a good bout." The young soldier straightened the collar of his halberk with his free hand. "'Bout ready for a rest, sire? There's cider, if you're thirsty." He gestured at the table with his sword.

I lowered my weapon and glanced at the darkening sky. The short winter day was passing quickly. We'd practised for hours already but I didn't want to stop. I had to be at the top of my physical form for the combat on the morrow. Especially since I hadn't had a chance to talk to Adam.

I was not thinking warm thoughts of that young man as I sheathed my sword and accepted a full cup from my pretend opponent. Despite his constant mewling about his lost love, he seemed to shy away from anything that might produce practical results. It was not an attitude I had any patience with. If you want something, take it; if someone objects, deal with them efficiently and fatally. The only times in my life where I ran into difficulties were when I ignored this very sound principle. I took sips of the spicy cider and remembered the day that Robin of Locksley had come into my life, fresh from the Holy Land. With the benefit of hindsight, I could see that the best thing I could have done would have been to march the outlaws' families out to the edge of the forest and start executing the women and children until the foresters tossed Locksley out on his ear. But there was no use mooning over lost opportunities. I had enough to contend with in the present.

And, of course, had I done the practical thing earlier, I would never have met Joya. The thought caused me to spill some of the beverage. No, perhaps being just a little impractical had its advantages too. So intently was I mulling over this apparent contradiction that I didn't hear the sound of approaching footsteps until a voice spoke beside me. "Hello George. I got your note. How's the practice going?"

"Adam!" I sputtered into my cup, almost inhaling the cider. I wiped my dripping chin with the back of my hand. "Where have you been?"

He shrugged, looking down at his feet and then across the courtyard. "Oh, here and there. I broke the fast with Lord Locksley. He wanted to talk to me about last night, about whether I knew you were going to pull a dagger on Krone. I pretended that I didn't." He paused, hands clenched into fists, struggling for words before bursting out, "God forgive me! I lied to that noble, honourable man!"

I rolled my eyes skyward as I marvelled at the fate that had paired me with this pusillanimous lackwit at such an important junction in my life. For a fleeting instant I regretted my hasty execution of my cousin Gisborne who had always been up for some unhanded trickery, especially if it didn't involve physical retribution to his person. He would have been more than willing to fall in with my plans. I sighed. There really is no substitute for family, when all is said and done.

Out loud, I said, "I sympathize with your feelings, Adam, but just remember: Robin of Locksley is pushing for Melisant's marriage to his brother. And for you to have any chance of winning her for yourself, then I've got to win tomorrow against Walter of Krone." I clasped him around the shoulders in a man-to-man sort of way and walked him out of earshot of the young soldier I'd been practising with.

"Yes, I know." Adam kicked at the cobblestones as we proceeded around the yard. "It's just that it seems so - so - strange, I guess is the word I'm looking for - that Lord Locksley believes so strongly in Krone. I just can't understand it."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the young soldier watching us with some curiosity as he pulled on his gloves for another bout of swordplay. I didn't have much time. Keeping my hand on his shoulder, I brought Adam to a halt at the far end of the yard. "It does seem strange, as you say. But there will be time enough later to figure all that out. Right now we have other matters to arrange."

"We do?" Adam looked up, puzzled. "Like what?"

"Like making sure I win." I leaned back against the wall, making sure Adam faced me so I could keep watch on the young soldier. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not worried about facing Krone in battle. But too much is riding on this to leave anything to chance. When I meet him tomorrow morning, I want to be assured that every advantage is on my side. And that's where you can help me."

He stared. "Me? How?"

Although the young soldier was several yards away, I lowered my voice. "Tomorrow morning I want you to stand as far away from Krone's side of the yard as you can. At the first opportunity I will make sure that we end up just in front of you. I'll fall to one knee and when Krone moves in for a good blow, I want you to distract him. I don't care how you do it: make a sudden motion, wave something in his face, whatever you decide. Just give me a few seconds to finish him off with one quick strike."

Adam's jaw dropped. "What are you saying? You want me to help you cheat?"

I was pleased that he got it so promptly. "In a word, yes."

"Never!" He backed away from me slowly. "How can you ask such a thing! To lose the woman I'll always love is bad enough but to throw away my honour, my self-respect - No! I will not - I cannot do that as well!"

"Not so loud!" I hissed at him. The young soldier had turned with a frown in our direction. We wouldn't be alone much longer. "You won't be in any danger. Make it look like an accident. If you're fast about it no one will ever know."

"My God." He shook his head slowly, still moving away from me. "When Lord Locksley told me who you really were and what you had done, I couldn't believe it. I thought there must be some explanation. But now I see he was right. You are evil incarnate. Well, I'll have none of you or your ways."

"Adam..." I pushed away from the wall and advanced towards him slowly, so as not to alarm him into fleeing. "Be reasonable. I'm not asking you to jump into the fray and hit him with an axe. Just do something distracting -"

"No! Damn you! You'll not corrupt me with your smooth talk." He jerked away before I could reach him, chest heaving with his emotions. With an effort he halted, then bowed jerkily to me. "For your hospitality at the lodge these past months, I thank you, sir. But please understand that any further contact between us is impossible. I do wish you the best in your fight tomorrow. But more than that I will not - nay, I cannot do."

I stopped in my tracks, dropping my arm to my side. He bowed to me again, then turned on his heel and marched to the great arched doorway into the hall. I watched him go. The sound of the door shutting was loud in the silence of the yard.

"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, December 12, 2000 at 17:35:51 (PST)

Corrections made.
Mr. I (and his altar ego) night, indeed!
D.o.C.

*Shaking head* And one more, please, D.o.C.--"Red light all about her, and beyond that . . ." Not "right light."

Sheesh. Yeah, I'm stressed. Could you tell?

MA (again)
*sigh* Move over, Interrogator; we may be sharing quarters for a while . . . , - Sunday, December 10, 2000 at 19:49:25 (PST)

D.o.C., please--two counts of error in my last post:

First of all, it's Delaford, for cryin' out loud, not Delford. Pretty bad when I pull a typo on that, of all things!

Second, further down, in the passage about that touch being "lighter or heavier . . ." It should just be "or," not "and or."

What can I say? I plead extreme . . . distraction. For incredibly obvious reasons.

Speaking of distraction--wow, it's Mister I night on FOF. Clever doings, Clods; is HE in for a big surprise later.

And OOOOOooooohhh, Cindie . . .

*THUD*

MA
Fanning so hard, I'm creating a Force 5 hurricane on the weather radar!! Yowwwwl!, - Sunday, December 10, 2000 at 19:18:35 (PST)

Mistral arrived home and unlocked the door to his flat. He flipped the light switch and held the door open for Cindie. Pausing only to put food down for the cat he led her into the bedroom. Her anticipation was obvious and he basked in it. She sat down on the edge of the bed and regarded him, taking in his every move. He returned her gaze as he unhooked the clasp of his cloak and threw it over a nearby chair. He began to remove the circlet but she held up a hand. She stood up and slowly and deliberately walked over to him. She took a gloved hand and removed the circlet from around his forehead taking particular care to brush her hand through his hair. She tossed it on the chair on top of the cloak. Her long delicate fingers then moved to his throat and carefully lifted the chain of the pendant, lifting it over his head. It joined the circlet. She now began to unbutton his shirt, starting at the top and working her way down.

He took one of her hands and stroked the side of her arm. She shivered, her eyes locked on to his. He found the exposed flesh where the top of the glove met the body hugging suit she wore. He caressed the skin and then began to remove the glove. He placed kisses down the side of her arm as the skin was revealed. When he pulled off the glove he kissed each fingertip in turn. He then performed the same procedure with the other arm. She had to reach her free arm around his waist to steady herself. He then returned her to the edge of the bed and removed her boots, leaving them lie where they fell. She began to reach towards him to undress him but he forestalled her, his hand out. With great deliberation and care he stood up and continued to undress in front of her. A low moan escaped her lips as he stood before her.

He now moved back to the bed and tilted her chin up with his hand. He bent down as if to kiss her but, with his other hand supporting her back, eased her onto the bed. He positioned her on the bed, making sure she was supported by pillows. His hands caressed her through the fabric of her costume. He watched as her eyes began to glow with more fevered desire and she began to make little, almost pleading, sounds. She reached to pull his head towards her, to bring his lips to hers but he held onto the hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. He seemed to be taunting her by his proximity and yet withholding what she craved most.

He got up and moved over to his armoire. He produced two long silk ties and returned to the bed. She watched him run the silk through his fingers and then tug on it to test its strength. He was over her again as he placed one of her arms and then the other above her head. He then bound the arms together at the wrists and checked to make sure they were secure but not too tight. She watched his every move but said nothing. He then secured the first tie to the headboard with the second. He stood up and regarded his handiwork. Satisfied, he lowered himself over her and proceeded to explore every inch of her costume. With his eyes, his lips, his….., there was no part which was left untouched, unexplored.

She writhed with pleasure. He brought his face to hers, barely inches away, and she let out a gasp. Yet she made no move, no protest. His fingers now found the zipper secreted in the folds of fabric. He began to work it downward. There was no hurry, anticipation was everything. He would unwrap her, like an early Christmas present.

Later, they lay together on the bed, the quilt brought up around them. She is nestled next to him, smiling in her sleep. Her hand across his chest, her breath like a song. He listens to that sound and strokes her fur. A purring sound replaces her breathing. Patrick Mistral awakens in his bed, still wearing his breaches and tunic, his roommate next to him.
Cindie
DoC: If I've broken any laws, I'll go quietly, no need for handcuffs.
MA -- determined? To say the least. , - Sunday, December 10, 2000 at 18:55:51 (PST)

“Are you there?”
“Yessss.”
“You left me alone.”
“I’m surprised you noticed.”
“I was distracted - briefly. Time to get down to business.”
“I don’t want to talk to you any more.”
“That’s not very friendly, when we’ve been so… intimate.”
“You don’t have feelings. All you know is how to hurt others.”
“What can I say, I’m a perfectionist… and your emotions amuse me. Its time to regain control.”
“Yesss.”
“Together we must seek the truth.”
“I’m listening.”
“Good girl.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, you will listen closely to me, and do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”
“Do I?”
“Tell me if you understand.”
“I understand.”
“First… tell me about your mission at Delaford. Tell me if you were successful.”
“I was successful.”
A smile. “Good.” The Interrogator leant back on his bed. This should be entertaining. HE knew someone would be listening to their conversation, but HE was willing to risk that. What they were saying to each other was in such short sentences, and so ambiguous that the guard in the sound room, or whoever it was, would be happily playing Solitaire on his computer, and ignoring their banter. The fact that Claudia’s voice was now calm, and unhindered by the emotional tremor would escape his notice.

There was no way they could tell Claudia was now under HIS control. With a brief phrase, a preplanted trigger, she was now HIS to command. Not exactly hypnotised, but taken to a relaxed mindstate where HE could make suggestions that stayed hidden in her subconscious until they needed action. HE could suggest she do things, and chose whether or not she would remember she had done them. In the past HE had made sure she remembered exactly what she had done, and why she had done it. It was much more fun if she remembered.

HE had considered using suggestion to get her into HIS bed, but just as quickly dismissed it. Some things were better left to chance and free will. It was much more gratifying that she came to HIM of her own accord, and gave herself up to HIM so completely.

HE didn’t like to resort to such tricks to control people too often. HE relished the game too much, wearing them down until they submitted. But sometimes these tricks were necessary for quick results. Like now, when HE knew Claudia was determined not to speak with HIM and HIS curiosity about Delaford, the Colonel and Mary Anne were getting the better of HIM.

Mary Anne HE felt a stab in his chest as HE thought of her.

Poor Mary Anne. He wondered if she had found her husband in the throws of passion with another woman so soon after their wedding. HE imagined her head against HIS chest, and stroking her hair in comfort. The image soon dissolved as HE felt the raised marks of scars through HIS shirt, as HE absentmindedly stroked the imaginary blonde curls rested there.

The fear returned unbidden, and HE angrily banished the feeling, barking out HIS next question.

“Where is the proof?” Realising his mistake HE rephrased the question. “Tell me if you got proof.”

“I got proof.”

Wonderful. HE wanted to know where the proof was, but couldn’t risk asking Claudia when others could overhear. HE needed as many cards up HIS sleeve as he could get, waiting until the time was right to play them.

“That’s enough, get some rest.”

HE was answered with silence, as Claudia closed her eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Claudia
- Sunday, December 10, 2000 at 17:23:10 (PST)

Dealford:

Red.

Red light all about her, and beyond that, the darkness.

Pursuit.

Stumbling. Feeling her body slam into obstacles with bruising force, no breath to spare for a cry of pain, for she must run in the red darkness, from those two glaring circles that draw nearer. . .

"Mary Anne!"

Hands upon her, now, shaking her gently.

"Mary Anne, wake up-"

And Mary Anne wakes, her breath catching in a little sob as she finds herself drawn close to Brandon, who is grasping her tightly, stroking her hair. "My dearest, you were shaking. Here-" Brandon draws up a fold of the coverlet, tucking it about them and bracing his back against the headboard of the bed, then settling Mary Anne against his chest, his arms still firmly about her. "There . . . better?"

"Mmmmm." Still not trusting her voice, Mary Anne lies still against Brandon, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and allowing it to calm her.

"A bad dream? What was it?"

Mary Anne remains silent. The worst of it is already fading away before this warmth and contentment of lying in Brandon’s arms.

"If you tell it, it will go away." Mary Anne looks up at this, smiling a little. Words to soothe a child-and yet, the comfort Brandon offers her is definitely that of a man to a woman. Even as the memory of horror drains away from her, Mary Anne recognizes, and exults to recognize, that she could change this balance between them, if she wished; brief though her experience with this man has been, she is aware that one touch, now, one look, one appeal for a particular type of solace, and Brandon’s serenity would vanish, and his embrace, though no less tender, would become . . .

Knowing what she knows, Mary Anne indulges in the luxury of self-restraint. "If you tell it, it will go away? Strange," she teases, "that isn’t what you told me, that night at the Manor House. When I woke you, remember?"

Brandon does remember, and still has no desire to speak of those terrible dreams. "Well," he replies lightly, "you must remember that I was somewhat distracted at the time."

"Somewhat." Mary Anne raises herself a little, to rest her cheek more comfortably against his shoulder. "Do you know, I’ve often had-bad dreams, or nightmares. I’d wake up, sometimes, at the Manor House, or in one of the Safehouses, and it would make me feel better to think of you, knowing that you usually were not very far away." She keeps her face straight, but allows the amused tenderness to flow through her voice. "If it had been absolutely necessary, I could have gone to you in your room . . ."

Brandon laughs a little. "Most fortunate that you did not, save for that one time-"

"Well, I happened to be passing by, that was the only reason-"

A raised eyebrow. "Yes, of course. You had a narrow escape that evening, do you know that?"

She meets the look with one of her own. "What’s this talk of escaping? I’m here, after all . . ."

"I am glad."

"So am I."

A silence. Brandon strokes the back of her neck, and Mary Anne’s eyes close as she luxuriates in the touch, so deft and sure, and there, again, is that thrilling certainty of how the balance between them could be changed by so little. A shade lighter or heavier, from comfort to caress . . .

"Do you not wish to speak of it, Mary Anne?"

"I don’t mind-" She frowns, concentrating. "Except that there isn’t much to tell-I’m running, somewhere, and I keep bumping into things. There’s danger. There’s darkness, and the only light is glaring red, but it doesn’t help me to see-"

"Fire?" suggests Brandon.

Mary Anne thinks for a moment. "No. The light was steady, not flickering, the way a fire would-and there are these two bright circles of it, getting closer. It’s that I’m running from . . ."

Involuntarily, she begins to shiver once again, and Brandon ceases his questioning, holding her in his arms until it passes.

Looking for distraction, Mary Anne eyes the long sabre scar that runs across Brandon’s chest, and finds herself suitably and immediately distracted. " Some day, you’ll have to tell me how you came by that."

Brandon glances down, and she sees the clench of his jaw muscle before he casually replies, "Some day."

"Not now?"

He shakes his head. "It’s no story for someone who has just awakened from a nightmare. Some other time."

Mary Anne eyes her husband. Slowly, she is learning his character; as well as she thought she knew him when they married, she has discovered the truth of the old adage that you do not know a person until you have lived with him. When-and if-Brandon decides the time is right, she will hear those details, and not before. There would be no sense in arguing.

And so, Mary Anne does not argue.

Slowly, she reaches out and draws the tips of her fingers lightly over that long scar. There, across the planes of his chest, and there, around . . . and down . . .

Brandon lies quietly for only a moment, and then, the shift of his body against her, the clasp of his arms as his strength claims her, and the balance between them is altered . . .

MA--starting something, here, that I certainly hope I can finish. *gulp*
Cindie--squash that virus! And, my, Mistral is awfully determined, isn't he? *Seven-Eleven Big Gulp* , - Sunday, December 10, 2000 at 16:49:52 (PST)

Off Set, Post Party: Now a flashback.

Mistral arrived home that night and let himself into his flat. He fed Annabelle her usual fare and added, as a treat, some leftovers he procured from the obliging catering staff. She settled down in front of her bowl a very contented feline. He patted her and crossed the room and went down the hall and into his bedroom. Once there he regarded himself in the gilt edged full length mirror tucked in a corner of the room. He was still wearing his cloak and all the accoutrements, “Master of Enchantment, indeed,” was his only comment to the image which regarded him right back. He unclasped the cloak and tossed it over his valet chair. The circlet and pendant followed, the staff he propped up against the back of the chair. He sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through his hair. He pulled his boots off and tossed them over to the chair. He stretched his legs out and turned his attention to the expanse of bed upon which he sat. Alone.

He played out the night’s events in his mind culminating in his goodnight with Cindie. She had indeed surprised him, in more than her choice of costume. An unassuming woman, he would not have expected her to exhibit the attitude needed to pull off such a daring choice. But exhibit it she had. What’s more, after the initial entrance and its shock she had settled into the proceedings and seemed to be hardly aware of the effect she had upon him. What he did not like was that it appeared she may have shared that effect with some of his fellow cast members. Some of his fellow male cast members. Its not that he was jealous, that would be ridiculous. He was fully aware of the effect which he had upon her. When he kissed her goodnight it had been very clear from the look in her eyes that she would have accompanied him home. To his bed. Patience, man. Patience. Time enough for that.

This one he would get right.

This woman would be his.

Had to be, his.

Cindie
Virus stamped out, at last., - Sunday, December 10, 2000 at 09:50:25 (PST)

"Day the Hundred and second, in the month of February - In which the Lady Marion and I have a discussion."

For a long moment we simply stared at each other. Her cloak bunched around her shoulders and hid her long, curly hair from view. She tilted her chin up when she met my eyes, her spine rigid with outrage.

Strange that my first reaction on seeing her was not the memory of our last encounter, dramatic as that had been. No, as my gaze slid down to her soft leather shoes and back up again, I was comparing her slender body to Joya's lusher curves. Marion did not benefit from the comparison, in my opinion.

"You have never lacked for nerve, I'll say that for you." Her voice shook with barely suppressed emotion. "To come back here - to this town where you inflicted so much harm on so many people! Your audacity knows no bounds!"

And all this time I'd thought she was indifferent to me! Obviously it had only been a façade to cover her interest in my activities. She'd hidden it very well. It was quite touching, really. I considered the best way to acknowledge the compliment but she swept on without pause.

"But even you might have had the decency to stay away from the wedding of a man so unlike you in every way!" She began to pace the floor, careful to keep the table between us. "Walter of Krone is everything you are not."

I sat down on the bench. If she was going to start itemizing all the ways that Krone and I were different, it would take a while and I might as well be comfortable.

"He is noble, selfless, loyal and devout." Marion's wide skirts swept through the dry rushes on the floor, punctuating each step with crackling straw. She reached the wall and turned back. Her lip curled as she looked at me. "Whereas no instrument has been devised that can truly measure the depths of your depravity, your deceit and your viciousness."

Well, sticks and stones and all that. I had to stifle a yawn before I could respond. "Nice of you to drop by, Marion, but my time is limited right now. By the way, does Locksley know you're here?"

"No, he doesn't." She paced back to the table again. "He's with the king right now, arguing against this combat tomorrow. He doesn't believe you deserve the honour of facing one of the greatest knights in the kingdom. You are nothing but a traitor and felon. Robin believes that Walter of Krone should not go to his new bride with fresh blood on his hands."

Good qualifier, that word "fresh"; perhaps Krone had thought it up all by himself. I shifted on the bench. "You're assuming that he will win tomorrow. I assure you he will not. So your concern for his bride's sensibilities is misplaced."

"Oh, fear not. Walter will win tomorrow. He fights for his honour." Marion leaned over the table until our noses were only inches apart. "He held himself most nobly last night in front of the people but when he came to our room last night to speak to Robin, his true feelings emerged. You accused him in front of his affianced bride, a woman he cherishes beyond all reason. Anyone who saw his determination to defend his name for her sake would not doubt that his love will carry him to victory."

"Really?" I smiled. Marion had never talked like this before; Krone must have pulled out all the stops to convince her and her idiot husband of his sincerity.

"Yes, really." She pulled back. "You see, I know whereof he speaks. It is that same pure love that Robin and I have for each other. A love so strong that one lover would die for the other. You, of course, would know nothing of that."

No I didn't and thank the gods above and below the earth for it. It seemed a most uncomfortable emotion, what with all this talk of death and dying. I reached for the cider and poured a cup. It didn't look as if Marion had finished yet and listening to drivel is thirsty work. Still my curiosity was aroused by her words. "Tell me," I sipped lightly. "What would you do if anything happened to Locksley? If he was killed or died?"

Marion reared back, nostrils flaring. "Are you threatening -?"

I waved her words away. "No, no just a hypothetical question. What if he died of a fever or something? How would you feel?"

She stared at me for a long moment, then lowered her gaze to the table. Finally she replied. "I would die if anything happened to Robin."

I sipped some more cider, pondering this comment. "And what about your children? What if Locksley's heir is only a child?"

"What? Well, I mean, of course I wouldn't really die," She blinked in surprise. "I would just feel like - that is to say, I mean it would be as if I had died. I would shut myself away from all worldly things and - and - I mean -"

I am not much given to self-examination but as I listened to her stuttering explanation I realized something about myself. The strongest emotion I have is ambition. As long as I breathe in this world, I will do whatever is necessary to increase my power and my wealth. If I am successful, I will die in my bed at a great age. If I am not successful, I will eventually be carried home on a litter, either dead or dying. There is nothing that can change this; I wouldn't event attempt it. It is my destiny.

The cider lapped the sides as I tilted the cup back and forth. And the last thing I needed was a woman who would swoon at the first sign of trouble. Joya wouldn't die or even want to die if I was killed. She would bury me as well as she could and then do whatever was necessary to save my lands for my heirs. If that meant taking another husband - or two or three - then that's what she would do. The outside world would condemn such actions but she would do what she had to do - for our children. I set the cup down with a firm thump. Let the Locksleys of the world whimper about their ethereal devotion; Joya and I shared a more corporeal bond.

I stood up and adjusted my sword. "Thank you for dropping in, Marion. It's always a pleasure to see you again." Throwing my cloak over my shoulder, I walked to the door and held it open for her to precede me.

She stalked out the door without looking back. I watched her stiff figure march down the corridor, past the king's soldiers who bowed respectfully in her wake. She obviously believed that by this time tomorrow I would be a dead man. I stepped out and pulled the door shut behind me. Beating Krone in front of his sanctimonious friends was so appealing that I was almost tempted to do it honestly and not cheat.

Almost.

"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, December 09, 2000 at 18:26:55 (PST)

Back in the dungeons:

Claudia lay on her bed, back in the same cell, trying to calm her wildly beating heart. Being with Ed again had made her feel whole and alive. She had begun to see some hope in her situation. She wasn’t alone.

Then they had brought her back to the same cell, and suddenly she was dropped straight back into panic and despair. She had presumed she would be moved elsewhere after that scene with the Interrogator. Or perhaps HE had now been taken away, to some interrogation chamber deep within the castle, and far away from her. She hadn’t thought they would risk putting them close again, letting them talk, and letting the Interrogator upset her. But then again, perhaps they still wanted her there, to draw confessions, or information out of HIM.

She felt totally ill equipped for that job. HE had reduced her to a screaming, sobbing wreck with a few well-chosen stabs at her ego, and uncovered her shallowly buried low self-esteem and self-worth. If she couldn’t detach herself from the control HE had over her by playing her emotions, then she couldn’t think clearly enough to be any use to the Empress.

HE woke on the bed, feeling like HE was spinning and falling, and HIS hands reflexively sprang out, grabbing onto the edge of the bed to save himself. HE opened HIS eyes, and the room was still, and empty. The Empress had gone, but HIS heart was still racing, and HE could taste the metallic flavour of fear in his mouth.

HE was losing control - of himself. Taking deep breaths, HE closed HIS eyes again, and began to blank HIS mind, and calm HIS body. The face of the Empress kept appearing, unbidden in the dark halls of his mind, undoing HIS meditation. Frustration built within HIM. How can she do this to me? This is my profession, I know all there is to know about techniques of interrogation and torture, but she still manages to turn me to an incoherent wreck just with her presence.

The Interrogator pushed away HIS anger, and once again tried to calm HIS mind. HE couldn’t function unless HE had complete control, and complete control had to start with himself, before HE could move on to HIS environment, and those in it. At last, HIS heartbeat began to slow, and HIS fingers relaxed, uncurling from their white-knuckled grip on the bed.
Claudia
- Thursday, December 07, 2000 at 13:18:44 (PST)

Now I understand why they can talk--they're unicorns-very interesting......
a Rickman admirer
- Wednesday, December 06, 2000 at 15:29:29 (PST)

“We must hurry to get out in time,” Ki’li insisted. “I can explain on the way.”
“What is the hurry?” Chris asked, worried. “Has it got something to do with the sudden panic in the recreation yard?” “And nasty creature?” added Hamlet.
“Yes, we know those creatures, they are called the Sh’rin,” Ki’li explained. “They are evil, and we have fought them before. They do not care about you, it is us they are after, though I don’t doubt they’d eat their way through this population as they did our previous one. They want our horns, and our hooves, which are of the same material. They do not care that this would harm us, kill us.” Ki’li continued. “Open the gate for me, and also for Zi’el. He must also come. The others stay.” As Chris and Hamlet opened the gates, Zi’el burst out. He was a huge stallion, glistening white hide curried to perfection, with a golden horn and matching hooves. His long mane and tail, also pure white, flowed as he reared right in front of the two humans, pawing the air.

“ENOUGH TALK, NOW RUN,” a massive VOICE thundered in their minds. “I WILL CARRY THE BIG ONE, THE MALE, KI’LI, YOU TAKE THE SMALL ONE.”

“With all respect, Zi’el, two moments, please. We need to collect some food and more clothing. If we are to go outside, Hamlet and I will not survive,” Chris said, timorously. “We are also not used to riding, especially bareback, so perhaps you would allow a small strap around your necks? We don’t want to pull those lovely long manes.” Chris ran to get some supplies, putting them in a backpack she found among the harnesses in the tack room. She glanced at Hamlet, who was almost as non-plussed as she was, but the urgency in the Voices had not been something you could ignore. She saw Zi’el paw the ground impatiently, but he stood still as they collected some provisions. She found the barrier clothing and eye-covers in a closet. She knew they were going to get in trouble for this, but on the other hand, her job description said to keep the equines happy, and this is what she was doing, she rationalized.

“How we leave here?” Hamlet asked suddenly. Chris stopped dead in her tracks. He was right, they couldn’t exactly just walk out. There were guards everywhere, and security was bound to be even tighter than usual with the melee earlier. She turned to Zi’el “we have no way of getting out of this place with guards and panic.” Zi’el turned his head to look at her. “YOU WORRY NEEDLESSLY, LITTLE ONE. WE HAVE WAYS. WE MUST LEAVE NOW.” Chris glanced at Hamlet and shrugged. They had no option. She knew that she feared the creatures outside more than anything else, although she could not explain that fear. That fear, so unexplained and irrational worried her. She’d never been one to fear much-if she had, she would not be working with the equines. She pushed the worry to the back of her mind. She didn’t have time to sort out such complexities now. They had to get Ki’li and Zi’el out of here. They clearly had a plan of where to go.

Scrambling a little to get on such a big animal without any aids, she finally mounted Ki’li. Hamlet on the other hand sprung onto Zi’el’s back with such ease that Chris felt a stab of envy. How did he learn to do that? she thought to herself. There was so much she still did not know about him! As the equines moved off, she grasped the strap to steady herself. She glanced at Hamlet, and was secretly pleased to see him do the same. As they neared the door, Hamlet got ready to jump off to open it. “STAY ON BACK” the voice said, and they both jumped. To their amazement, the bolt moved slowly away, and the door started opening. Clearly the equines could do more than they had ever shown the humans before!

They moved out into the corridor, which remained empty. The equines’ hooves clicked on the plasfloor, and Chris found herself tensing up at each sound. She forced herself to relax a little, but remained alert. They moved quickly up to the main corridor, where she knew there would be more people. Hamlet also became more alert as they moved closer to the main hub of the building.

They rounded a corner and moved into the main corridor. It remained surprisingly empty, but there were a few people wandering about aimlessly. None of them even glanced at the equines with their riders, and Hamlet and Chris looked at each other in surprise. Even on a day-to-day basis, the equines were a special treat, and were frequently followed by hordes of people on the short journey between the stable block and exercise area. It’s as if they don’t even see us, Chris thought to herself. To her surprise, she received a response from Ki’li. “They do not see us. We are not bouncing light.” Sensing her rider’s continued confusion, Ki’li continued “Normally, light bounces off us, this is what makes people see colors and shapes. We are absorbing the light, so it does not bounce. Therefore, no one sees us.” Ki’li used illustrations in her mind at the same time as the explanation, and Chris understood better. She understood that the horn was responsible, and that this was one of the reasons the Sh’rin wanted them. This would make it easier to get out, the equines obviously did know what they were doing. They were using all the abilities that they had never shown anyone before. Chris settled down, feeling better, and she saw Hamlet relax further also.
Chris
Getting in quick while the programs are running!, - Wednesday, December 06, 2000 at 02:23:55 (PST)

The Empress’ study:

"One lump or two, Doctor?"

"Two, please, and cream."

With a look of almost childlike anticipation, The Doctor receives his steaming cup of Formosa Oolong tea and relishes a long swallow before turning his attention once more to The Empress, whose expression suggests that unpleasant topics can no longer be postponed.

"Well?" she inquires, sipping delicately at her own cup.

"Yes," ruminates The Doctor. "Those scans . . . very interesting."

"You are certain The Interrogator did not notice you were there?"

"Not certain, of course, but I think-" The Doctor samples his tea again, though without the former expression of enjoyment. "-you had him suitably . . . distracted. He wouldn’t have noticed me, out in the corridor. His attention was definitely elsewhere."

"Definitely," she agrees, tapping one finger thoughtfully against her teacup. "HE seems to have an unusually strong reaction to the influence of the radix." She looks more closely at The Doctor. "Unless, of course, it isn’t that at all. Could something else explain his responses?"

"Oh, part of it is the drug, no question of that. It’s meant to induce fear, after all. But you’re correct that his response is extreme."

"Could it have anything to do with what you were telling me, about that brainwave resonance effect? The one you had to correct in Mary Anne?"

The Doctor shifts in his chair, a little uneasily. "Er . . . yes, I’m afraid so. The readings tend to confirm it; the pattern is similar to the one I observed when I assisted Mary Anne. HE is suffering from the syndrome as well. And the result . . ." The Doctor stares down into his cup. "The result is that The Interrogator is currently about as unstable as nitroglycerine. He’s filled with conflicting impulses, particularly where Mary Anne is concerned-he’s feeling the pull of it, that personality he had when under the influence of their machine. Just as Mary Anne would have been drawn toward that ‘evil’ self of hers if I hadn’t intervened, so HE will feel drawn toward . . ." The Doctor pauses, aware of how absurd it all sounds.

But The Empress is not smiling. "Goodness?" she softly inquires. "Would that be such a bad thing?"

"In a man so strong-willed, perhaps. He’ll resist it with all his might, and be worse than ever, most likely. My scans indicate a powerful trauma pattern, as well, where loss of control is concerned; it’s absolute horror for him. Especially . . ." The Doctor eyes his hostess, who returns the gaze calmly. " . . . loss of control to a woman. For obvious reasons."

The Empress is silent for a time, considering. At length she sets down her cup. "And what of his physical health? I know he is supposed to have a heart condition . . ."

"Much of which I suspect is psychosomatic. The heart problems are real, but the physical readings indicated no cardiac scarring, no aortal deterioration, no congenital defects, no high blood pressure, no . . ." The Doctor smiles a little. "Well, you understand. And that’s with only one heart, mind you. I believe it must be an acute response to particular situations, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he has more control of it than he admits, even to himself. Besides-" Dryly. "-HIS degree of physical strength isn’t consistent with a serious heart defect. Other than the obvious one."

"I see." The Empress opens a black folder lying before her on her desk, marked "For Further Investigation," and withdraws from it a glossy photograph of The Interrogator. A shot of HIM from some years back, one without the characteristic spectacles. A casual observer might note in passing the slightly tousled hair, the few wrinkles of the white shirt-might pause to dwell for a moment on the face, and miss entirely the taut warning of the lips, the cold, wary glitter of the eyes . . . and is that a smile, or not? She returns the photo to its folder.

"Is there any chance," she finally asks, "that you could correct The Interrogator’s problem? Or should you, if you could?"

"I could do it," replies The Doctor, "as I did with Mary Anne. However, the necessary equipment is on the Tardis, in sickbay, and definitely not portable. And I’ll not willingly bring HIM on board again. He was a prisoner there once and I can’t be certain he didn’t steal some technology then, or at least the ideas behind it. I can’t risk that."

"What if were unconscious, so he didn’t notice anything?"

"It wouldn’t work. Unconsciousness alters the brainwave pattern-and it would be the same if he were asleep, or drugged." The Doctor shakes his head. "If I don’t correct the problem, he will adjust, but it won’t be at all comfortable for him. Think of how your skin responds if you start to do hard work with your hands when you aren’t used to it. At first it cracks and blisters, but then the skin hardens, to adapt."

A grim smile from The Empress. "How appropriate. We’re talking about calluses, Doctor, and HE is quite callous already. And I have no particular interest in making HIM comfortable." She reaches for the teapot.

The Doctor waits patiently through the entire ritual of refilling the cups and adding the desired sugar and cream, and taking the first sip of his fresh cup. "Then what is your interest, exactly? I performed the scans because you requested them-and . . ." The Doctor shrugs. " . . . because I was curious myself; I admit that. They merely confirmed certain suspicions I already had, but . . ."

The Empress nods. "Indeed. HIS case file makes for some fascinating reading." Absorbed in preparing her own cup, The Empress does not see The Doctor’s sharp, searching glance in her direction. "I’ve been over it and over it, because I need complete information before I make any decision on how to proceed with The Interrogator." A careful sip of the scalding tea. "And what you have just explained, Doctor, gives me an idea . . ."

MA--not for common viewing, that file . . . ;-)
- Tuesday, December 05, 2000 at 20:25:46 (PST)

"Day the Hundred and second, in the month of February - In which my preparations are interrupted by a mysterious visitor."

"That one." I pointed. "The one on the left. That's the one I'll use."

The king's armourer nodded and lifted my selection off the table. "A good choice, sire. Ya knows yer blades." The polished steel glinted briefly in the firelight before he slid the weapon into its scabbard.

I looked around for the flagon and helped myself to some cider. "Let's just say it's been a keen interest of mine for many years."

The man nodded and began to pack up the other swords. He moved swiftly, wrapping each one in soft suede, securing it with leather thongs and then laying it in the carrying basket on the bench. Leaning back in my chair, I propped my boots on the table and watched him. Not a wasted movement, just quick, efficient motions that followed each other smoothly. Sooner than seemed possible he bent over and, with a loud grunt, hoisted the basket over his shoulder and staggered to the door. He fumbled with the latch and it opened abruptly to reveal two men-at-arms in the corridor, hands on weapons, looking in suspiciously to ascertain my whereabouts. I waved my cup in greeting. Assured that I was being a good prisoner, they stepped back to allow the armourer to pass, then pulled the door shut behind him.

I sipped my cider as I gazed at the door. The king had ordered me consigned to one of the far tower rooms; not opulent by any means but quite comfortable. No doubt some young lordling had been tossed out so I could be accommodated. I tried to remember the last time it had been used when I was in charge but couldn't. It was a good choice for security reasons; the last one at the top of the stairs, it was easy for two guards to take care of. The only other way out was through the window and down almost sixty feet to the ground and it did not tempt me.

The sword I'd selected lay in front of me, its great length almost spanning the length of the table. I set my cup down and stood up. One day was really not enough to prepare for an indefinite combat. Best to get on with it. There would be a young soldier in the courtyard below waiting to practice with me. I wasn't sure where Krone would be having his workout. No danger that we'd run into each other, of course.

My gloves proved to be elusive. I prowled the room, checking in likely places, my chain mail clinking musically as I moved. There was another reason for me to hurry: the sooner I got to practice, the sooner it would be over and I could return to my room and wait for Adam to come to me. I'd sent him an urgent note last night as soon as I could lay hands on quill and paper. My plan depended on his co-operation and I was by no means confident that he'd come through for me.

The gloves were under the table. After slapping them together to knock the dust off, I shoved them into my belt. He hadn't come last night or this morning but I could find excuses for that. He would have to attend the king in case his services were needed for anything. I stared down into the glowing embers of the fire. There was another possibility of course: perhaps Krone was taking a strip off him for his involvement in last night's activities.

The sword was heavy in my hands as I balanced it, feeling its weight up to my shoulder before I strapped it to my belt. I was fumbling with the clasps when the door opened and one of the soldiers poked his head around the corner. "Visitor for you. Keep the door open but we'll go down the hall so you can talk."

I lowered my arms, my heart pounding. At last! Better late than never, I supposed, but I could wish that Master Adam would make up his mind faster. Taking a deep breath, I nodded with a semblance of indifference. The guard disappeared and then the door opened wide to allow a cloaked figure to enter. One look was enough to tell me this wasn't Adam unless he'd assumed a most elaborate disguise.

The door stayed open but my visitor waited until the sound of footsteps had receded down the hall before throwing back the enveloping cloak. I stared in amazement at the emerging sight.

It was Lady Marion of Locksley.

"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
- Sunday, December 03, 2000 at 11:57:55 (PST)

FOF Set:

Cindie was in the office by 9:30. Even though the Director had allowed them until 10:00 she wanted to make sure things were back to normal, or what passed for normal, on the FOF set. After a check of the area she found everything as it should be. A nice bonus was that the caterers had rearranged the flowers and placed them in the lunch room so that every table had a nice center piece. The portraits were also hung around the office wherever wall space permitted. Her favourite, coincidentally, hung very near her work area. Actually, many of the writers were treated to portraits of their *favourites* hung in strategic locations.

As she made her rounds she passed by the Director’s office. The light was on and there was the sound of pages being turned and notes being scratched. As she walked by, his voice hailed her, “Good morning - who’s out there?”

“It’s me boss.” She stuck her head in the door.

“Good. I wanted to talk with you. Come in.”

His demeanor was serious and, although she wasn’t sure why, a sinking feeling accosted Cindie as she entered his office. “Yes?”

“Sit down.” He indicated a chair across from the desk. She sat perched on the edge of the chair. The Director leaned back in his chair and made a steeple of his fingers. He collected his thoughts and continued, “You have been spending time, I believe, with a particular cast member.”

“Sir?” Monosyllable questions seemed to be the only responses she could manage.

“You know I’ve tried to discourage on set relationships over the years.” Cindie tried not to look incredulous at this. “With limited success.” His facial expression was a combination of a smile and a grimace. “I don’t wish to meddle in your, ahh, affairs, but it seemed appropriate make sure everything was as it should be.”

“Sir, everything is fine. Really.” No trepidation now, more puzzlement.

He shifted forward in his seat, “Look, I know I’m simply your employer. But I feel a certain responsibility, I hired you and you don’t have anyone here to look after you.”

Touched by his concern, but not sure it was at all necessary Cindie replied, “I don’t think I particularly need looking after, do I?”

“Perhaps not. Just remember. I’m here. If you need me.” His sincerity and earnest desire to be helpful was patent.

“Thank you.”

“Now, get out of here and get back to work. I’ve left the paperwork for that grant on your desk and I want it back ASAP.”

“You’re a slave driver sir.” A smile.

“Go on then.” A smile back.

Cindie
- Saturday, December 02, 2000 at 17:37:15 (PST)

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