Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Valley of the Moon:

The Director stood in the doorway, his face exhibiting every kind of fury. When he spoke, his voice was well modulated, well controlled. The effect was more vivid than if he’d come in screaming. “And what have we here? Mistral.”

Cindie scrambled to her feet. She suddenly felt like she was six years old and in for it with the principal. Mistral rose to his feet also, but if he felt the same his face and demeanor did not show it. “We have, sir, a picnic.”

The Director, to Cindie, “Get out now.” At her confused expression he continued. “Leave now. There is a security guard outside the door. She will escort you to your car.” Cindie went over to the closet and removed her belongings. She looked back at Mistral, his face was impassive. He did not look at her. She stood at the doorway, the inclination to do as she was told was very strong. So was the urge to do what she felt was right.

She dared to speak, “Sir, I asked Mistral to…”

The Director did not allow her to finish, “You will leave now. Please.” The last word clipped and not a request. With a miserable look over her shoulder she did as she was bid.

Cindie
No Therese, I guess not.
In dutch with the Director too., - Wednesday, January 31, 2001 at 17:22:14 (PST)

Therese, He wouldn't! If you are let go I will submit my resignation. We must stand together in this common cause.
Eamon
Drafting a resolution., - Wednesday, January 31, 2001 at 17:17:11 (PST)

The Director's Office--FOF Set

Therese knocked on the semi-closed door to The Director's office, unsuccessfully attempting to quell her nerves. When he appeared before her, opened the door, and indicated with a sweep of his arm that she should enter, she swallowed audibly.

"Into the lion's den?" he questioned affably.

"Only if you'll promise to think of me as Androcles," Therese replied, her expression wary.

The Director considered Therese carefully, his penetrating gaze, so capable of revealing even the most subtle nuances, allowed her no clue as to the basis for this meeting.

Therese assumed that this could only be practical and deliberate on his part, for she was confident that she knew all too well why he had summoned her to his private abode.

He could only mean to terminate her employment. She could see no other reason for his summons. Fired. Let go. Dismissed.

"Would you think that an appropriate analogy, Therese?" he asked, his deep tones seeming deceptively mild. "Are you a thorn in my paw? Or perhaps that would be my side?"

Therese slumped into the seat across from his desk, her spirits plummeting. It occurred to her then that while she knew The Director did not suffer fools gladly, was aware of his reputation as a task master who demanded perfection, and had witnessed first hand the brilliance of which he was capable, she didn't really know him. He was a private man, and though they had a good working relationship, and she greatly respected his skill, she didn't know him well enough to predict his reactions. Still, in this instance she had left him little choice.

"Either side or paw, the thorn need be removed," she replied morosely, her huge brown eyes projecting her distress.

The Director rose from behind his desk, and moving to the door he pushed it shut, the gentle force of his hand causing the latch to click gently into place. Pulling a chair over toward Therese he sat before her, close enough so their legs touched. Leaning forward, he rested his chin on his hands, and propped his elbows upon his knees, causing his face to rest disarmingly close. "Not removed, necessarily. . .perhaps merely staked."

Therese tried her best to answer him with a smile, and failed miserably.

Therese
Cindie, nope, I wouldn't dare intrude on a quiet moment such as that. . .would I? ;), - Wednesday, January 31, 2001 at 16:47:38 (PST)

Valley of the Moon:

He watched her settle onto the grass and survey his preparations. He hadn’t been sure that she would remain after his *performance*. He watched her delicate fingers pick up a canapé and pop it into her mouth. He began to put the cork screw to use, opening a bottle of pinot noir he had thought she’d enjoy. He wondered at her slender fingers, knew the strength which they possessed.

He poured out the wine and handed her a glass. He raised his in a toast to her. She mimicked his gesture and took a sip, he was rewarded with a smile of appreciation. He reached for a toast point with caviar and continued to regard her. He knew that he had run a great risk in his programme for the evening, but the rewards…. He cut the thought off sharply. Who knew where things might go from here, if anywhere at all. Still, he could not cease the hope which was beginning to build that this woman might…. “Is that caviar?” She was asking him.

“Yes.” He held out the paper plate. He smiled at the incongruity. “No china plates this time, I’m afraid.”

“Are you kidding, this is perfect. Caviar on a paper plate, isn’t that the epitome of casual elegance?” She was teasing him and he loved it.

They began to eat in earnest and grew quiet for awhile as they assuaged at least some of their appetites. “I wasn’t sure you’d stay.” He said after they had slowed their pace.

She looked up at him, surprised at the tenderness in his voice. “Of course I stayed. That’s largely what this was all about, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Very quietly. He reached into the picnic basket and produced a silver thermos. Before she had time to react, he angled his head toward it and arched an eyebrow. “Coffee.” He said.

“I should hope so.” She replied. He poured out coffee into paper cups. They were thin so they used napkins as a barrier to the heat. She settled her back against the palm tree and Mistral stretched out on the ‘grass’ next to her. The conversation meandered over various topics. They were enjoying the calm when they both started …at the sound of a key turning in the lock.

Cindie
This place isn't haunted is it? Therese, is that you...., - Tuesday, January 30, 2001 at 09:40:29 (PST)

Show of hands--how many would trip him and beat him to the ground?
a Rickman admirer
risking a trip to the dungeon, - Monday, January 29, 2001 at 22:33:30 (PST)

Delaford:

"--never made a snow angel, Christopher?"

"Never," confesses Brandon. "Snowmen, of course, but I haven’t any experience of angels." Save one, he adds to himself as he studies his wife’s face, glowing with cold and charmingly framed by the fur trimming of her hood.

Before Brandon can pursue any impulses prompted by his loving thoughts, Mary Anne grins at him. "Then-allow me to add to your experience." A wink, as she settles herself on her back in the snow, gazing up at Brandon. "Now, watch . . ." And under Brandon’s indulgent eye, she swooshes her arms and legs back and forth, then carefully sits up and steps clear of her creation-the angel-shaped outline in the smooth whiteness.

"Why, that is delightful, Mary Anne!" exclaims Brandon with honest pleasure as he helps Mary Anne brush the snow from her cloak.

"I’m happy you like it. Now, you try-"

They are interrupted by a series of loud barks. Someone has released Nox from the house and he comes lolloping toward them at full speed, or as full as his old retriever’s bones can manage. The drifts that are not too deep for a human present a genuine obstacle for a medium-sized dog, but he perseveres, plunging and burrowing joyfully through heaps of snow until he is there, circling about them and getting under their feet, wagging his plumy tail and giving vent to throaty little yips as Mary Anne leans down to pet him and rub his ears.

"Good boy," croons Mary Anne. "Too bad I don’t have anything for you to fetch . . . well, wait a minute!" Chuckling, she packs together a snowball and tosses it. "Get it, Nox!"

Nothing daunted, the valiant retriever dashes off in search of the snowball where he saw it land . . . and, when he cannot find it, he makes his way back to Mary Anne, making puzzled noises, but is more than glad to go running off again in pursuit of another snowball.

Brandon is amused but calls a halt after a few minutes; Nox is not a young dog, and he is soon content to return to his humans for another session of patting and ear-rubbing, before discovering that he can stay even warmer if he keeps very close to Mary Anne’s feet, beneath her long, warm cape.

"Scoundrel," observes Brandon-to Nox, naturally. "Trust you to find the best place to keep yourself in comfort." The dog’s ears lift at the sound of his name, and his head tilts to one side, just as if he understands, when Brandon continues, "But I suppose he does have the right idea. Perhaps we should not stay out too long. What do you think, my dearest?" This last, to Mary Anne.

"Oh, I’m not too cold, yet," she replies. And then, with a mischievous gleam in her eye: "And you still haven’t made your snow angel, sir . . ."

MA--okay, show of hands:
How many of you would just LEAP on Brandon the minute he lay down in the snow . . . ? ;-), - Monday, January 29, 2001 at 19:59:28 (PST)

Valley of the Moon:

She sagged back in the chair and shook her head. He sat back on his heels after releasing the last strap, “Are you quite satisfied?” he asked. She just looked at him blankly. “This was your idea you know. Face the Interrogator you said… I had been thinking a picnic would be nice…”

“Patrick, you don’t need to be petulant. Besides I don’t see where you have much room to complain. You orchestrated this whole thing.” She rubbed her wrists and then bent over to give her ankles the same attention. “I don’t know how Brandon shot all those scenes. This chair is not comfortable.”

“It’s not supposed to be is it? Besides which, I’m the one who spent days at a time strapped to a table under those lights.” He looked up at her and almost succeeded in appearing sympathetic.

“Yes of course. You did have the worst of those shoots I suppose.”

“They were some of my best work though.” He didn’t say this with any ego, simply a stated opinion.

“Let me know if you ever have the urge to reenact them.” She smiled sweetly at him.

He shot her a look, stood up and headed over to the cart. He opened a drawer and began to rummage through it, muttering, “Now I know there was one of those in here…” Cindie looked on warily, hadn’t she been through enough already this evening? He produced something with a triumphant flair, “…Voila!” He was holding a cork screw. He took one look at Cindie and began to laugh, a rich, velvet throated laugh that gave her deep pleasure, although it was clearly at her expense. “What, were you afraid I was going to come up with a pair of pliers?” He fairly roared with laughter.

“Oh, be quiet.”

He really was enjoying himself now. He walked over and held out his hand to assist her up, making a half-hearted attempt to conceal his mirth. She stood up and he put his arms on her shoulders and turned her round to face the far side of the room where they’d watched the tape, “I told you I had a picnic in mind for us this weekend,” he said softly in her ear.

“Oh, Patrick”, she gasped, staring in awe of the altered scene before her. How had he done it? The couch, coffee table and armoire had been pushed aside. Now there was artificial grass, upon which had been laid out a red and white checked table cloth. There was even a tree. It was a palm tree, and Cindie was sure she recognized it as being from a cast party, of which she’d seen photos, but it was a tree. The effect was disarming. The repast laid out looked divine and she realized that it was late and she was very hungry.

“Do you like?”

“Yes.” She turned to look at him. “I like.” They stood there quietly a moment. Savoring the pleasure of being together. Enjoying the lack of tension, enjoying the feeling that a barrier had been removed from between them. He put his arm around her and they walked over to the indoor picnic.

Cindie
Yeah, I know, another meal and more gratuitous coffee drinking. , - Sunday, January 28, 2001 at 16:54:35 (PST)

Shivering in the rain at the thought of his close brush with death at the Platte river, and the recent loss of a fellow traveller to the Snake, Sinclair mulled over the options, visualising Running Bear's crude trail map.

So near yet so far. One hundred miles from the mighty Columbia the Willamette valley and the end of the trail for this Wagon train. A similar distance to the Columbia from where he stood. Stories of a difficult road over the Cascade mountains to the valley had circulated as trail folklore for months.

Should he take his charges the tried a tested route with the ferrymen down the river or would the new toll road be better?

No answers appeared in the involuntary carved mud puddle and rivers.

Flinching as the mighty thunder clap reverberated and sucked the surrounding air, Sinclair deliberately trod on his creation. What was there for him in the Willamette valley anyway?

With that morose thought in mind he splashed his way to their empty wagon. He would sleep alone tonight.

Claire
Decisions .. decisions ..., - Sunday, January 28, 2001 at 14:49:12 (PST)

Clothing plastered, wet, to his body PL climbed into the wagon box and secured the canvas behind him. The prairie schooner felt like the storm tossed ship its name implied under the storm's onslaught. They had faced the elements daily in the course of their long westward journey, but not like this.

It seemed the wrath of heaven had been unleashed as the storm battered them. Dana wondered, for a brief moment, if presuming to assure PL of God's attention had met with disapproval.

Wind from the southwest gusted shaking everything in its path and driving rain into every possible crack and crevice. The storm was very near now. They heard the static snap of lightning as it illuminated the wagon's interior. The deafening crash of thunder was almost instantaneous.

"That was close!" PL reached for Dana's cold, stiff fingers and pulled her into his arms. "You still don’t like these storms do you?"

"Not much." The reply came through clenched teeth. "You're soaked!" Dana pulled her cheek from its resting-place over PL's heartbeat and went to work once more at his buttons.
Dana
weather report, anyone?, - Saturday, January 27, 2001 at 16:44:49 (PST)

"Medical conditions?" gasps Mary Anne, before her vision clears and she sees just who is asking the question. Then she finishes weakly, "No, none. Unless you count delusions . . . was someone just licking my face?"

Therese chuckles as Mary Anne's eyes go automatically to Brandon, but then she steps forward with Tory. "No, that was this silly beast. Brought you around fast, didn't it?"

Mary Anne smiles and pats Tory's head. "No offense, baby dog, but being swiped in the face with a big ol' wet tongue isn't my idea of fun. Thanks anyway, though!" Tory replies by running out the "big ol' wet tongue" under discussion in a doggy grin.

Jutta motions for silence so she can listen to Mary Anne's heart, and after a moment she nods. "Steady . . . that's good . . ."

Brandon is fidgeting by now, and so is The Director, who breaks in with, "So what do you think, doctor . . ."

"Call me Jutta; everyone does. I can't tell yet, until I know more about how and why this happened."

"Well, the how is obvious," scowls The Director, directing his black gaze to Mary Anne's computer, which is now displaying row after row of dancing hamsters.

Mary Anne blushes as The Director's gaze returns to her, but she shakes her head. "No, I've looked at that site lots of times, but this never happened before."

"Well," grudges The Director, "it's true that you aren't usually the swooning-away type--at least, not without a script in your hand. But then, what IS the matter?"

At this point, Brandon intervenes. "Mary Anne, what have you done lately?"

Mary Anne considers. "Well, I've been handling more than one thread. There's the Delaford material, and some of the Palace story, and . . ."

Jutta listens as Mary Anne details her activities. "And how have you been eating? Do you sleep well? Get enough exercise?"

"Exercise? Well, there's Sei's kickboxing class; I'm still going to that . . ."

The Director draws Jutta aside for a hasty whispered conference, during which Mary Anne nervously grasps Brandon's hand, until The Director returns to the couch and stands looking down at her.

"Mary Anne, I'm scheduling you for some sessions with Jutta. Her specialty is physical therapies like massage and other relaxation techniques. It sounds to me as if you've been working too hard, so from now on I'm arranging your work schedule to fit in regular appointments with her. She'll monitor your diet, too--" Mary Anne makes a sour face, and The Director nods. "--right, that means no more chocolate binges and cheesecake orgies! She'll report directly to me, and you're going to keep to the schedule she sets for you until she's confident, and so am I, that you're in good health and that this won't be happening again. Understood?"

Mary Anne nods gloomily. "Understood."

"Right. And stay away from that site, too, or I swear I'll filter your internet access. Now, let's all get back to work."

As The Director turns to depart, Mary Anne makes a face at him behind his back. Without missing a beat, The Director sighs, "I saw that, Mary Anne" and strides out, accompanied by the dumbstruck stare of Mary Anne.

"How does he always know?" she exclaims.

After giving Mary Anne a quick hug, the giggling Therese leads Tory away. Jutta gathers up her medical instruments, murmuring something about setting up Mary Anne's appointments, and hurries off, along with the other medic who can see that his presence is no longer needed. Finally, Mary Anne is left alone with Brandon, who grins as he answers her question.

"Mary Anne, my dearest--when anyone tells you to do something you do not wish to do, the odds are very small indeed that you will simply do it. When The Director turns his back on you and says, 'I saw that,' well . . . the odds are very good that there is something for him to see!"

Mary Anne's reply to this is a sound with no clear orthographic representation. Perhaps hrrmppphh would be close. Finally she mutters, "So, I guess I'll have to do as he says."

"Yes, you will," replies Brandon firmly, "or I'll know the reason why not."

"Oh, no, not you, too!"

"Yes--I, too." Brandon's expression is gentle but unyielding. "You will follow his instructions and Jutta's, to the letter. Now, let me help you off of this couch . . ."

MA
You know, I think you're right. ;-), - Saturday, January 27, 2001 at 08:50:50 (PST)

Mary Anne reached up and touched the right side of her face and sighed. Her eyelids began to flutter. Her eyes slowly opened and she saw, first, the face of Christopher Brandon peering at her, his face the picture of concern. She saw, second, the Director, then Jutta, then Therese, then Tory? She realized she was laid out on the chaise longue and couldn't quite recall how she'd gotten there. Last thing she remembered she'd been at the computer.... Recognition dawned as Jutta leaned forward, stethoscope at the ready, "Do you have any medical conditions I should know about?"
;-D
Mary Anne, you've been working too hard., - Saturday, January 27, 2001 at 08:00:50 (PST)

Egypt, present day:

What happened? I can barely breathe - something's pushing on my chest... Am I alive? It's freezing in here... Alexander thought frantically. He opened his eyes - or thought he did. Nothing but darkness greeted him. He blinked a few more times experimentally, coming up with the same result. He tried to move, but something was pinning him down - a body. A sour taste filled his mouth.

"Oooh, did someone get the license plate of that Mack truck that ran me over?" a masculine voice proclaimed weakly. Jack's voice, Alexander realized in relief. He took in another shallow breath and hissed, "Jack, are you hurt?"

"Sore like you wouldn't believe, but I don't think anything's broken," the grad student answered softly. "We should be dead by all rights after that fall," he observed. "Yes, but can you move?" Alexander panted. "You're right on top of my chest..."

"Wait a second. Someone's on top of me," Jack said, attempting to wiggle off Alexander with no success. He moved his arms, grinding his elbows into Alexander's chest painfully and pushing the flashlight that he had strapped on his belt onto his hip as well in an effort to move whoever landed on top of him.

"Hey! That's private property you're trespassing on!" Melanie cried out angrily before moaning loudly. "Well, EXCUSE ME, your majesty!" Jack sneered. I don't believe this. I'm in hell. I just know it... What did I do to deserve this, I wonder? Alexander rolled his eyes in despair. "Hello! Bottom of person sandwich here!" he wheezed before the two started yet another argument.

"Sir? You're all right?" Melanie gasped, making Jack yell out painfully as she deliberately ground an elbow into his midsection. "Yes, but would you move, please - if you can? I can't breathe!" Alexander replied, his teeth chattering involuntarily.

Melanie grunted as she rolled off Jack and hit the cold stone ground with a loud thud. "Sorry," Jack apologized as he carefully removed himself from Alexander's chest and hissed in surprise when he landed on the stones. Alexander gasped loudly as he filled his lungs with air, his nose wrinkling as a sulfurous smell drifted in their direction. He moved each limb experimentally and his thoughts spun when he realized that aside from feeling bruised and battered, nothing was broken.

Groaning softly, he painfully pushed himself into a sitting position and fumbled with the flashlight for a few moments before turning it on. He blinked ferociously as his eyes adjusted to the sudden glare that lit up the small space. He saw Melanie and Jack sitting before him, filthy dirty and bruised, but otherwise none the worse for wear. He waved the flashlight around and it appeared that the three were in a stone-covered room of some type with a narrow opening at the opposite side of the room. The other members of their party were nowhere to be seen, he noted with a sinking heart.

"What is that awful smell?" Melanie's voice suddenly broke the uncomfortable silence. "Where is everyone else - and why aren't we dead?!" She peered up at the ceiling, which was too close to allow any of them to stand up. "It's almost like being in a tomb," she muttered to nobody in particular.

"I don't know will have to suffice for all those questions, but I suggest that we leave here as soon as possible," Alexander replied unhappily. "Hopefully, we'll find the others and soon so we can get out of here."

"But what IS this place? That's the million dollar question," Jack observed with a frown. Alexander gave the flashlight to Melanie and said, "That opening looks pretty narrow. Perhaps you better see if you can get through there first," he told her.

"All right," Melanie nodded her head and the trio slowly crawled over to the opening. She shone the flashlight into the narrow passageway and they noted with increasing disgust that there was no room to stand up and the floor and walls were covered in a slimy green substance. "I think that's where the smell is coming from," Jack was almost gagging as the stench hit them full force.

Oh man... Alexander peered at Melanie, who looked like she was turning the color of the slime on the floor. Her eyes narrowed and she suddenly shoved herself through the opening, a determined expression on her face with a soft exclamation of, "Gross! This stuff feels like whatever crawled on me." The two men exchanged uneasy glances before Jack shuddered and crawled through, Alexander bringing up the rear.

The three slowly made their way down the passageway, sliding into the walls as they crawled. "Tom, Colleen, anybody?" Alexander called out. His voice echoed back to them, but there was no reply from the missing members of the team. "Go a little bit ahead, Melanie," he said. "All right," she replied, moving a couple of additional crawl-paces in front of Jack. She turned a corner and she called out to them, "It's a bit of a DROP...WHOA!!!" Her voice rose several octaves and dropped off sharply.

"MELANIE!!!" they yelled in alarm as they turned the corner and the two found themselves sliding down into the darkness at a fast and furious pace, slime slapping up into their faces as they plummeted.

Sandy - Welcome Tess! Looking forward to your story.
Wow, Cindie, may I also add in a round of applause? You're giving a fascinating insight into the man behind Mr. I's character., - Friday, January 26, 2001 at 15:21:54 (PST)

:::Turning on fan, getting cold shower ready! Really Cindie, that was FANTASTIC!
Chris
- Friday, January 26, 2001 at 06:13:16 (PST)

RA -- You're too kind. Thank you.
Cindie
Trying not to blush and failing miserably., - Thursday, January 25, 2001 at 20:00:12 (PST)

Brilliant!!!!!!!!!!
a Rickman admirer
I want more Cindie!!, - Thursday, January 25, 2001 at 18:17:21 (PST)

The Valley of the Moon:

She assessed her situation. Bound to a chair, in a little used area of the building, after hours, with the door locked, and the key something less than accessible. Not good. Very not good.

There was plenty of time for introspection. After checking his *work* HE had busied himself over by the section of room where they’d watched the video. Try as she might she couldn’t get turned around to see what HE was doing. Sounds drifted over but had no context. Between the uncertainty of HIS activities and the wait… in her mind she heard HIS voice, It’s the suspense…

****

HE returned and leaned back against the table, facing her. “I trust you are in a frame of mind to co-operate now,” he said flatly.

“You seem to have me in a position that gives me little choice.”

He ignored her remark. “This is how it will work. You may ask the first question. This is a show of good faith on my part, for which I expect you to show the proper *appreciation*.” HE managed to imbue the last word with a suggestiveness that only HE could. “I shall answer.” HE paused to let the words gather force. “Then,” HIS voice became almost a whisper, “I shall ask.”

“You will answer for Patrick?”

“Yes.” HE looked disappointed. “But that was a wasted opportunity. Really, my dear, I had expected better of you. Now its my turn.” HE crossed his arms and regarded her, “Tell me about the last time you were truly afraid.”

Her mind leapt back to the first week after she’d moved here. She’d awoken in the middle of the night to her phone ringing… She was telling him about it, “I was afraid it was my family calling from back home, that someone was hurt or ill. But it wasn’t. It was a male voice. He said things…” She did not elucidate, “The police said it was a random crank call. I know it shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did.” She stopped, looked at him and hoped he would not press her for more details. HE seemed satisfied. Probably considered the perpetrator a rank amateur. It was her turn again. She had to make this one count.

“Tell me how you get into character.” Not profound, but it would give her an inkling of what she was trying to discover about him.

HE looked thoughtful, rather than menacing for a moment before replying, “We all have a very dark place in ourselves. One that most try to keep hidden, at bay, that we may not even acknowledge exists, even to ourselves. Experiences have formed this place. Prejudices fed it. Jealousy and hate nurtured it. Even if it is dormant it is always there. I go to that dark place and allow it reign.”

She mulled that over. Not exactly comforting, essentially he had admitted that the Interrogator was a part of him.

“That, and Mistral is a devilish good actor.” This caught her off guard. She quickly looked over at HIM expecting to see a smile, but saw only the thin line of a mouth, so different from Patrick’s .

HIS question, “explain to me why you find HIM so compelling, so fascinating.”

Did she find HIM compelling and fascinating? “Evil is fascinating,” she replied.

“That’s not an answer,” HE peered at her, “and you know it.”

She sighed, HE was right and she did know it. “I’m not sure. Seductive evil, the attraction of that darker side, the thought of redeeming HIM, healing HIM, all very attractive.” She looked at him square on, “I’m sure there are deeper, more profound reasons, but I don’t know what they are. HE is compelling but only in a very narrow sense, not someone with whom you could share a joke or a tender moment.”

Her turn again, “What do you do with that dark place when you’ve put HIM to rest? How can you just turn it off?”

“Remember that this is something I’ve been doing for quite some time now. I learned early on that I had to be able to detach from HIM, put HIM back in the box, as it were. Initially it was difficult, more difficult than I had ever expected. But I discovered that I could detach, and then reach in and pull HIM out only when needed. I am perhaps more aware of the dark place than most people because I have learned to use it, but I am also all the more careful for that use. I do not take it lightly.” He paused, “Although, through my cultivation, I have developed the skill of using HIM when it suits the occasion. Or my purposes.”

The table turned again. “So,” HE was very casual now, enjoying the exchange, “Have you ever had a dream about me?”

Cindie felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. The answer obvious, but only one syllable, “Yes.” She did not savor the fact that she had only to say this word to answer the question. He could all too easily ask for the details the next time round. She paused and bent her head towards one shoulder, then the other. Her neck was getting stiff from sitting in one place. Instinctively HE walked over and stepped behind her and massaged her neck and shoulders. “Why did you bring me here?” she asked.

He stopped his ministrations, but left his hands on her shoulders and answered, “This room. It’s the only place where HE was ever the. . . not the bad guy.” His question, “Why did you come?”

“To prove something to myself. Were you rattled when you saw me in that costume?”

“Yes. Do you want HIM?”

“No.” Calm certainty. “Was part of you afraid that I did?”

“Perhaps. What did want to prove to yourself?”

“That I could face you being HIM, and still know it was you.”

“Aren’t you afraid that this is it. That this is who he really is.”

“Maybe I was. If so, I was wrong.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I trust him.” She turned around and looked up into those eyes. He was staring at her. It occurred to her that she wasn’t afraid. Well, not exactly. Even in her current *predicament* she had never really feared any harm from him. “And that was two questions. You owe me one now. Have you ever had a dream about me?”

“Yes, you’re right, that was two questions. But do you really think you’re in a position to argue?” HE walked around and loomed large in front of her.

She remembered Mary Anne talking about lovers’ games and code words. She didn’t need a code word with Patrick. “Patrick, please stop now.”

She watched HIM disappear. As she’d watched countless times on the video he’d put together. HE was gone and Patrick Mistral stood in HIS place. Unlike the times on the video, however, there was something else in his eyes as he looked at her and said, “My dear, as you see, you have but to ask.”

She shook her head, almost chuckling, “then please get over here and untie me.”

He smiled in a way that was not entirely benign and sauntered over to her. He leaned into her again, this time the smile did reach his eyes as he said, “Are you sure you want me to?” He allowed himself a kiss on her cheek as he undid the restraints on her arms. A whisper in her ear, “This is the last time I shall restrain you…” So faint she wasn’t sure she heard, “ …without your consent.” He released her legs.
Cindie
- Thursday, January 25, 2001 at 17:53:54 (PST)

We will be looking forward to it. Welcome, Tess!

Now,I believe someone called a medic? Breathe, ladies, breathe, breathe.

Dr. Mesmer
I am the one you seek., - Thursday, January 25, 2001 at 10:35:09 (PST)

to be started soon..coming back to me..a story of misdirected ambition and lost love set against the scenery of lake arrowhead california...
tess <gnnjameson@aol.com>
very nice page..will contribute storyline asap.., - Wednesday, January 24, 2001 at 16:39:17 (PST)

Standing outside, impervious to the sharp sting of the rain curtain, Sinclair cast a proprietorial eye over the tightly corralled wagon train. Lightening illuminated no flapping canvas. Despite the gusting wind, the last minute lashing supervised by O'Hara seemed to be holding firm.

Lights from the mission burned, low murmurs and occasional cry broke through the clatter of the storm, but he was not drawn inside. Even enveloped in the cocoon of warm, sleepy bodies wrapped in blankets huddled in partial rest, he knew there would be no escape in sleep.

Restless hooves scraped the earth. Sinclair drew lines in the quickly oozing mud with his boot. Another restive soul.

Already the decision was overdue.

Claire
- Wednesday, January 24, 2001 at 14:55:21 (PST)

Mary Anne's Cubicle:

"Tory? Hey, Puppers--where have you gone off to now?" Therese called down the hallway for her errant pooch, and seeing the tall, broad back of The Director standing outside Mary Anne's cubicle, approached cautiously.

"Uh, sir? You haven't seen a large, goofy looking Alsation wandering around here by chance, have you?" Therese paused. "This is a hypothetical question, you understand."

"Aren't they all?" he returned, pointing over his shoulder to where Therese's dog was happily mauling the swooned Mary Anne.

"When necessary," she retorted, lifting her chin before slipping in front of him to reclaim the dog.

Taking the affectionate canine by the collar, Therese hasitly grabbed the hankerchief from the front pocket of a hoovering Brandon, and quickly wiped at Mary Anne's face. "You're not exactly helping matters here, Chrissie," Therese scolded.

"Chrissie?" Several voices repeated Therese's shortening.

Brandon looked pained.

"Should we call the medic?" a concerned voice asked from the center of the room.

As if on cue, Jutta's bright, inquisitve face peered around The Director's shoulder, and in toward the still unconscious Mary Anne. "Someone call for me?"

Mary Anne began to stir, one hand rising to her face, the right side of which was still slightly damp.

"C'mon now Puppers, I believe your work here is done," Therese told her faithful pooch. "And Chrissie--keep her off of those sites for heaven's sake."

Therese
de-lurking for a brief moment, - Wednesday, January 24, 2001 at 14:10:30 (PST)

How can Mistral be such an idiot? Does he have a multiple personality problem, or is he possessed? If I was Cindy, this relationship would be over, and Mistral would be sued for everything he has. Way to go "Mr I"!
a Rickman admirer
- Wednesday, January 24, 2001 at 13:51:05 (PST)

The Valley of the Moon:

HE strode to the center of the room, pulling her along behind HIM. She gasped as they neared the original furnishings of the room. HE chuckled, “Lady’s choice, would you prefer the table, or the chair?”

“The chair.” She replied without even thinking and instantly regretted having answered at all.

“Very well,” HE turned her around and deposited her in the chair. “If you behave, I will forgo the restraints. Good behavior will be rewarded, anything else…” HE let his voice trail off.

“I want to go now.”

“Of course you don’t. This is all for you, remember? Clearly, I am what you really want.” HE walked around to the back of her chair. “I am what you’ve desired from the start.” HE placed his hands on her shoulders. They were trembling. “Yessss, you have been waiting for ME.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why ask for me?”

“To face you.”

“Exactly.”

“And get past you.”

HE leaned forward and whispered at her shoulder, “And, are you past me?” HE chuckled softly in her ear. It was a horrible mirthless sound. She turned around to try to see what HE was doing and HE moved around to the front of the chair.

“This is ridiculous. You aren’t even a real person.” She made a move as if to get up, but paused, “Please give me the key so I can leave.”

“How can I… If I’m not a real person?”

“That’s it,” she began to rise and head for that closet. Her cell phone was in her purse, she’d make a call…

HE was on her. HE forced her back into the chair. She struggled but with HIS size, leverage, and superior strength HE had her hands and arms strapped into the chair in a despairingly short time. The feet and legs followed closely after some ineffectual kicks in HIS direction. HE was apparently well practiced in the particulars of applying restraints of this nature. She sat there, fear and rage competing on her features. She realized that she had not truly taken any of this seriously. Until now.

Cindie
Sorry I can't get those smelling salts just now, being er, well, you know., - Tuesday, January 23, 2001 at 18:35:24 (PST)

Egypt, present day:

Alexander stretched and yawned, his muscles aching with exhaustion. Cairo? Why did I say CAIRO? I am just WAY too tired... But nobody else realized it either... He shook his head and blinked several times as he gathered his thoughts together and turned to the others, who didn't look too speedy themselves. "Uh, everyone. There's a slight change of plan," he said softly. The others gazed in his direction curiously, Roberta rubbing her eyes wearily.

He brushed a lock of hair away from his tired eyes. "We'll be heading for Minya, about 40 miles away from here. We should be able to pick up supplies and anything else we may need there." He smiled ruefully, his eyes crinkling appealingly at the corners. "I don't think we want to go back where we started." There were soft murmurs of agreement, punctuated by yawns.

David chuckled softly, hiding a ferocious yawn behind his hand. "I don't know about the rest of you guys, but I feel like I've been cramming for all my undergrad and grad study exams all in one fell swoop. I'm going to turn in. 'Night everyone," he said as he rose to his feet. The others called out goodnights as he entered a tent.

Jack continued strumming on the guitar, switching from the Moody Blues to Blind Faith while the others lazed around the fire, listening to him play or staring into the fire as they contemplated the day's events in silence. Tom and Colleen continued their star-gazing nestled in each other's arms companionably. Alexander sat back, closed his eyes and allowed his muscles to relax one by one, breathing deeply. Oh, that feels so good...

"EWWWW! WHAT WAS THAT?!" Alexander's eyes shot open just in time to see Colleen and Tom spring up to sitting positions like dual Jack-in-the-Boxes. David stuck his head outside the tent with a startled expression on his face, toothbrush in hand and a ring of toothpaste around his mouth that he wiped off hastily with the back of his hand. Roberta and Shelley jumped up from their seats, while Jack broke off from his playing abruptly, rolling his eyes in disgust.

"What's the matter?" Alexander asked, alarmed. "Something crawled on me! Ugh!" Melanie wailed, slapping at her legs as she walked back and forth in agitation. "Must have been a spider," Roberta offered in explanation, wrinkling her nose and shuddering slightly.

"No, it wasn't a spider. It felt cold and clammy," Melanie moaned, still wiping at her legs and stamping her feet. "Gross!"

Jack rose to his feet, placing his guitar carefully on the ground. "MUST you insist on making such a big production over things? Get over it, you big baby!" he growled, eyes narrowed in anger. "I am so sick and tired of you!" He stormed over to stand in front of her, wisely staying just outside of hands' reach.

"And what about YOU, you arrogant jerk? YOU think you're God's gift to mankind!" Melanie yelled back, hands on hips but her fingers were twitching back and forth. Alexander rolled his eyes and started rising to his feet as did the others while David began running from his tent, muttering under his breath. Oh no, here we go again, Alexander thought to himself in dismay. I knew the truce was too good to last...

Whatever Jack was about to say was cut short when the ground shook violently, knocking them all to the ground. Nobody said anything for a few minutes, stunned. Alexander lifted his head from the ground, realizing that he was bleeding slightly from a small cut on his forehead. He winced painfully and called out, "Is everybody all right?"

Moans and assorted curses greeted him in response. Alexander rose to his feet shakily, holding a hand over the cut in an effort to stop the bleeding. "There's earthquakes in Egypt?" Tom groaned as he helped Colleen to her feet. "It's rare, but they do happen. I've been doing field work here for quite a few years, and I've never been in one myself," Alexander admitted as he assisted Roberta to her feet. "Thank you sir," she said quietly.

"What a day!" Shelley muttered as she rose to her feet, smiling gratefully as David helped her up. She rolled her eyes when Melanie refused Jack's silent offer to help her with a slap towards his outstretched hand and an angry, "I can get up just fine by myself, thank you very much!"

Jack let his breath out in a loud whoosh and opened his mouth to retort angrily when Alexander met his eyes and uttered in a deadly, soft voice through clenched teeth, "Enough." Jack's eyes dropped to the ground and he bit his lip. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down his neck as he swallowed hard. Melanie also got the hint behind the subtle warning and kept her mouth shut, contenting herself by glaring at her sparring partner instead.

Alexander surveyed the tired, filthy and shaken-up bunch, rubbing the back of his tension-filled neck absently. His eyes scanned the campsite and he was relieved to see that there was little damage, aside from all the tents collapsing. This has been the weirdest day I've ever had in my life, at least in the strange weather phenomenon department, he thought to himself with a wry grin. "Let's get everything set up again and call it a night, shall we? We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow," he reminded them.

Mechanically, they walked over to the collapsed tents and began putting them back up. "Odd. You don't even hear the cicadas chirping," Roberta said softly to nobody in particular. "Yeah..." Tom started saying in reply when the ground shook again, more violently than the first time, knocking them from their feet.

"What the....?!" Shelley's yell turned into a scream as the ground suddenly opened up underneath her and she fell inside the quickly widening fissure. David, Tom, Colleen, and Roberta also fell inside as the crack widened across the campsite, futilely yelling for help, expressions of terror on their faces.

The ground continued its' violent assault on the remaining members of the party. "We've got to help them!" Alexander yelled, beginning to crawl over to the fissure, now about 10 feet across in width. "How? We can't even get at any rope!" Jack yelled back, attempting to rise to his feet and failing miserably. "Doesn't matter," Alexander ground out, eyes narrowed in determination. "Come on!"

"I don't hear them at all!" Melanie shouted over the two men's voices, an expression of terror on her face. "Don't even think it!" Alexander warned, although his heart sank with the same thought as they cautiously approached the crack, the ground having stopped its' shaking again.

"Hello, can you hear us?" Jack called down, panic crossing his features. His voice echoed back eerily. "Anybody? Can you hear us?!" Alexander yelled, searching for any signs of life in the darkness. The three began shouting names, but all that answered them was the echo of their voices. "Wait here. I'll be right back," Alexander said as he gingerly rose to his feet, glaring at them in a silent warning.

The two nodded and temporarily forgetting their feud, continued calling down into the shaft. Alexander hurriedly went over to one of the jeeps and grabbed three flashlights and a long rope. He tied one end of the rope securely around a nearby tree and walked back over to Jack and Melanie. "I'm going down there," he told them as he gave them each a flashlight. "Jack, keep a watch on the rope," he instructed grimly, tying the rope around his waist. Jack nodded in silent reply.

"Be careful sir," Melanie said, her face pale with terror as Alexander started lowering himself carefully inside the faultline. Alexander nodded curtly as he continued his descent, dreading what he might find down below. Melanie held the flashlight so that it hit the side wall to help him see. Jack watched the rope anxiously, noting with alarm that it was quickly running out. "Professor, you're..." he started to call out when the ground started shaking in a second aftershock. He grabbed onto the rope desperately in a combined attempt to keep himself upright and to pull Alexander up.

"Oh my God!" Melanie yelled as she tried to grab Alexander's hand as he swung back and forth wildly, grunting painfully when he hit one of the side walls. She leaned over too far and she fell forward screaming into the shaft, dropping her flashlight. She managed to grab Alexander's right hand by sheer luck as he swung back in her direction at the same time that she fell. "Hold on!" he told her, not even bothering in an attempt to hide his own fear now as he saw Jack's deathly pale face peer into the shaft just as the shaking stopped again.

"We're coming out," Alexander called up to Jack. Jack nodded as he took hold of the rope. "I'm going to swing forward to hit the wall to see if you can get your feet on one of those tree roots sticking out over there so you can get on my back," he told Melanie. "Okay," she whispered.

"On the count of three... One... Two... Three!" he swung forward and hit the wall, Melanie managing to get her feet on a root. As she struggled to get a secure purchase, they all heard a loud snapping noise. Hazel and green eyes met for a split second before the two looked up to see Jack trying to pull them up on the rapidly fraying rope even as he slid forward.

Jack cursed viciously as he continued struggling, his eyes widening as the rope grew taut and snapped the rest of the way, the combined weight of the two dangling below pulling him over the edge. Alexander closed his eyes briefly as they plunged into the darkness, Jack and Melanie's terrified yelling ringing in his ears. I'm not a religious man, but if anyone's listening, please let me wake up now...

Sandy
Do you have any room on that fainting couch, MA? Those pics are gorgeous!, - Tuesday, January 23, 2001 at 13:54:28 (PST)

As the two humans dismounted, they surveyed the immediate area warily. It was a cubby-hole really, and quite cramped with two towering equines and them. It was dark and smelled faintly of sewage, but the door had sealed, and they had followed corridors that no one had set foot through in a long time.

“I wonder why no one lives here,” Chris thought to herself. They did not dare speak out loud, for fear that someone might hear them, but since they had the equines there, they did not need to. She yawned suddenly, and as they sat down, realised how tired she was. She smiled as Hamlet echoed the yawn, and it then spread to the two equines. Ki’li settled down in a lying position, and after a few moments, Zi’el joined her. They were asleep in moments, showing Chris how tired they were. Clearly they used more energy when they used their special powers. It made sense, in a way, but she wondered how long they could go. Did they even know their own limits?

The two humans stretched, but after a few minutes it became obvious that neither could sleep.

“Are you asleep?” Chris whispered very quietly, although she knew the answer.

“No. Too much happen today. Cannot relax now,” Hamlet responded, equally quietly. Chris agreed, silently.

They arranged themselves so that they could lie comfortably and whisper to each other for a while.

“So, tell me more about yourself, Hamlet,” Chris whispered. “It looks like we’re going to be stuck together for a while, and I’d like to know more about you.”

“Not much to tell,” Hamlet responded softly. “My parents died during Pestilence in 2404, old time-count. I was only son, so I inherited lands. The castle was too old to fix, no money, so I sold that at the time, but kept all farm-land. After the Peace, Government built small block where castle was, 100 stories high, and more underground. It was a hospital block, and they got very little food. There was much looting with my farm so close, and they had to seal up all the exits except one. The food was precious, and should not go to them. They would die anyway.” Hamlet stopped for a moment, clearly troubled. Chris waited, quiet, hoping he would continue as long as she didn’t push him.

After a moment, he took a deep breath.

“There was a fire. Only one exit. Guards at the exit, would not let people out. They had orders, no one was to come out without a pass. Almost one million people died. The Government said terrible accident, but they were sick anyway, it saved suffering. But it was no accident. I saw them set fire to it. I spoke to the militia after. They said there was enough proof of arson to start inquiry. But it was hushed up. There were rumours that it was to ‘exterminate’ the sick. There were others, I found out, but it was all very hush-hush. My friend became sick, was taken to a hospital block. I never heard from him again.”

Chris sighed softly. Everyone knew deep inside that the hospital blocks were a guaranteed death sentence, despite the figures that the Government spewed out regularly showing the rate of improvement. The fact was that there were not enough medicines for all the people. And there had been rumours about the destruction of blocks too. But with the Government controlling everything they were told, it was difficult to know if it was accurate.

“Slowly over time, I collected information like this. I wanted to have proof, wanted to do something. The farm was going well, almost running itself, so I had spare time. I guess the Government found out. Suddenly, about two years ago, I was evicted for not paying taxes. I had paid all taxes, I had receipts, but they tore them up and told me I had not paid. They threw me out without any time to get my things. I was taken in a heli-chopper to a penitentiary-block, and processed as a criminal, because I had not paid my taxes. My lawyer said I should plead guilty and agree to everything. I asked for another lawyer. He said the same thing. I was not allowed to my own trial. The lawyer came and told me I had pleaded guilty and sentenced to 1 month prison. I stayed there for the month, and then thought they would give me farm back. But I was moved to block right by penitentiary, and processed like normal ex-con.”

Chris had listened silently as her new friend had told her what seemed like his life story. She was stunned. A castle, intrigues, murders, false imprisonment-what am I supposed to believe? she thought to herself. It all sounded so…well…MUCH! She knew that the Government weren’t the most honest on the planet, but then she seemed to remember someone telling her that this was the way politicians always were. If he was old enough to take on the property after the Pestilence, he was a little bit older than she’d thought. He must be in his early 40s!

“So how did you end up with us?” she asked curiously. “We don’t normally take on convicts, no matter how small or trumped-up the charge!”

“I was job-hunting as usual. Team manager had this in books, no one else wanted it. I think the equines have a bad reputation among dwellies, they fear all creatures, and these are big and have horns! So I was offered it. Just in time too. Another month of no work and I would’ve been conscripted to that Space Station. Everyone knows that’s a death sentence, and I would not like to die in space.”

Chris shivered slightly, and yawned again. She settled down a little bit, shifting to find a comfortable position. She had heard of the Space Station-who hadn’t? It was the Government’s most glorious-and expensive-achievement.

Hamlet yawned widely also, and settled himself more comfortably. “I think it is time for sleep now,” he said softly. She agreed wholeheartedly, as she yawned again, and they lay down quietly. Within minutes, all that could be heard was the deep breathing of the sleeping.

Chris
Another data load, another bit of the story!, - Tuesday, January 23, 2001 at 06:57:52 (PST)

Mary Anne's cubicle:

"Get over here, Brandon."

Brandon does not have to be told twice, but obeys The Director and comes forward, removing his greatcoat and spreading it over Mary Anne before seating himself beside her on the fainting couch. Anxiously, he asks the medic, "What is the diagnosis?"

"Not sure yet," replies the medic.

"There's your diagnosis," growls The Director, pointing toward the foot of the couch where Mary Anne's computer stands on its little table. After a quick look at the screensaver--and the webpage on the screen--The Director rolls his eyes and, with a few mouseclicks, moves to safer 'net territory. "You'd think they'd learn," he mutters. "First Kari, and now Mary Anne . . . bloody swoon-inducing fan sites!"

Brandon, meanwhile, is murmuring softly to Mary Anne, trying to bring her around. Her eyelashes flutter . . .

"Rrrrrrrrrrrr?"

No, that's not Mary Anne. Therese's Tory, who has once more escaped from her cubicle, stands in the doorway, tail wagging, head cocked inquiringly to one side as she repeats her inquisitive little whimper.

Brandon has an inspiration and pats the couch beside Mary Anne. "Tory--come."

Tory bounds across the room and hauls her eighty-eight-and-a-half pounds onto the fainting couch, wriggling about for a moment as Brandon obligingly rubs her head and scratches her ears, before turning her attention to the unconscious Mary Anne.

Getting no response to her repeated barks and nudges with a wet nose, Tory begins to lick Mary Anne's face . . .

MA--this calls for some radical treatment.
Remember when Kari "died and went to heaven"? ;-), - Tuesday, January 23, 2001 at 05:12:23 (PST)

The Medic shook his head at the prone form of Mary Anne. At the Director's insistence she'd been laid out on the fainting couch, although he had been concerned about moving her. The Director stood next to him, "Has there been any change?"

The other man looked grave. Everytime she comes around she mutters "The First Glance..." and she's out like a light again.

"Should we call an ambulance?"

"I don't think so, her vital signs are normal enough, pulse is a bit rapid but nothing to be alarmed about. Is there someone that can sit with her?"

A man, clad in a long overcoat though the room is comfortably warm, appears at the doorway, "What can I do?"
;-D
- Monday, January 22, 2001 at 16:44:29 (PST)

OMG--{not an exclamation--a prayer} Magda, I will try, but not everyone has your talent!!!
a Rickman admirer
- Monday, January 22, 2001 at 14:16:27 (PST)

The office staff kept their heads down. It was the safest position to be in under the circumstances. Only one secretary had poked her head over the pile of paper in her in-box and had had it snapped off for her pains. She was in the Ladies Room trying to compose herself.

George was in a bad mood.

He sat on the sofa in the waiting room, kicking at the legs of the coffee table. The magazines shimmied across the surface, closer and closer to the edge, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

Someone whispered in the background. "She's inside, come to pick up her last pay cheque today." Heads nodded understandingly.

He heard them, of course; it was a small office. His scowl would have cracked glass had any been available. Begging wasn't something he did well - or even badly, for that matter. The papers rolled up in his hand would have to do his pleading for him. He tightened his grip.

The inner office door swung open. Across the room every head ducked lower. George surged to his feet and blocked Joya's departure.

She paused, a vision in skin-tight black leather from her thigh-high boots, past the thick studded belt to the bomber jacket with straps and buckles on every side. Her motorcycle helmet was propped on one hip, black leather gloves peaking out from under the reflective visor. She looked a question at him, one brow raised.

George cleared his throat. "Before you leave, you should see this script idea. It's from someone new to the profession." He held out the papers.

She took them and peered at the first page. "Rickman Admirer," she mused. "Never heard of him."

"Her." He corrected. "It's another story for us. About what happens right after the wedding. Plenty of adventure and lots of, uh, that is -"

Joya was reading the next page. "Fooling around?" She looked up with a slow smile. "Is the phrase you're looking for?"

"Character development, actually." He frowned austerely, then adjusted his stance so she was hemmed into the corner. "We could really make something of this. She had us in mind when she put it together. Are you interested?"

Joya looked up, big blue eyes shining with innocence. "Of course I am. I really enjoy - character development - with you."

George let out his breath. "Wonderful. Let's go discuss it. Somewhere private." He cast an unfriendly look at the office staff, who'd begun to emerge from their hiding places and were listening avidly.

"I'd like that, but I have to get out of this outfit. I won't be needing my bike for a while." She shrugged her shoulders, which caused an interesting engineering problem for the front of her jacket. George stared with hungry interest. "Your place or mine?"

"Mine." It came out in a croak; he cleared his throat and tried again. "Mine. Right now. No waiting."

She smiled and it was as if the sun came out after a storm. "I'd like that a lot. I'm so eager to get started. I know you'll take me in hand again and show me what to do."

"Right. You bet. It's a deal." He seized her hand and spun her around, made easier by the three-inch spike heels on her boots. With one last warning glance over his shoulder, he propelled her out the door and back down the hall to his room. The sound of footsteps ended with the slam of a door.

Back in the office they'd just left, the pages of the story idea floated gently to the floor.

Magda
Better start emailing, RA, - Monday, January 22, 2001 at 12:08:25 (PST)

Ah, Claire . . . lovely set of pictures . . . *THUD*

MA
MEDIC!! Medic to MA's cubicle immediately!, - Monday, January 22, 2001 at 08:03:48 (PST)

Delaford:

Snowfall.

The fields and glens and paths and woods about Delaford lie under a white blanket, though not what would be called a "heavy fall"-only enough to smooth and conceal and beautify. The air sparkles, crisp and brilliant. Some sounds are muted, others magnified.

Noises of activity about the estate. The gathering in of more wood for the fires; nickers and whinnyings from the stables as Hayes goes out to attend to the horses; the delicate ring of conservatory glass, chiming in the cold, as Chance examines his fragile blooms. The sweeping of paths near the house. The opening and closing of doors.

From far away, the camera picks up two figures who emerge at one of these openings: a tall man in a long, dark greatcoat and a woman in a hooded cape. Even at this distance, we can see her exuberance in the way she twirls about with little dancing steps, making a great show of rubbing her arms as if she were freezing and wrapping herself tightly in her cloak.

The man is clearly pleased with the day as well; though his pace is more sedate than that of his companion, there is nevertheless energy in his step, contentment in the lift of his head as he surveys the snowy fields, that even whiteness broken only by small ripples and shadings to indicate rises and falls in the land as it slopes away toward the river and woods.

The camera moves closer as the woman gathers up a handful of snow and makes as if to fling it at her companion, who is clearly remonstrating with her, lifting a warning finger even as she lowers her own hand.

They move on, and the camera follows, closer yet, as they survey a beautifully smooth expanse of snow as white as wedding cake.

Her posture conveys a parody of horrified disbelief; his, amusement and indulgence as he shakes his head.

And now we are close enough to hear: "--never made a snow angel, Christopher?"

MA
I don't know about that, Admrirer; look how many women here seem to go for HIM . . . *brrrrr*, - Sunday, January 21, 2001 at 18:50:28 (PST)

Something tells me that this guy is going to have problems getting dates!!!!!!!!!!
a Rickman admirer
- Sunday, January 21, 2001 at 00:52:16 (PST)

The Valley of the Moon:

“It’s YOU.” She tried to pull her hand away but his fingers encased her hand. They suddenly felt cold to the touch.

“Of course, this is a command performance. You should be pleased. I don’t usually honor *requests*.” HE smiled at her, all teeth and no heart.

She would have been hard pressed to say exactly what had altered in his features. But there was no mistaking that this was HIM. Those soulless eyes left no doubt, no doubt. “What are you going to do?” It’s only Patrick, it’s only Patrick.

“That is entirely up to you.” HIS free hand stroked her arm. She shuddered involuntarily and tried again to remove her hand from HIS. HIS grip, already unyielding, tightened further. “This is what you wanted. Remember?” That non-smile again. “As you wished, I am no longer in the background.” HE stood up, and the position of HIS hand shifted to become a manacle around her wrist. HE pulled her up. “Now, down to business.” HE was taller, harder, all business, no pleasure.

Cindie
RA -- Here's a tidbit to keep you going. , - Saturday, January 20, 2001 at 14:54:20 (PST)

Yo, Cindie! I know it's the weekend, but it is cruel and unusual punishment to leave us hanging like this. I do so hope that Patrick knows enough not to mix business and pleasure!
a Rickman admirer
- Friday, January 19, 2001 at 23:27:26 (PST)

Claudia--actually, I am no longer chained to the bed; the guards released me after The Empress left the cell.

If, however, you would like to take my place . . .

The Interrogator
Rickman? Never heard the name before. Do I have a dossier on him?, - Friday, January 19, 2001 at 04:58:08 (PST)

FOF Set, The Valley of the Moon:

Cindie watched as HE committed abduction after abduction. Atrocity after atrocity. Now, there was no chronology to the events, nor any pattern to the victim. HE viewed the still form of Renie, laid out as if in death, and injected something into her arm…, HE struck blow after blow on the back of Colonel Brandon who was chained to a wall… There was no context to these actions, only fear and horror. HE pinned Therese’s body to the floor underneath his and toyed with her, batting her around like a cat with a wad of tin foil…, HE menaced Mary Anne and pressed her into his unwelcome embrace…, HE struck Andrea and left her in a crumpled heap exposed to the elements in the dead of night, HE pleasured Claudia in a manner so calculating it was as chilling as a rape…. There was a sequence showing HIM appear to the women over time, binding them to HIM. He manipulated everyone, led Hans to believe his love was dead and used him to escape, taunted a captive Brandon in one sequence, and drugged him in another, hoping for the worst. Some of the scenes simply showed the after effects of HIS work. Ed looking so pitiful pining for Claudia that it wrenched the heart, Dev, straining with his inability to save his dearest Therese. It went on and on… Finally, the tape ran out.

Cindie had watched it all, repeating over and over again to herself that this was fiction. Reminding herself that she’d seen most of these people at work that day and that they were happy and healthy and unharmed. It didn’t help much. She wished they were all there right then so she could reach out and touch them and know they were safe. She turned towards Patrick, to seek comfort in the man who brought her here. Instead, she looked over to find an entirely different man holding her hand.

Cindie
HE's heeere., - Thursday, January 18, 2001 at 20:02:56 (PST)

Yep - he did live a cave for a while - before his present comfortable position chained to a bed in a dungeon.
Claudia
- Thursday, January 18, 2001 at 18:27:14 (PST)

Well, ah, at the moment....
I
- Thursday, January 18, 2001 at 16:55:59 (PST)

RICKMAN-do you live in a cave or what?
a Rickman admirer
is this guy out of touch!, - Thursday, January 18, 2001 at 13:16:01 (PST)

Alan who?

The Interrogator
- Thursday, January 18, 2001 at 04:55:10 (PST)

I don't want the interrogator to die--he looks just like Alan Rickman.
a Rickman admirer
- Wednesday, January 17, 2001 at 23:56:23 (PST)

The Imperial Palace:

"You WHAT?!"

"Oh, Rupert, stop fussing."

Rupert’s mouth opens and closes several times in a remarkable impression of a fish-or of a human male who has just been told that his highest-quality roar of outrage is "fussing." By remaining still and breathing hard, several times, through his nose, he regains some control and enunciates: "Then perhaps, if it isn’t too much trouble, you could-" He hears his voice rising against his will, and makes no attempt to modulate it.

"Rupert-"

"-explain to me-"

"Rupert."

"-just what in hell you thought you were doing-"

"Rupert."

Rupert falls silent.

The Empress eyes him coldly. "You forget yourself." A simple but stinging reprimand, and no more need be said.

Rupert, however, has plenty more to say. "You have told me that before, and if I have ‘forgotten myself,’ it’s past time. And past time you remembered yourself, Your Majesty."

The Empress manages not to wince, but cannot help reflecting on the difference between Rupert’s voice, pronouncing her title, and the voice of The Interrogator. It had satisfied some vindictive instinct in her, that HE had addressed her thus. I’ll make HIM acknowledge who I am. In private and in public as well. But for Rupert to throw her title at her in that fashion . . .

As the silence lengthens, Rupert’s expression goes blank. "My apologies if I have offended. Forgive me."

He rises as if to leave the study, but The Empress gestures for him to stay, and finally offers: "Well, look on the bright side." A half-smile. "This time, I didn’t take the radix."

"That," growls Rupert, trying to conceal his own smile, "is one of the few signs of good sense I’ve seen from you in this." Both of them breathe private sighs of relief; they are friends again. "Except that then you shut yourself up alone in that cell with The Interrogator. Alone. Why?" Genuine curiosity. "What purpose could it serve? It endangered you for no reason."

"HE was restrained-"

"With respect, allow me to remind you of HIS hospital visit before the first trial. Or, should I say, trial attempt." A pause. "When that Sergeant came to release him, he had almost worked his way free of the restraints on his own. If I may presume to advise you-"

The Empress does not quite react, but the thought passes clearly between them: it’s what he is there to do.

"-then the first rule is that you are never safe with The Interrogator. Not ever. Not for a moment, not even once."

The Empress nods thoughtfully. "To answer your question," she begins, as if she has not heard his warning, but Rupert knows better. "-I spoke with him alone, because I thought it was worthwhile to make one more try at bringing him around. And since he has enough pride for the devil and all his angels, I though he might be more likely to capitulate if there were fewer . . . spectators."

Rupert is shaking his head in denial, but also in admiration. "You don’t give in easily, do you?" And there’s plenty you’re not willing to discuss. I know. If I could understand HIS allure . . . how does The Interrogator make himself so fascinating? If even she finds him so difficult to resist . . .

"Rupert, you have heard me say that in good conscience, I can’t simply wipe the man off the map without giving him every chance. But I’m prepared to do it, now. I’m convinced that he simply will not, as you say, give in. And so I’m left with no choice but to execute him. Of course, that will be after a hearing in which the evidence on both sides will be carefully weighed, but with what I have in mind, no doubt will remain. And HE shall die."

"It’s strange of him," Rupert murmurs. "I would have thought he’d be the kind who’d tell you whatever you wanted to hear, and then run for it when he could. Why be so stubborn, when it will get him killed?"

The Empress shakes her head. "That pride, perhaps. I don’t know." Let us anatomize him, see what breeds about his heart. Is there some cause in nature, that makes these hard hearts? (homage)

The two of them sit together for a time, saying nothing, yet closer than ever after their near-quarrel. Finally, however, The Empress sighs, "We’ll all sleep better when The Interrogator is . . . gone."

Rupert nods, thinking, Yes-if you can bring yourself to let HIM go.

The Empress shakes off her momentary lethargy and rubs her hands together, briskly. "Now, to business. Rupert, start a list; we have a lot of work to do."

We? A wry smile. Yet some part of him acknowledges, as he rummages the desk for pen and paper, that The Empress may have the most difficult job of all in the proceedings to come . . .

MA
Item #1 on that list--take away Pierre's cleaver! ;-), - Wednesday, January 17, 2001 at 20:01:37 (PST)

It was the silence, he decided, that woke him. It took several moments to decipher the darkness around him. about 2 AM he thought to himself as he peered into the inky sky looking for clues. There was no help, no moon, no familiar constellations. He blinked again and sat up, easing Dana's arm to the ground as he slid out of her embrace.

Moving shadows drew him to the darkened firecircle. "Looks like a doosey."

Sinclair nodded, sending PL a lopsided grin and a slap on the back. "Your holiday's over O'Hara. I've been hearing about the lightning storms out here in the Palouse. We've got to tighten up for it. We're looking at heavy winds and a deluge of rain. Might last only 30 minutes but it's a wild ride they say."

A bolt of white split the sky to the west. Both men watched, silently counting as they waited for the rumble of thunder, flinching slightly when it came.

"Don't suppose I'll have to wake anyone now."
Dana
- Wednesday, January 17, 2001 at 07:12:53 (PST)

FOF Set, The Valley of the Moon:

He settled back, stretching his feet out in front of him, and hit the ‘play’ button. He placed his hand on her knee and said in a low, smoky tone, “why don’t you sit back and relax, it’s a long show.” He paused, “you’ll be more *receptive* if you’re comfortable.” She scooted back in the couch, tucked her legs in under her and leaned on the arm, clutching a pillow like a life vest. On the television, the blue screen was replaced by the figure of Patrick Mistral. He was looking at her and speaking:

Welcome, my dear. You once told me that it would be easier to watch me become HIM if I were there to help you through the process. As you see, you have but to ask.

Not taking her eyes off the screen, she reached out her hand. He took it up in his. The image continued:

So, as they say, sit back and enjoy the show.

The image flickered to another of him, slightly younger. He held a paper awkwardly in his hands but did not refer to it as he recited his lines. He finished and looked up expectantly at someone apparently situated just left of the camera. She heard the disembodied voice of the Director say, “Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

The scene shifted to one of the Delaford sets. This time the Director was on camera with his arm around Mistral. He appeared to be speaking while Mistral nodded. The Director moved off camera, the board clacked. “ACTION.” Mistral began his transformation and was HIM. The scene was shot, the Director said “CUT,” and he was Mistral, chatting with Hans between takes. Similar scenarios played out again and again, progressing through the seasons of FOF. Mistral talking with the Director or joking with a cast member, becoming HIM, then teasing Mary Anne when the scene was over. The out take of the rubber-ducky scene was there, along with a tickle fight with Therese that made Cindie squirm. She actually smiled at some of the shots, then the tape began to slowly change its tone and content. Rather than focusing on the transition from Mistral to the Interrogator - it became a montage of horror.

Cindie
- Tuesday, January 16, 2001 at 18:25:17 (PST)

Admirer, By all means, there's room for two here.
The Interrogator
- Tuesday, January 16, 2001 at 16:46:58 (PST)

Lobster did you say? Chain me to a bed!
a Rickman admirer
I believe the shoelace was a fuse-he may have had gunpowder in the heel of his shoe-obviously not a tap dancer!, - Tuesday, January 16, 2001 at 12:55:16 (PST)

I take exception to that vile man's comments. Here at "Chez Realm" we take great pride in our cuisine de dungeon. Our fois gras is impeccable. Our lobster with white truffle sauce a creation worthy of the Empress' own palate. How dare HE impugn our cuisine....
Pierre, Head Chef
Brandishing cleaver - being held back by kitchen staff., - Tuesday, January 16, 2001 at 05:53:40 (PST)

Shoelaces? No. Those have been taken from me, along with belt, suspenders, and anything else that I might possibly use to throttle a guard. The options for weapons here are rather limited.

And let's not even talk about dungeon cuisine.

The Interrogator
Kuryakin, you say? He sounds most resourceful., - Tuesday, January 16, 2001 at 04:59:43 (PST)

a bit off topic--Illya Kuryakin in THE MAN FROM UNCLE used a shoelace, oil from his oil and vinegar salad dressing to make a bomb--surely Mr I could do something along those lines
a Rickman admirer
I don't think this would really work, but don't try this at home!, - Tuesday, January 16, 2001 at 00:30:55 (PST)

To The Empress: Madam, now I truly must protest. Bomb, indeed. "Evil machinations," hmmmpph. Do call off your overzealous guards! As if I'm capable of such a thing in this position.

The Interrogator
- Monday, January 15, 2001 at 18:39:30 (PST)

Bomb? BOMB?! *sounding alarm*

What ho, my lads, we must rally to protect Her Majesty The Empress! Look alive!

The Captain of the Guard, Imperial Palace
(This is doubtless some evil machination of The Interrogator!), - Monday, January 15, 2001 at 17:15:13 (PST)

Alan Rickman is the bomb ALAN RICKMAN I LOVE YOU! Hes the best actor in the world DOGMA is the best film ever. XrachX
Rachel Watson
Alan Rickman is the bomb, - Monday, January 15, 2001 at 10:38:49 (PST)

The Valley of the Moon set:

She stood stock still and took in the contents of the room. In the center, was the table upon which HE’D lain. The straps folded neatly at the corners. There, the chair where Colonel Brandon had been restrained. Her breath caught in her throat - there the cart with all its manner of *implements.* She looked over to the right at the far end of the room. Certainly that set up wasn’t part of the original furniture. There was a couch with a coffee table in front of it. The couch was facing an armoire with its doors shut. A floor lamp was next to the couch. As her gaze turned towards the lamp it clicked on and Mistral’s figure was now visible where only shadows had been a moment before. He stepped towards her, “You’re on time. Very good.” He came over, took her things and placed them in a closet she hadn’t noticed before. He returned to her and paused to lock the door. “To ensure our *privacy*” he intoned, pocketing the key.

He took her by the arm and led her to the couch. Her heart was pounding. He indicated she should sit and she perched on the edge at one end of the sofa. He walked over to the armoire and opened the doors to reveal a television/VCR hook up on top with additional cabinet space below. He picked up the remote and returned to the couch. “It’s show time,” he said and eased himself down on the couch next to her.

Cindie
pass the popcorn...., - Sunday, January 14, 2001 at 19:04:03 (PST)

FOF Set, Cindie’s cubicle:

She’d received the card that morning. It had been on her desk when she’d returned from an errand. It read simply: Six p.m. and was accompanied by a precisely drawn map which charted a route from her desk to a location among the Flights of Fancy sets. For roughly the fifteenth time that day she picked it up and stared at it, willing it to reveal something of its secrets. Then she tapped it absently on the desk, nothing fell out, while she studied the map again. She was certain she hadn’t been to that set before but had a nagging suspicion she knew what set it was. She was not about to ask anyone. Least of all the Director.

Fortunately the day had been busy. Therese had swung by and introduced Jutta, the new set physician and massage therapist. Cindie resisted the temptation to request the latter services on the spot and instead made sure Jutta’s suite of offices, examination, treatment and therapy rooms had everything needed to ensure her success. Jutta was very personable but also very meticulous in her requirements. She would no doubt be a tremendous asset on the set and Cindie already wondered how they’d managed without her.

She had not seen hide nor hair of Patrick. But then, he was being kept pretty busy by the Empress these days. She smiled to herself as she thought of the dailies she’d viewed with the Director. Darn but that man could act. He conveyed the fear his character was trying to conceal along with a sense of control which was incredible given he was clipped to a bed the entire time. He managed to imbue the simplest action and abbreviated facial expression with a myriad of emotions. The man was compelling and no mistake. Of course Suzanne was no slouch in the acting department either. Her character was more than a match for HIM. She also seemed to be enjoying her work very much at the moment.

Cindie shook her head and stared at the card for the sixteenth time. She looked up at the clock. Five fifty three. Time to go - she stood up and gathered her things, the card and map and headed towards what she could only assume was a rendezvous with him. The thought that it might also be with HIM she pushed aside as she traversed the quiet hallways.

She followed the map which took her to a little used section of the complex. She stopped in front of the door indicated on the map. It was a standard steel door with a knob and a deadbolt. Cindie paused, took a deep breath, and opened it. The room was dark, she reached along the wall and found the switch. The light in the center of the room came on and she stood there staring. The Valley of the Moon.

Cindie
Exploring some other *avenues*., - Saturday, January 13, 2001 at 19:20:05 (PST)

In the dungeon:

"Restraint," HE sneers. "Submission. Let us say what we mean, and stop these foolish word games. You say you are here to offer me a ‘chance,’ and no, I will not submit or repent--" Spitting out each bitter word. "-or kneel down at your feet and beg forgiveness for my crimes-"

"Which one of us are you trying to convince?"

The Empress is wearing her inscrutable expression, yet The Interrogator can detect the faintest curl of a smile, there and gone. Needling him. A short time ago, he had reduced Claudia to tears, lashing at her with words. Mary Anne, he knows, might well have collapsed before such an onslaught, placing her hands over her sensitive ears to shut out his voice. But this woman . . .

Against her placid mockery, HIS contempt. "Even if I were to give you any assurances of my good conduct, how could you trust them? You are an intelligent woman." HE avoids any tone of flattery, stating it as simple fact-even more flattering. "No, I fear you will be subjected to the unpleasantness of putting me on trial-and perhaps keeping me as your guest for quite some time. It doesn’t trouble me; I’ve resided in prisons before-"

"And escaped from them, as well." Again, that barely perceptible flicker of a smile. "But as I recall, you had some . . . help the last time you left a prison. Considering what followed, I doubt you would wish to leave here under the same circumstances."

The Empress watches closely and sees HIM swallow hard at the memory of his last "escape," with the assistance of Mary Anne. Without giving him time to recover, she presses on. "Very well. I was willing to take the risk, to find out if you would be reasonable-for even though The Realm and all my people would be safer if you were dead, I would not throw anyone’s life away if there were a chance to save it." She does smile this time, openly. "And if I would go to such lengths for you, treacherous criminal that you are, what would I not do for a loyal subject? So, you are of use to me, dead or alive. You’ve made your choice." She moves to stand.

"Dead?" A raised eyebrow. "You would have to press a capital charge."

"And so we shall."

A bit of probing. "If you mean the Egdon incident . . . there were no deaths due to any of my actions. A simple . . . rearrangement of the landscaping, as it were. That man, what was his name--?"

"Colin."

"Yes. He escaped in time, and that Egdon doctor had taken poison." There is no poison half so deadly as HIS grin. "None of my doing."

The Empress does stand this time, and nods matter-of-factly. "I know. But there are other avenues. We shall travel them together, in good time. And now, if you will excuse me . . ."

"Wait."

HE says it to gain time, and she obligingly waits as he casts about desperately in his memory. Other avenues? The man at Nakatomi? But I covered that well. I gave orders for disposal of the gun, I . . . I . . . Terrible prospects arise before him. Perhaps The Empress is bluffing. Perhaps not. Fool, she offers you a chance. ‘HE who fights and runs away . . .’ Say anything. Do whatever you must to remain alive. Survive, escape, and return when the advantage is on YOUR side. Why are you doing this?!

HE has no answer, and spends a moment in vengeful contemplation of what he might do if he and his adversary were to change places, only for a few moments. To have Her Majesty completely at his mercy, and find out just how majestic she would be then . . .

"Well?" she prompts.

The Interrogator does not know what he is going to say, until he says it. "Whatever . . . avenue . . . I have chosen to travel, the journey to it is rather tedious." HE is careful not to overdo the smile. "Could I have something to read, in the meantime? Unless, of course, it is Your Majesty’s plan to allow me to be bored to death."

If The Empress is taken aback by this request, she manages to conceal it-though HE spots the flicker of satisfaction when he addresses her by her title. "Bored to death? A terrible fate, indeed. Never let it be said that such cruelty was practiced in my reign. I shall send the librarian as soon as possible."

With this, The Empress rises to her feet, but stands by the bed for a moment, gazing down at the face of her prisoner, and The Interrogator holds himself perfectly still, willing her to seat herself again, lean close to him once more, so very close . . . only a moment . . .

She is tempted; HE can tell. The way she looks down at him, at his lips, at his bound hands . . . The prospect thrills her, and she is telling herself, Where is the harm? No real danger, with HIM secured. Just let her try . . .

As if she can see the thoughts that pass through her enemy’s mind, The Empress shakes her head slightly, dismissing his allurements. And with no sign of haste she moves away from the bed, calls for the guards, and exits the cell without a backward glance.

MA
My, my, Your Majesty--such restraint! *wicked grin*, - Saturday, January 13, 2001 at 19:03:57 (PST)

The sound of grasshoppers filled the air. PL and Dana walked hand in hand to the riverbank. Lazily moving water winked in the moonlight as it moved westward to the sea.

No words were needed. The sense of unspoken accord had returned. There had always been a bond between the two-emotions shared without being voiced, the knowing when all was well or not. It had kept PL on edge for weeks before Dana's pleas for his help had come-had kept Dana on the watch for his return when all had given him up for dead. This deep connection had heightened the sense of loss during these past days of turmoil.

The sense of freshness and renewal following a summer storm surrounded them as they stood together.

"Do you suppose the chapel is unlocked?

"Hmm?" Dana lifted her head from his chest to look up into his eyes.

"I have some things to say to you."

Standing quietly in the circle of PL's arms, the murmur of the river and song of the insects washing over her, Dana sighed. The low hooting of an owl carried from a nearby tree. "Go ahead, Love. God is listening…and so am I."
Dana
- Saturday, January 13, 2001 at 11:15:33 (PST)

Hooray! The Gold Rush is back!!
Fausta
- Friday, January 12, 2001 at 15:28:31 (PST)

FOF, Off Set:

"Leave everything to me.” He said this in that low husky voice that made her shudder. He released her hand and she picked up her coffee, draining the last bit, hoping that the normalcy of the action would help restore her equilibrium.

She regarded him for a moment, “Your gears are turning in overdrive, what are you planning?”

“My gears aren’t attached to any fearsome machinery, if that's what has you worried.” The crinkle of his eyes belied his ominous tone. “How about dessert?”

“Given the topic of conversation you could hardly blame me.” He started to raise his hands and respond, she cut him off, “Yes, I know. And yes, dessert would be nice.”

They were seated at a curtained booth in the back of the restaurant. Mistral stepped out for a moment and returned, sliding into the seat next to her. She raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing. A moment later a waiter brought a silver tray laden with a carafe of coffee, a small creamer and a smaller tray with chocolate covered strawberries. He placed the tray on the table and retreated.

Mistral picked up a berry and took a bite. He then held it for Cindie to do likewise. She wondered that a piece of fruit could evoke such a response as the one she felt. Must be the chocolate…. He then slid closer and pushed the smaller tray towards her, “I want you to feed me a strawberry. The way you fed one to Dane.”

She gasped, “But you weren’t there. I turned around, and you’d gone…”

“I came back.”

She did not reply but picked up a strawberry by the stem and held it towards his waiting mouth. He shifted his body to face her and as she moved closer he pulled her towards him. He nibbled at the berry as he caressed her back, stroking up and down her spine. He finished the strawberry. He refilled their coffee cups with his right hand while his left hand maintained its firm but gentle touch on her back. She looked at him, her gaze steady, “If I tried to drink that coffee now, my trembling hands would betray me.” He smiled and added milk to her cup, picked up a spoon and stirred it languidly. He replaced the spoon and brought the cup to her lips. It was her turn to smile as he tipped the cup towards her and she took a sip. She put her hands around the cup on top of his and took another.

Cindie
MA - I had to use your line there.

But what's this about Jamaican Blue Mountain????, - Thursday, January 11, 2001 at 18:10:12 (PST)

I'm alive...... but breathless! *heart racing*
Suzanne
*HUGE grin*, - Wednesday, January 10, 2001 at 06:32:46 (PST)

In the dungeon:

Empress and Interrogator.

The silence between them lengthens, intimate as a lingering kiss . . . which HE finally breaks. "My last chance for . . . ?"

The Empress shakes her head. "Don’t expect me to believe that you’re stupid. I know better."

"Humour me. For the sake of argument."

"For the sake of argument, then." The Empress studies her captive, reflecting that perhaps one man in a thousand could appear so relaxed, so completely the master of the situation, with his hands bound to a bedframe. But the doctor’s visit and her own powers of observation alert her that this man is not nearly so much in command of himself as he seems. A comforting thought, since she is none too sure of her own self-control. However, she is not about to betray that to HIM.

"Very well," she finally agrees. "It’s very simple, really: either you live or you die. And for you to live, I would have to be as certain as I could be of your good faith. A particular attitude would be necessary-"

"As I believe you phrased it: I must submit."

"That’s correct."

The Interrogator studies his captor for a moment. "And just what sort of . . . submission . . . would you require of me?"

The shadow of HIS voice, deep and soft and dark-and she feels it; of that he is certain. She is a woman, after all . . . And HIS shirt . . . still unbuttoned from the doctor’s examination, and there he lies as The Empress gazes at the stripes that crisscross his chest . . . and leans forward to touch him.

For a moment The Interrogator believes his breathing will stop as those hands pass across his chest, more in curiosity than in sensuality. Coincidence, is it? That this reminds him so much of that other woman who had held him at her mercy, caressing his bared chest . . .

"Are they painful?" Pointing to the scars.

HE is startled into a reply. "Not now." And then he smiles, trying to turn it into flattery. Close, so close! And yes, she is so close to him now that he takes an involuntary breath, detecting her scent . . . perfume? Something light and delicate, smelling quite innocently of lilies. She could afford to wear any scent ever created . . . Then it occurs to him that the very subtlety of the perfume may be a sign of its value; perhaps it has been especially created for her.

Their eyes lock, HIS half-shut, inviting . . .

Close, indeed-but HIS failure is already apparent to him in the way she withdraws herself from him, settling further back on the bed and reaching out to button his shirt. Let the record show that her hands do not visibly tremble, although it is not strictly necessary to pause and smooth down his collar. These gestures completed, The Empress once more clasps her hands around her crossed knees and smiles at him.

"It may interest you to learn that there is such a thing as restraint." Her eyes flick to his bound hands, then back to his face. "And no, those are not what I mean-and that is not the submission I require of you."

MA--still with us, Your Majesty? *checking for vital signs* ;-)
Therese! *big hug* I'm sure Jutta's skills will become all the rage, with some of the tensions on THIS set . . . , - Tuesday, January 09, 2001 at 19:38:22 (PST)

FOF--Off Set

"C'mon, let me show you hair and make-up, then from there I'll show you to the mess hall."

"Mess hall?" came the uncertain reply.

"Sure, you know, the cafeteria--where we all go for meals. What time is it?" Therese asked her companion.

"It's a bit past three."

"Lovely, we'll be just in time for tea. The scones are wonderful here."

Therese's companion laughed and rolled her eyes. "You think all scones are wonderful--you'll eat the ones from Sainsbury's with the same enthusiasm as the those from the Ritz."

Therese sighed. "This is the problem with recommending friends to a post, you realise--besides, with your penchant for sweets, you've not much room to speak." Therese paused for a moment, and smiled at her companion, pleased that she was to begin working at the set on a trial basis. "Why don't you go back to being star struck? I didn't have to listen to any teasing when you were walking about with your mouth hanging open."

"Do you ever truly get used to it--I mean them? The actors, that is."

Therese smiled in perfect understanding. "For the most part, yes. You know what it's like to work with someone. Familiarity takes the edge off, after a fashion. Then, just when you think everything is under control, someone will show up and proceed to turn you into a tongue-tied idiot." She paused, anticipating her friend's next question. "Hugh Laurie, most recently--and Alexander Dane just before that."

"Well I'm certainly glad to know that I'm not the only one who. . ." the other woman's voice faded away, her eyes growing wide as her mouth dropped open in what Therese was beginning to recognize as her friend's indicator of an approaching cast member.

Turning to see who it was that had caused this reaction, she stiffled a groan. Great, one of the ones I'm not even comfortable with, she thought to herself, before masking her unease with a bright smile at the man who approached. "Good afternoon, Valmont," Therese nodded in acknowledgement of his presence. Valmont considered Therese, then his eyes moved to the woman beside her, one who was unknown to him, and therefore always of interest. "Bonne après-midi, dames," he said, his voice a low, lazy drawl.

"Valmont, this is my friend, Jutta, she is going to be working here with us as our set physician and massage therapist," Therese explained."

"Indeed?" he asked, his voice sultry. "C'est mon plaisir en effet, Mlle Jutta. I hope to see more of you soon, yes?"

To her credit, Jutta replied with a steady tone, "Feel free to stop by at any time, Monsieur Valmont," and then gave him directions to the temporary clinic that had been fashioned for her during her trail basis.

"Oh my--how did I do?" she asked breathlessly once he had continued past.

Therese had to smile. "Remarkably well, I must say--Jutta, I believe you're going to fit in well around here."

Therese
Wow! This is like old home week--I'm so glad everyone is posting again., - Tuesday, January 09, 2001 at 19:12:37 (PST)

Egypt, present day, at the banks of the Nile River:

"We better get camp set up before it gets too dark," Alexander broke the silence with a note of regret in his voice. He moved away from his position at the side of the jeep and walked over to the rear door, opening it. Without a word, Shelley, David and Melanie joined him and they unloaded their gear. The others did the same over at the second jeep, and with the sure movements of people long experienced in camping outside, tents were quickly put up.

"There's some old wood over there," Melanie pointed over to a dead tree that had fallen over. "Excellent," Alexander replied as he gazed over in the direction that she had pointed in. He and Jack searched for a few minutes until they found small hatchets in their gear and walked over to it. They chopped several branches off, leaving them to the side, while Tom and Colleen hauled the firewood back to the campsite.

Alexander noted with silent amusement that Jack grumbled under his breath the entire time as he chopped with short, angry strokes. Sounds like he's still perturbed about what happened earlier today, he thought to himself. Not that I blame him. It looks like he's going to have one heck of a bruise there for a couple of days, too...

Jack and Alexander took the last of the branches they had chopped from the tree in their arms and joined the others. Roberta had already managed to get a suitable fire started and the wood crackled cheerily as it burned. "Did someone find the silverware yet?" she called out. There was a muffled reply inside one of the tents. "What did you say?" she asked.

"I've got it," David repeated as he emerged from a tent, holding a small bag. He knelt down next to her to help open some of the rations with the can opener attachment from his Swiss Army knife.

"Great. At least we won't have to eat with our hands," she said as she removed a pan from one of the backpacks and rolled her eyes when she saw it was filled with sand. She sighed and unceremoniously dumped the offending material on the ground, wiping it clean with one of the few pieces of cloth that was relatively sand-free. She gave the cloth to Shelley, who dumped out more sand from two additional pans and from a couple of the plates. "Thanks," she murmured as she repeated Roberta's earlier actions.

Alexander, in the meantime, had found the coffeepot and rinsed it out before filling it with some of their drinking water, noting with dismay that it looked like they were running low sooner than he anticipated. Ugh. Nile water...not a good idea... He placed some coffee inside a filter and set the pot over the fire. Tom walked over, Colleen at his side. "That smells good," Colleen commented as they took seats around the blaze, her stomach growling loudly at the combined scent of food and coffee. The others shared a bit of soft laughter while she smiled sheepishly.

"How are they doing?" Alexander asked quietly, his cheekbones standing out in stark relief as the fire danced. Tom's left eyebrow arched up. "Well, they haven't gone back for round two, if that's what you mean," he replied as he shook his head in resignation, watching as Melanie made her way over to the fire.

Jack emerged from another tent and saw her walking by, favoring her with a dirty look before he ducked back inside. Melanie ignored his angry glare as she stalked past him and sat down next to Shelley. Her green eyes were lowered and her eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

"You want to talk about it?" Shelley murmured to her friend with a concerned expression crossing her features. Melanie shook her head and drew her knees up, sighing as she did so. "Okay. Just let me know if you do," Shelley continued as Jack joined them, sitting as far away from Melanie as he could and deliberately avoiding looking at her.

An uneasy silence fell over the group for a few moments until Alexander interrupted with a soft, "Uh, I think the food's ready." He leaned over and carefully removed the coffeepot from the fire. He poured himself a cup of the steaming liquid before passing it over to Jack.

"Oh, yeah. Right!" Roberta started from her silent reverie, blinking hard to refocus her attention. David chuckled softly as he spooned some food onto his plate from one of the pans. The others also spooned portions onto their own plates and the group ate hungrily. "Before we continue, we'll have to make a stop in Cairo to replenish our supplies, particularly food and water. We lost quite a bit due to that blasted sandstorm," Alexander said, tapping his empty plate absently with his spoon. "It probably wouldn't be a bad idea to check in at the American consulate either." The others nodded in agreement.

"How far away are we from Cairo, sir?" Melanie asked curiously, glancing up for a moment. Jack happened to look up at the same time and their eyes met. Chocolate-brown eyes stared angrily into troubled green eyes for a split second before they were lowered. Alexander, not missing the silent interaction between the two, frowned as he calculated the approximate distance in his head. "We're about two days' drive away, I reckon." He grimaced as he took a sip of his now-lukewarm coffee.

A canteen was passed around so they could clean their dishes and put them away for the night. Jack rose from his seat and walked over to his tent as the others talked quietly around the fire or in the case of Tom and Colleen, lay back on a blanket to do a bit of stargazing. Jack re-emerged from the tent carrying a guitar in his right hand. He sat down and tuned it carefully, strumming a bit before the others could recognize the song: "Question" by the Moody Blues. An ironic selection, after considering today's events, Alexander thought as a tiny smile made his lips curve upward, and he stretched his tired muscles briefly as the notes drifted into the night air.

Sandy ~ resurfacing from my dip in the Nile...
Glad to see the return of the Gold Rush too!, - Tuesday, January 09, 2001 at 14:21:10 (PST)

As they continued down one hallway and then the next, Hamlet was thinking hard. He wasn’t used to being so unprepared, and had to admit that without the equines’ unique ability they wouldn’t have got this far even. He glanced over at Chris, who was deep in thought, while still alert for any unexpected danger. He also glanced around regularly to ensure no danger presented itself. He thought about the last few days, finally getting a job, managing to get one with the impressive equines. He’d truly enjoyed moving into the complex, and learning about the differences between the equines and the common horses he’d worked with before. He knew Chris was experienced with the equines, and he’d appreciated her teaching style. She showed a confidence around them that had surprised him, considering their dangerous reputation. Then again, she’d been doing this for a long time.

As they turned the corner to yet another long corridor, both humans tensed up again. They had reached the gates to the complex. To get outside, they would have to get through those gates unseen -and, more importantly, unfelt. Then they would be one step closer to the outside.

The corridor was empty, apart from the guards at the gates. Chris swallowed nervously as they hovered not 10 meters from the guards. The equines were clearly not going to simply walk through, they’d need to follow someone. A large group of people on the other side of the gates came near, and the equines tensed, ready to run across. Hamlet and Chris took a firm hold on their straps, and quickly checked the rucksacks to ensure they weren’t going to cause a problem.

The gates opened, and the equines moved closer, around the guard so that they were on either side of the gates behind the guards. The group of people moved through, leisurely, and Chris noticed that there was something strange about them. The panic welled up in her mind, and she wanted to run. She felt the evil, she had to get away.

Just as she was about to get off Ki’li’s back, she felt a calming influence on her mind. Rational thought began to return, and she stayed where she was. She noticed Hamlet was settling back on Zi’el’s back also, and felt a little less foolish. “This was not foolish, only nature. I will explain later,” Ki’li’s voice soothed her brain. She could sense the fatigue in the words, and knew that the equines must be working hard.

The whole incident had taken only a few seconds, although it felt like hours. The last of the group was moving through the gate, and the equines quickly slid out through the closing gates.

Chris
Running away from those Sh'rin!, - Tuesday, January 09, 2001 at 03:42:31 (PST)

FOF Off Set:

His laser beam was fully focused and directed right at her. “Could you be any more maddening?” She didn’t say anything as he continued on, his speech clipped as if he were spitting nails with each syllable. “Face HIM. You want to face HIM.”

She took a deep breath and tried to respond. “It’s not that I’m afraid of you. But I wouldn’t be honest if I pretended not to be scared of this thing you do,” she paused, angry now that she couldn’t express her thoughts better. Angry at his response. “I don’t want to have HIM lurking in the background, I need to come to terms with this part. Part you play, part of you…” She put her head in her hands and spoke to the coffee cup sitting in front of her, at least it didn’t feel like it was boring into the back of her head. “If I can’t be honest about something that bothers me then this is never going to work.”

He took a deep breath. This had been unexpected. She looked up at him now with a look of pleading in her eyes. It melted his anger into a simmer of passion. He should have seen this coming. He had thought to leave HIM behind but, unless she got past this, HE would always be there, standing between them. “Yes.” He reached out and she responded with her own outstretched hand. “You must tell me these things.” He rubbed her index finger again, “we will work this through. Leave everything to me.”

Cindie
- Monday, January 08, 2001 at 18:30:33 (PST)

Spitting their way into nothingness the roots, poisonous or otherwise, fried, charred then blacked until finally dissolving in the flames before the eyes of a shocked audience.

PL, smeared a hand down his trousers as if the dirt, surrounding the bundle he had launched into the fire, also contained the toxin.

It was a salutory experience.

Dana would have stood there long after the embers died, and the group dispersed, if O'Hara had not taken off his jacket, draped it over her shoulders and led her away.

Sitting on the Wagon seat she said nothing. The camp settled into silence, there was naught beyond the sporadic sound of water being poured into a metal containers.

O'Hara adjusted the lamp. Shadows grew long on the walls of the Mission building for the wagon was well positioned for the luxury of privacy.

A featherweight he plucked her down and placed her hands at his collar.

The words were simple. "Darlin' Sinclair says I'm the Idjit." He felt a button on his shirt ease open.

"I know it's true." He sighed. Another button sprang, then another. "I love you ..."

" ..... And we are going to wash away the poison between us."

Had it been daylight, O'Hara would have seen the sparkle return to those turquoise eyes he adored.

Claire
Don't let PL go either Dana (grin), - Monday, January 08, 2001 at 15:31:55 (PST)

"Let me see that book." Dana held out her hand urgently.

All eyes turned her direction in the flickering firelight. They listened to the feverish flipping of pages with increasing interest.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph." She breathed, unaware that she'd adopted PL's vocabulary in the past months. Slamming the book shut she tossed it toward Sinclair and ran into the darkness.

A stunned silence reigned for the space of several breaths then a low murmur slid around the circle. Eyes turned to PL asking for explanation. It was obvious he had none. He looked over his shoulder in the direction of her flight, wondering whether or not to follow. Nothing he did seemed the right thing lately where she was concerned.

He was not left to wonder long when Dana broke back into the light. She threw a bundle onto the ground, gasping for breath.

"You remember those wild carrots we dug on the banks of the Platte? These look very much like them….I thought they were some sort of rutabaga we could use in a stew…" Her voice trailed off and she looked around with eyes brimming with tears. "I nearly killed us all!"
Dana
Claire, couldn't let that one go ;-), - Monday, January 08, 2001 at 08:00:45 (PST)

"Water hemlock. That could be the cause." Sinclair poured over the dogeared tome. Wetting his finger to turn the thin pages first one, then the other way. "Although it says they loose toxicity later in the growing season."

Quite a gathering had grown around the evening fire. Every page move followed, pronouncement awaited, with the avid attention equal to a reading of the classics. O'Hara muttered a translation. "He means it should be less poisonous now."

"You mean the oxen would have lived?" piped a voice from the rear. "If they wasn't shot."

Sinclair either did not hear or chose to ignore the interruption. "Severe convulsions, frothing, staggering and muscle twitching ... Yes yes that was certainly present."

"Animals die quickly .. seldom can be saved." He snapped the book shut and spoke directly to the distraught wagon owner. "You did the merciful thing. Corralling the other cattle certainly saved more losses....." Looking around the faces he paused to make sure the next point was understood " ..... For all of us."

Few stared directly at the fire, several shrugged their shoulders, but times of hardship had given most the generosity of commonality. "We can spare an oxen if someone can lighten our load a little." Offers large and small entered the melting pot and Sinclair felt an unexpected surge of warmth towards his fellow travellers.

Claire
- Sunday, January 07, 2001 at 14:26:29 (PST)

FOF - Mistral’s Dressing Room:

They proceeded to his dressing room and Cindie sat in the black leather chair while Mistral entered an inner chamber to change. He emerged in what appeared to Cindie to be the same style and colour of slacks. The shirt was also similar to the one he’d been wearing but clean and starched with a crease down the length of each arm. Cindie longed to follow the crease with her fingers from its origin at his shoulder down to the tip of his sleeve where it met the cuff. She noticed that he was wearing some sort of a signet ring on his right hand and wondered if he’d had it on before. She hadn’t noticed. Basically it looked like the same set of clothes only clean and well pressed.

He realized he was being inspected and a hint of a smile showed on his lips. He stood still, “Finished?”

“Yes. You’ll do.”

He moved over and sat down on the couch which was positioned perpendicular to the chair in which Cindie sat. He picked up her hand and caressed the knuckle of her index finger. “Now, what did you want to discuss.”

Cindie had almost hoped he hadn’t heard her when she’d assented that they had things to talk about. She had no idea how to present her thoughts to him. “Patrick…,” she began.

Just hearing her say his name seemed to have an effect on him which he wouldn’t want to admit to just yet. He felt soothed by the sound of her voice forming the syllables. He abruptly stood up. “No,” he took in Cindie’s bewildered look and continued, “not here. I’m taking you to dinner. Off set. Get your things.” “Please.” The last was added as an after thought. “Please,” he repeated in a softened tone.

“All right.”

Cindie <cynthiagreen@ameritech.net>
- Saturday, January 06, 2001 at 18:37:11 (PST)

OK, I'm way behind on everything - but just had to say: just finished reading the Sheriff of Nottingham story, Magda - great stuff! Very satisfying ending, poor old George has met his match, how will he cope with a female version of himself for the rest of his life? At least it will keep things interesting!
Claudia
- Saturday, January 06, 2001 at 16:08:24 (PST)

The sound of three gunshots broke the air as the trio sprinted toward the wagons. PL pushed the lad behind his back upon their arrival.

"What's happened here?" The slight curl of Sinclair's lip was the only visible reaction to the carnage before him.

The young boy broke free and ran to his father as he stepped forward still holding his rifle. "We couldn't wait. They were sufferin' bad."

"How many animals are sick?"

"Seems to be just these that have been put down, Mr. Bryant. We've got all the others into a corral separate from any other animals." The heat seemed to intensify, an oppressive weight on the gathering of travelers. The circle parted to admit emissaries from the mission.
Dana
- Friday, January 05, 2001 at 21:39:35 (PST)

Correction made.
Yes, she must, of course.
D.o.C.

D.o.C., please: In my last post, Her Majesty should be saying (or should she?!)--"I wish to treat you fairly." Not "your." Thank you.

MA--And thanks, Cindie.
Hmmmmm . . . wonder just what it is of HIS that Her Majesty wants to treat fairly? ;-), - Friday, January 05, 2001 at 19:39:40 (PST)

Oooooh, Therese, thank you very much!! I´m really flattered! (blushing)
Jutta
I would love to give a massage to HIM...., - Friday, January 05, 2001 at 13:08:14 (PST)

Hmmm, maybe Cindie should stop by that set afterall....
Cindie
- Friday, January 05, 2001 at 10:48:15 (PST)

Though HE had prepared for this moment, and had schooled HIMself not to react,HE is forced to close HIS eyes against the gut wrenching terror which immediately assails HIM . . .

A moment passes by, and then another, before The Interrogator realizes that the feeling of this fear is different. Piercing, yes, but not to be compared with the previous occasions; HE is in no danger of losing consciousness, despite the nearness of his adversary, and it dawns on him that he is generating the panic himself. What he is feeling is merely the . . . anticipation . . . of dread.

It is a dread that does not materialize. HE takes a cautious breath, and then another, as The Empress stands before him, watching him with calm, alert interest.

Something is not the same as it was before. However, HE does not waste time in considering the puzzle, but proceeds immediately to the attack, if an immobilized man can be said to attack. "I hope that I have provided some amusement."

She does not even smile. "I am not here to amuse myself."

"No? Then I can only assume that my health--" Biting sarcasm. "-is most precious to you. I had not anticipated such tender concern from my enemy."

Again, this passes by with no more than a nod. "Your health is an important matter to me."

HE smiles. "Only if it means that I am fit to stand trial." A pause. "Again."

"That is a part of it, yes."

"Oh, I can understand that very well. It would never do for a prisoner to die under mysterious circumstances-even of natural causes. Extremely bad for public relations."

"That is another part of it."

This is getting HIM nowhere; the woman is impervious to his verbal thrusts. The Interrogator changes tactics, sighing a little and leaning back against the bedframe, deliberately calling attention to his helpless state. "Obviously you are here to play guessing games with me. It pains me to disappoint you, but I am not in the mood for games. At least-" That smile. Knowing that the prisoner is secure, the guards still shift about uneasily. "-not that particular game. Do as you please." HE closes his eyes. "It’s easy enough for you to do that, of course. You have power. Anyone can-" HIS eyes open and move over the guards with contempt. "-with enough bodies on his side. Or her side."

She is laughing now, silently. "I thought your strategies would be less blatant. But they do have the virtue of surprise." She turns to the guards. "Leave us."

A moment of appalled silence. Even HIS eyes widen.

"But Your Majesty--!" It is the tall guard, the one who had been first to enter the cell.

"Go." One crisp syllable. The Empress does not even raise her voice, but the guard swallows and leads his fellows toward the door, though with extreme reluctance. At the entrance he pauses and offers, "We will be just outside in the corridor, Your Majesty-"

"That will do. Remain there until I summon you."

The guards salute and file out, though not without a few hesitations and glances back into the cell, where HE lies bound and where The Empress stands and contemplates her prisoner . . .

. . . and then seats herself beside him on the bed.

Once more, The Interrogator braces himself for that wave of fear. HE does suffer a pang of anxiety, but despite the proximity of The Empress, there is none of the earlier panic. More confused than ever, he studies her, taking in what his earlier fears had prevented him from seeing: a woman of striking beauty, intelligence, and authority-who, for whatever reason, is going to great lengths to . . . to what? So many questions remain unanswered.

The Interrogator clears his throat. Say something-you cannot seem to be at a loss with her. Something straightforward. "You are a brave woman."

"I have to be. My rank demands it."

HE smiles. "Brave enough-" The direct approach-go for the jugular. "-to release me, so that we may have a truly civilized discussion?"

She laughs heartily, then. "I may be brave, but I’m not crazy. Or stupid."

The Interrogator even goes far enough to join in her laughter, briefly, and for a moment the atmosphere is oddly relaxed, as if these two minds had met on common ground. A sort of challenge had been advanced, and rejected; HE had not truly expected it to succeed, but it had told him something he wanted and needed to know about The Empress’ sense of security, and about his own situation. Her purpose in being here is important to her-important enough to risk being alone with HIM. Even in this position, he is a dangerous man, and he knows it.

For the moment, however, The Interrogator continues his air of polite bafflement. "Was that farce of a medical examination truly necessary?" Well, perhaps not entirely polite bafflement, then. "You seem to be well-informed . . ." Discreet flattery; a light touch is needed. " . . . as to the state of my health and everything else about me, without calling in a doctor to ascertain what is obvious."

"There is nothing like being certain." A most casual pose for The Empress, seated there beside him on the bed-her legs crossed, her hands clasped over one knee as she looks him in the eye. "I did have some concerns after our last visit together." A raised eyebrow. HE meets her gaze, but frowns; never, never can he forget that moment of horror, when her hand had closed on his wrist and he had fallen to the floor.

"But enough of that," she continues, ignoring his black look. "You are indeed fit to stand trial. The outcome of it depends on you and your attitude. I wish to treat you fairly-and I assure you, this is your last chance."

MA--no, Therese, no problem at all. Good to see you back!
Something about seeing HIM tied up seems to bring women out of the woodwork, you know? ;-D, - Friday, January 05, 2001 at 06:10:26 (PST)

Sinclair tilted his head in the sun, feeling a rivulet of sweat escape his hair and tickle the nape of his neck. The Idjit wished for his hat, knowing the flies would find their quarry if he sat there much longer.

O'Hara seemed to be weighing up his words.

Neither of them saw the timorous figure approach from the Mission side as they perused the landscape of tomorrow's journey back to the main trail route.

"Sir .. Mr Wagon Master Sir." A small hand tugged at Sinclair's shirt.

He turned and looked down kindly. Of course, he had forgotten, the meal must be ready. "I'm coming young man."

Clapping O'Hara on the shoulder, he bounced off the fence. "Things always look brighter on a full stomach."

The day's rest had been worthwhile. Flexing his fingers as he strode forward, Sinclair even allowed thoughts of an evening card school, but perhaps he ought to test the water first - one could never tell how these religious folk would take to the sin of gambling.

These reveries lasted less than 20 seconds before O'Hara grabbed his arm. "Forget food Sinclair. The boy says their cattle are sick, frothing at the mouth and falling over."

Claire
- Thursday, January 04, 2001 at 14:00:31 (PST)

The Imperial Palace--Inside The Interrogator's Cell

And she is in the cell, past the line of guards-advancing slowly toward HIM, and The Interrogator braces himself for the inevitable rush of terror . . .

But the fear does not come. Not at this moment, at any rate. HE controls HIS breathing with effort, careful not to show the slightest hint of this inward struggle, and turns to face the focus of HIS emotion. Her highness is not alone.

Beside the Empress stands a young woman, and HE cannot help but wonder if she is the reason for this sudden act of restraint. The woman, or girl as HE immediately reconsiders her, is tall and slender, her hair cut short giving her an inquisitive, pixie-ish appearance. Large, expressive eyes consider HIM from behind rounded spectacles, and there is obvious intelligence in the gaze directed upon HIM.

"I would have you examine HIM, please, doctor." The Empress breaks the silence with her request, though the tension in the room persists, unchecked.

"Has HE any pre-existing conditions?" the young woman asks, her voice soft, her precise British English lightly tinted by a German accent.

Hazel eyes regard the young doctor with a brief flash of irritation which is quickly subdued. "You may address your questions about me, to me. I am in perfect health, your intrusion is unnecessary."

"My concern is his heart," the Empress corrects HIM in a quiet voice, and his steely gaze slowly shifts from one woman to the other. It is clear to her majesty that HE is not pleased that she possesses this knowledge of HIS prior health issue. HE is neither invincible nor immortal, though HE is frequently preceived as such.

Stepping forward, the young doctor places a black satchel on the bed beside her patient. Unclasping the latch which holds the bag closed, she extends slender hands into its depths, and withdraws the impliments of her trade, along with a small notebook. HE does not acknowledge her as she begins the brief examination, and holds HIMself perfectly still as she places her hands and instruments upon HIM. She quickly records his temperature, respiration, and pulse rate, and then lifts a stethoscope from the bag.

She pauses for a brief moment, slightly unsure of her next move; until now her patients have always been before her voluntarily. With that brief hesitation she bends over HIM, and quickly unbuttons the front of HIS shirt, pulling it aside to expose HIS bare chest. If she is startled by the even stripes of scar tissue that pattern HIS torso, she hides it well and is all business as she listens to the steady beat of HIS heart.

HE assumes that her examination is complete when she straightens before HIM, makes additional notes on her tablet, and re-packs the black bag. HIS nostrils flair slightly with an indrawn breath as she returns to her position above HIM, her slender hands, their long, delicate fingers, gliding slowly yet firmly across HIS shoulders.

"What is this?" HE demands, obviously displeased at being caught off guard.

HIS question hangs in the air, unanswered, as the young doctor continues, her touch patterning itself across HIS exposed shoulders, neck, and upper back. She can feel within HIM physically much of what HE attempts to hide emotionally, and HE knows it. "Leave me be," HE growls, unsuccessfully attempting to twist from underneath her fingertips as HE is held firmly in place by the restraints.

"You may leave HIM," the Empress allows after several more moments, "I am curious to hear your report, Doctor."

"Physically HE is in excellent condition, your Highness," the young doctor begins. "There is slight damage to the heart, though none that cannot be easily compensated for by HIS body. HE does have a slightly irregular heartbeat, though it is normal for HIM. HE is under extreme stress, however."

"I doubt that," HE immediately responds, his voice a deep, lazy drawl.

"Indeed?" the Empress asks, ignoring HIS response.

"Yes, quite," the doctor confirms. "I suspected as much by HIS respiration rate alone, but the extreme tension in HIS muscles indicates obvious distress."

With a small nod, the Empress moves forward from her position along the very back wall to stand before HIM for the first time since she has entered the confines of HIS cell.

Though HE had prepared for this moment, and had schooled HIMself not to react, HE is forced to close HIS eyes against the gut wrenching terror which immediately assails HIM.

Therese
Jutta--this one is for you, my dear. . .I'm glad you're lurking. Miss you! Mary Anne, I hope this doesn't mess up anything you'd planned?, - Thursday, January 04, 2001 at 08:30:34 (PST)

FOF Set, Hair & Make-up:

Cindie checked the water and adjusted the temperature. As it warmed up she took the time to observe this man she’d been speaking of earlier in the day. She had no illusions that he was unaware of her identity. But he had allowed himself to be coaxed into remaining where he was. He lay back, his hands resting on the arms of the chair. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. But even in repose his body betrayed its power. The muscles of his forearms exposed from his rolled up shirt sleeves. His eyes, though closed, still give the impression of missing nothing. Something about the attitude of his body, though she couldn’t quite say what exactly, gave the impression he was still very much alert, very much in control.

He heard the sound of running water and could feel it splash up into his hair as she adjusted the temperature. He discerned the sound of the hose being pulled out and activated as one hand created a shield around his forehead and water began to flow into his hair. Hot but not too hot. Perfect. He felt his head being gently lifted as the water was directed upward. The water stopped. The sound of the shampoo being dispensed and a bottle set down. Both of her hands now, massaging the shampoo into his scalp. Those sweet little fingers, surprisingly strong as they worked the shampoo into his hair. He could smell her scent and that of her perfume. The water came on and was at temperature almost immediately. He felt her work her fingers through his fine hair making sure all the traces of lather were rinsed away. The water stopped again. He spoke. “I believe those directions say, lather, rinse, repeat.” His eyes remained closed and he made no move.

Cindie gave a small chuckle. As if she hadn’t read the bottle and knew that a second washing was in order. Not to mention the bottle of conditioning rinse on the shelf which proclaimed it was to be used in conjunction with the shampoo. She repeated. Her motions slow and deliberate. The rinse very thorough. She applied the conditioner and worked it into his hair and scalp and then gave the final, slightly protracted rinse. She ran her fingers through his hair again and pulled the excess water off with her hands. She reached for towel and, lifting his head for a moment, swung the chair to the side. His head was still reclined back but was no longer over the bowl. She carefully began to pat his hair dry in small sections and then rubbing strands of it gently in another one of the many towels stacked nearby.

“I believe there is a blow dryer over there somewhere.”

“I like my way better.”

His eyes crinkled and the line between them deepened,. “So do I.”

He continued to keep his eyes closed but sat up so she could reach the back of his head. She continued to towel his hair dry and began to work her fingers through it again as it began to take its usual shape. It was a long and laborious process but she showed no signs of tiring of her task. At last, too soon, his hair was dry and brushed. He opened his eyes and saw …himself looking back. He reached a hand up and gently pushed the mirror to one side. She was there, looking down at him. “You’ve done that before,” he drawled.

“Not at all. This was my first time. You were my guinea pig.”

He reached up a hand and covered hers which was holding the mirror. He pulled it forwarded, inspecting the end result, “I think you shrunk it.”

She set the mirror on the counter and he slowly released his hold. “I did not,” she protested, trying to sound indignant but joining his quiet laughter as he watched her. “You’re terrible,” she said, very insincerely.

“Oh, I think not.” He smiled and reached out for her, “I can be really very good given the opportunity.” He pulled her into his lap and placed a hand on her hair and stroked it softly, “Perhaps sometime I can return the favor.”

Before Cindie could reply the door abruptly opened and another stylist, startled at the sight of the two of them, stood still for a moment and finished opening the door as Dev came in behind her. He took in the scene and nodded his hello. He sat down at another station as the stylist began to work on his hair.

“Come to get your locks shortened?” Mistral asked the erstwhile lion tamer as Cindie slid out of his lap.

Dev just looked at him, and at Cindie, and smiled.

Mistral took Cindie by the hand and led them out of the room When they were a few steps down the hall he commented, “I have to go to my dressing room and change out of this costume.”

To Cindie, the *costume*, looked like any man’s dress slacks and slightly rumpled white shirt. But she only inquired, “Do I get to watch?”

“No.”

“Do I get to help?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Again, I think not.” He turned to look at her, “But we have much to discuss.”

Quietly, “Yes, Patrick, we do.”

Cindie
- Wednesday, January 03, 2001 at 18:27:51 (PST)

FOF Set, Hair & Make-up:

After completing the day’s tasks Cindie dropped off the results to the Director’s office. He wasn’t in and she considered looking for the draft of that script Mary Anne had mentioned. After a quick look around she opted instead to head for the dungeon. The FOF dungeon, of course, which wasn’t even in the basement. Shooting had stopped and she lingered a moment, imagining the scene which had been filming there earlier. A disembodied voice said, “Eh miss, HE’s gone to Wardrobe I think.”

Cindie looked up to find a technician up in a cat-walk, she waived. “Thanks Sam.” It didn’t occur to her to wonder how the man knew why she had come to the set.

She headed in the direction of Wardrobe surveying doorways as she proceeded on her way. She pulled up short as she passed Hair and Make-up. Patrick Mistral was in a stylist’s chair which was inclined back. His head was resting on the pad of the shampoo bowl, his eyes closed. Cindie peered further into the room and observed the stylist walking back with a bottle of shampoo. The sound of running water masked her steps as she walked in. She motioned to the stylist who responded, walking over to her. She indicated the shampoo bottle and the sylist handed it to her. Cindie walked over to the shampoo bowl and, with a conspiratorial smile over her shoulder, the stylist headed out the door, closing it behind her. When he heard the sound of the door clicking he started. His eyes had been closed but they started to open and he began to sit up. “Relaaxxxx,” Cindie crooned in his ear, placing a hand on his chest to indicate he should remain where he was. She gently placed her hand over his eyes. “Relaaaaxxxx,” she repeated. Patrick settled back in the chair, his eyes closed, his face in repose.

Cindie
Cindie's just gotta get her hands in that hair!, - Wednesday, January 03, 2001 at 17:19:19 (PST)

The late afternoon sun beat down without mercy. The only sound to be heard the buzzing of flies and call of the raven.

Sinclair took a deep breath before plunging into the silence. "Do you love her?"

The question hung in the air like a butterfly; PL's eyes moved as if following its flight. Meeting Dana, courting her, their parting, her wedding, the desperate appeal for his help, their flight across the nation, all this and more swirled about his head.

"Well, man? Do you?"

"Of course I love her, Idjit!"

Sinclair bit back a smile. This was the first sign of spark in his friend for far too long. He reached down for a long stalk of rye grass and clamped it firmly in his teeth. He'd wait quietly again.
Dana
- Tuesday, January 02, 2001 at 19:33:15 (PST)

Imperial Palace-a certain cell:

The Interrogator is idling on his bed, thinking over his earlier conversation with Claudia, reflecting on the "evidence" she claimed to have secured. Brandon. And Claudia. A thin smile. My poor Mary Anne. How the mighty are fallen . . .

HE tries to avoid thinking at all about what had happened earlier that day, when The Empress had appeared in his cell, though his eyes sweep the walls in speculation. A concealed entrance. I was at the bars, facing into the corridor, and I did not see her enter, and therefore . . .

Off the bed, now, and pacing the confines of the cell, careful to make nothing of his activity except a way to pass the time. If there is anyone observing him through the two-way mirror at this moment, they would have no reason to claim that he is studying each wall as he passes by it.

Steadily, he continues the round of the cell, even counting under his breath so that if anyone is listening, they will dismiss this as simple physical training. And with each lap he makes, the appearance of the individual walls--identical at first glance-resolves itself into subtle differences. It is practically a Zen exercise in concentration, the study of these walls, and that with sight only. At least, for the moment. Touch will come later, when he is less likely to be under observation. HE has no way of seeing past the metal plate that serves as a mirror, but after the confrontation earlier in the day, he can guess that The Empress will be interested in his reactions.

HIS face twists in disgust. That he had almost lost consciousness in her presence, on account of that overwhelming fear that accompanied her . . . How, HOW, does she do it? She had insisted that he had been given no drug-and, reluctant though he is to believe her, he is well-trained in knowing when someone is speaking the truth.

HE resumes his visual examination of the cell, immersing himself in those walls . . . though not so deeply that he fails to hear the sounds in the corridor outside, and he pauses to listen closely.

The sounds-footsteps. Not just one person, but many. Coming closer.

It comes as no great surprise to The Interrogator when a detachment of guards appears in the corridor outside his cell. One of them steps forward to unlock the door, but as he opens it, he pauses just within and orders, "Return to the bed. Sit down on it and raise your hands."

HE obeys, moving slowly, knowing that he is hopelessly outnumbered-though, to be quite frank, that guard who had opened the door could probably take him, unassisted. A tall, powerful man. Young, still, but definitely a man and not a boy. And with a look on his face that The Interrogator knows of old, the barely-restrained impulse to kill.

For whatever reason, this man hates me-but he is obedient to The Empress, and so I am safe . . . for now.

For now. HE hardly has time to think past the moment, as more guards file in and they surround him, forcing him up against the bed frame and shackling him to it, arms spread, then securing his feet in similar fashion.

This time The Interrogator is prepared for the fear, though she has not yet made an appearance. Not the unreasoning waves of panic, but simple recognition of tactics-the way he is held here, bound and helpless, and that he is chained to his bed is not lost on him for a moment. He is even capable of appreciating the strategy; his visitor-she is sure to arrive any moment-is, after all, a woman.

I wonder if she has spoken with Mary Anne? An ‘homage,’ surely? Perhaps. Perhaps not. It is a classic manoeuvre, heightening the victim’s sense of helplessness with this posture . . .

Not quite the same, however, as those terrible hours in the Valley of the Moon. Here, at least, he is sitting up, back braced against the head of the bed-there, he had been bound flat, limbs at full stretch. Painful, even before Mary Anne had . . .

HE shakes it off. Even now, those events haunt his dreams. If I let myself think of that now . . .

And then, a voice from the doorway. "All secure, Your Majesty, as you ordered."

"Very good."

And she is in the cell, past the line of guards-advancing slowly toward HIM, and The Interrogator braces himself for the inevitable rush of terror . . .

MA--It's no wonder Mistral is looking pale and disheveled . . .
still think you can be a "good" Empress, Suzanne? *extremely wicked grin*, - Tuesday, January 02, 2001 at 19:25:27 (PST)

The last scene of the day over, Mistral headed to Hair and Make-up. First the make-up artist removed the dungeon pallor which had been applied that morning. As he sat in the make-up chair he thought about the day’s shoot. No Cindie again. Of course, as she had pointed out, she did have job to do and couldn’t be expected to hang around the set all day. He considered what his approach should be and determined that they needed to spend more time away from work. The better for her to disassociate HIM from me. The better for her to get to know him. In the lower case sense of the word.

The make-up removed, he headed over to the ‘solon’ and a shampoo station. The gel they used in his hair to achieve a consistent disheveled appearance, after his scene with the Empress, began to itch by the end of the day. He couldn’t wait to have it washed out. Then, perhaps Cindie will join me for dinner. The Stag and Thistle, she seemed comfortable there. We can talk, perhaps dance. We can leave HIM behind for a few hours. He decided he would take care to leave his character far behind when with her. She must understand that there was far more to him than that. No reason to prove she did not fear him. He sat down at the station and smiled as the stylist, Vicky, approached him. “I need this awful stuff washed out, can you help me?”

Vicky nodded and walked to the storage closet for a new bottle of shampoo. “Here, this stuff is the best to get that gunk out…” Mistral leaned back, ready to have the day’s cares washed away. He closed his eyes. Maybe a drive in the country this weekend. A picnic.

Cindie
- Tuesday, January 02, 2001 at 17:23:27 (PST)

Water sloshed over the bucket as each giant tuber slithered from their hands. Unusually Claire was the most determined of the two women to finish the task. Words, for once, were failing her. Listening had its place but the verbal salve proved elusive.

"One moment he will promise the world, the next ...." Dana half heartedly turned the knife on a second potato.

"It pains me that I am the cause of his darkness. I cannot go on making him so unhappy." Lifting the smock corner, she dabbed her eyes, already red rimmed from too many tears.

Seldom had O'Hara been so melancholy than the days since Three Rivers Island. Claire hoped Sinclair was proving equal to the task of confessor.

Still wrestling with what to say she fired the remaining potato into the water, and stood up - the manual task accomplished.

"Perhaps if we were apart, if I went away, things would be better for him?" Dana turned to Claire, almost a hint of desperation in the suggestion.

Arms folded round her in comfort. "You are loved, and not going anywhere except to ask PL how we make this Boxty Potato bread stuff. I've not peeled this lot for nothing."

Claire
- Tuesday, January 02, 2001 at 15:26:53 (PST)

"You know, legally she's still married to that bastard, Jacks."

Sinclair merely raised an eyebrow and remained silent. His sigh was inward, knowing there wasn't likely a priest this side of California. There was a certain sense of irony in choosing himas a confessor but O'Hara's choices were few at the moment.

"…attempted murder, stolen another man's wife, all those months on the trail, lied to…" The recitation continued then faded into a heavy silence.

"You know you saved her life."

Sinclair had to strain to hear the reply addressed to the speaker's belt buckle. "Should have stopped the marriage in the first place. Damn fool pride. Add that to the list while we're at it-pride."

Dana
Happy New Year, Everyone, - Monday, January 01, 2001 at 21:08:46 (PST)

Brandon’s chambers, Delaford:

Mary Anne stirs drowsily in Brandon’s arms and murmurs, "I wonder if there is anything finer than this . . ."

Brandon, who is feeling playful, turns to bury his face against her neck and nuzzles gently until she starts giggling, at which point he lifts his head to smile at her. "My dear wife, how you flatter me."

"Think highly of yourself, don’t you?"

"I would defy a man to think poorly of himself, if you were looking at him in that fashion. But what did you mean, then?"

"Well, you were certainly included in my thinking. As part of the . . . general picture, you understand."

"Of course." Beautifully straight-faced.

"I meant-just being here, like this. Warm and safe . . ."

Brandon does not have to question her further as she gazes at the emerald hangings about the bed and then turns back to him, smiling. Generally Brandon leaves the bed curtains open, but tonight, to please Mary Anne, he had drawn them closed on all sides, save for a small opening at the foot of the bed to admit the heat from the fire. The result is a snug retreat of warmth and mysterious shadow, enlivened by the dance of firelight that plays across the fabric. Light-then, darkness; an occasional flare that picks out the pattern subtly woven into the cloth, revealing a leaf, a vine, a cluster of long fronds before the shadow advances once more.

"Christopher, I think it’s snowing."

Brandon glances over at the closed curtains. "How do you know?"

"Something about the way things sound-or don’t sound, I should say. It’s so quiet . . ."

Brandon slips out of bed and goes to the window, drawing the curtains aside briefly to glance out. "You are right. Come and look. It is not such a heavy fall, yet, but perhaps by morning . . ."

Curious, Mary Anne slides out of the bed, drawing the blanket about her and draping the extra length around Brandon’s shoulders as she joins him at the window.

A tiny shiver passes through her; she can feel the difference in temperature the minute she steps behind the curtain, the cold pressing close against the glass. But outside . . . the lawns and fields of Delaford are powdery white, gleaming under the brilliant stars and a sliver of moon that sparkles on the frozen ponds and lights the glass of the conservatories. Chance and his gardening staff go to so much trouble with the conservatories, especially the new one Brandon had ordered built to connect with the house, so that Mary Anne could have her favourite roses all year long. I wonder if the orchids can survive this cold, even in a conservatory . . .

The orchid conservatory. Mary Anne represses a shudder.

"This is too cold for you, my dearest. Come back to bed."

Mary Anne allows Brandon to lead her away from the window, turning to smile at him as they return to the enclosed warmth of the bed and tuck the blankets closely about them. "Christopher, remember when it snowed in Egdon? When we were getting ready to leave, to go to Renie’s wedding?"

Mary Anne can hardly help laughing at the look Brandon gives her-that particular glance that strives to convey extreme severity, though the effect is completely spoilt by amusement. A look that is utterly and entirely Brandon to her, and always will be.

"Remember? I should think I do remember-especially one extremely mischievous woman who could find nothing better to do with herself than throw snowballs at innocent passers-by . . ."

Mary Anne chuckles wickedly. "Got you good."

Brandon smiles complacently, giving a leisurely stretch in the fashion of a human male who has entire confidence in his physical strength. "As I recall, you ‘got’ your just deserts for it, as well. A rare occurrence, I must say."

Mary Anne leans over to give him a kiss on the nose. "It wouldn’t be so rare, if you were like most men. Not that I’m complaining," she adds hastily, as Brandon favours her with another of those frowns that seem intended to strike terror to her soul, and only succeed in making her shake with laughter.

Brandon lifts an eyebrow and stares threateningly at her for a moment-as threateningly as such a man can stare at a beloved woman. "I can see that I have been far too lenient. I shall have to bring some order into this house, if I am to remain master of it."

"Well, perhaps you’ll have the opportunity tomorrow, because if the snow is deep enough . . ." She matches his stare with one of her own. "I wonder if my throwing arm still knows its duty?" The long eyelashes flutter at Brandon in the most innocent of all innocent looks.

"If it knows its duty, than I shall certainly know mine. Do as it pleases you, my dearest, but . . . prepare for the consequences."

Mary Anne manages-only just manages-to conceal a tiny wince. The memory of her own voice, admitting that it was past time she acknowledged that actions do have consequences.

But no, that was long ago. A different time and place . . . for now, she is here, and Brandon is drawing her down to lie still and watch the courses of the firelight about them, each stealing glances at the other to see the flame strike gold from hair and skin and eyes.

There is nothing finer than this. Warmth. Security. Serenity. Love.

MA--Not necessarily in that order, of course. ;-)
Wish I DID have Brandon here to help me keep warm--it's been snowing, and the furnace isn't working right! BRRRRR! Thank heaven for woodstoves . . ., - Monday, January 01, 2001 at 12:04:31 (PST)

Back to top