Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

Gwenevere settled into a hot bath at five minutes past six o’clock after her invigorating run through rain puddles amidst the cold gray dawn. As she sipped her morning tea, she used the time to mentally organize her time in London and contemplate her tentative future at Gringotts as a legal consultant.

Fritz Voltaire had sent her an owl urgently requesting her opinion on a difficult acquisition involving two hostile corporations. There were complex legal ramifications pending and she was being asked to testify if necessary, on behalf of Gringotts. Gwenevere had a perfect trial record, having never lost a case for them. If she agreed to testify, it would require her to engross herself with copious amounts of complex legal information for the purpose of building a case against one of the firms. She would need to spend a great deal of time with Fritz Voltaire and severely limit her time with Severus and her Potions studies. This was not something she was willing to do; especially now with the curse imminently threatening Severus’s very life.

She set her teacup down and closed her eyes for a moment. She suddenly had the distinct feeling she wasn’t alone as she turned her head to the right and opened one eye. Sir Nicholas came into focus.

“Oh, hello Sir Nicholas!” she said cheerfully.

“Hello Gwenevere. I can see by your extended absence from here, that you have been thoroughly enjoying Professor Snake’s company lately, adding your name to the long list of zero others fitting that description.” His teasing was getting worse every day, but Gwenevere found it oddly amusing somehow.

“Really Sir Nicholas, Severus is just misunderstood, he’s actually quite pleasant under the proper circumstances; once you get to know him.” She said defensively.

“Well, You must have gotten to know every last centimeter of him very well by now, haven’t you?” He continued teasing her. She pretended not to hear him.

“Sir Nicholas, were you able to talk to any more Rabbits since we last talked?” she asked, changing the subject and suppressing a smile.

“Yes my lurking has paid off, I was able to discover rule number five and not only that, the word is out amongst the other rabbits in the realm and they are eager bunnies to help you and Professor Snake demolish the curse forever.” He proudly reported.

“That is brilliant news Sir Nicholas, excellent work on your part, I commend you!”

“Thank you dear, it is difficult to be humble at times, however I do try.” He stated the rule to her. It was rather wordy.

“The Rabbits cautioned me that you must copy this down accurately in order to properly interpret its true meaning.” He informed her.

“Sir Nicholas, will you please stay here whilst I leave the bath to fetch a quill and parchment?”

“Indeed Gwenevere dear, make my day!” He resumed his teasing.

“You must turn around first and NO PEEKING, promise?” She said sternly.

“Scouts Honor.” He quipped with a devilish grin, placing two crossed fingers on his temple as a mock solute before turning around to face the wall.
She stepped out of the tub and put on the dressing gown waiting at arm’s reach, then quickly returned to write down, word for word, rule number five.

“Got it. Thank you Sir Nicholas.” She said, setting the ink, parchment and quill down near the edge of the basin.

“I will stay abreast of the rabbit situation dear, Good Day to you both!” he said, as he wafted through the wall smirking to himself.

“Yes, happy… hunting, and all that rot.” She looked about the room carefully before returning to the tub to finish her bath privately.

Sir Nicholas hovered in the corridor just as Professor Snape was leaving his quarters.

“Speaking of hunting Professor Snake, you have managed to bag the stag with quite an impressive rack, haven’t you!”

Snape glared, slowly reaching for his wand from the inside pocket of his robes.

“Oh dear… I am so glad that looks can’t really kill…silly me, I’m already dead!” he said, snickering. He caught a glimpse of Snape’s wand and then sailed down the corridor at warp speed to avoid a nasty banishing spell.

Gwenevere dressed in a classy gray suit and a darker gray wool cloak and glanced at her Gringotts watch before hurrying out the door to meet the awaiting car hired to take her to the train station so that she could catch the train to London. Rule five would wait until she arrived home tonight.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday

On Tuesday morning, Severus awakened well before dawn as was customary for him, and was resting comfortably on his right side next to Gwenevere, his arm draped casually over her hip. They had retired relatively early last night, and after making love, had an intimate lovers’ conversation in sleepy whispers regarding his prophesy and other such matters affecting their past, present and future together. Their conversation was visceral in nature yet had left volumes unsaid. He had slept soundly for more than several hours last night for the first time since meeting her, and as he lay there contented and calmed by her presence, he reflected on their late night conversation.

Gwenevere had recalled her school days while studying Finance in Spain before returning to London to study International Financial Law. Her intellectual advancement, that is to say, her extraordinarily high I.Q. had prevented her from being able to comfortably mingle in frivolous social situations during her teen years, so she tended to focus on intellectually structured events at which she could relate easily to the topics of discussion. She often spent her Saturday nights in the library or in the common room with a book until it began to populate with noisy students who were looking for another party before mandatory bedtime curfew.

As Gwenevere began to stir, Severus wondered privately how meeting her years ago would have affected his life at that time, however he concluded that his brash prejudice and immature stupidity would have almost certainly caused him to reject the love of his life. He suddenly banished the thought.

She turned to face him now and nuzzled his neck as he took her gently into his arms. His warmth, his scent, his touch, and his intrinsic masculinity completely enveloped her as she greeted him this morning with gentle kisses and a quiet sigh amidst the red sparks emanating from head to toe beneath the crisp white sheets, warmed to perfection by his body heat. She whispered to him; a sensual sequitur that inclined him toward dalliances dangerously close to dawn, significantly intensifying his responsiveness as the result of his brain twice requiring the release of adrenalin.
Severus, having fully mastered the refined quintessence of apropos, once intimated the concept to her by stating that potions making is an art replete with subtlety in which timing and patience matter. The very same, he applied to his lovemaking.

She arose from his bed, emotionally sated and more in love with him than ever she thought humanly possible. He gazed upon her in the dim predawn gray as she stood before him and idly reached for his white shirt, which lay within an arm’s length. He watched as the sharp contrast in temperatures caused goose bumps to rise rapidly on her forearms before she slipped the shirt on to guard against the chill in the air. She stood for several moments, contentedly watching him as he visually considered her, before slowly pulling closed and buttoning the shirt. She kissed his hair and then turned to cross the room towards the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Severus got out of bed and reached for his dressing gown, hearing the water run from the taps as she prepared for her morning workout and brushed her teeth.

A small number of items such as quills, jewelry, and shoes as well as articles of clothing belonging to Gwenevere were beginning to accumulate inconspicuously within his quarters, intermingling discreetly with his own possessions. Severus found this phenomenon particularly endearing. Owing to the practice of house elves always returning clean laundry from whence it came, explained why several of Severus’s white shirts stood hanging in her armoire meticulously pressed and ready to wear.

Sometimes, it crossed her mind to wonder what the elves thought when they placed her black slip or a pair of her socks in the drawer amongst his personal clothing, or her bracelet in the sterling tray with his alternate pair of cufflinks hastily left on the nightstand the night before; however, they seemed to treat such discrepancies as confidential matters... unless of course they had a reason to dislike someone.

The house elves, with their intimate knowledge of one's personal habits, were a force to be reckoned with even though they labored under strict privacy rules. Better to keep them happy if possible, Gwenevere and Severus knew his only too well thus always did their best to appease them.

Gwenevere quickly braided her hair and tidied the bathroom, leaving only a damp pink toothbrush slotted next to his black one as the only superficially telltale sign of her stay. It could be accurately alleged that they were perfectly matched housemates.

She returned to the bedroom wearing black spandex. Severus stood beside the neatly made bed, preparing to soon enter the shower. He lifted her Gringotts watch from between the lamp and his wand on the nightstand and placed it around her neck. She let him know that she would be taking the train to London later to meet with Fritz Voltaire in her former office suite at Gringotts to discuss a legal case, before attending to their personal banking and finally a search for the third ring at Remington Jewelers.

For reasons unknown to him, Severus felt an intuitive twinge of uneasiness while kissing her goodbye upon her cool cinnamon flavored lips.

Cindie: *Mistral*, not Brandon, recieves a proposal letter?! Is there no justice in this fictional world? :)

Ed and Claudia

The elevator seemed to go down for a very long time. The Doctor wondered if it was a much larger ship than he had imagined, or if it had been here so long, that they had built it into the surrounding rock. He dismissed completely the idea they might possess the Timelord technology, which made the inside of the Tardis appear much bigger than the outside.

They reached the bottom with a clunk and a hiss, as the door slid open. The guards threw him out, with a laugh. He flung out his arms to break his fall, but landed face down on the floor. He heard the swish of the door close behind him, and the elevator was gone.

He stood and brushed himself down. It was dimly lit down here, so he couldn’t see exactly what he had landed in. But it was dusty, and the air musty. He supposed they didn’t waste much energy on lighting a place like this, and in fact, the life support seemed to be on minimum as well. The air was very thin.

A brighter light caught his attention, and he walked towards it. Two old men were sitting around a fire, stoking it with rubbish. They appeared to be near the outlet of a rubbish shute, as more paper, and miscellaneous filth was piled against a wall close by, beneath an opening.

One of the old men, with a particularly long white beard, looked up and grinned. His teeth, blackened, didn’t light up the room. “Here, look Brian. They’ve got fed up with another one. More company for us.”

The Doctor tipped his hat as he approached. “Good afternoon… may I sit down?”

“Go for yer life. I’m Dave, and this ‘ere quiet chap is Brian.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said the Doctor, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Brian nodded his head, and carried on feeding the fire with scraps from the pile. “What are you doing down here.”

“Her upstairs had enough of us. Not young anymore. All used up. Sent to live down here when no use to them anymore. I’m surprised they sent you - you don’t look old enough.”

“I thought this was a pleasure craft?”

“Ha!” said Dave, “That’s what they tell you when you first arrive. Not been here long then? Not that I didn’t enjoy it to begin with. Hot and cold running women. But if I’d known then… I don’t think the exchange is worth it really.”

The Doctor was glad one of his new acquaintances was talkative. He supposed Dave didn’t have much in the way of conversation stuck down here. “What exchange is that? How long have you been here, how old are you?”

The Offices of FoF:

Mistral strolled into Brandon’s dressing room with a sheaf of papers of various sizes in his hand. “The mail, Brandon! I haven’t been inundated like this since the Safe House days.”

“What, you on about your fan mail again, Mistral? Really, have you no shame?” Brandon’s grin was suppressed but the mischief shone through.

“None at all.” Mistral deadpanned. “But this mail,” he flourished it at Brandon, “it’s all about you.” He handed the letters over to his cast-mate and watched as Brandon began to leaf through it. “I think I may need to see that that Graf fellow about security for me after your character’s testimony.

“My, my,” Brandon’s grin broadened. “You don’t seem to be very popular just now do you?” He leafed through the missives.

“And this from my ‘fans’. That one there,” he indicated to the one Brandon was perusing, “is from a woman whose proposes to me at least once a season.”

“Am I stealing your women? How bad of me.” Brandon plucked out one of the letters. “This one is particularly instructive.”

“What, let me see.” Mistral took it up and read it. “Oh yes. Fortunately I don’t think the good Colonel would do any of those things to a prisoner.”

“Perhaps I should have Mary Anne take a look at it; she may find it inspirational.” Brandon reached for the paper.

“No, I don’t think so.” Mistral folded and pocketed the sheet. “After all,” he smiled, “we don’t want anyone to claim plagiarism.”

“Quite right,” agreed Brandon solemnly.

Further entries from the obtained journal, submitted to the Board of Commission Investigating the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart

What with one thing and another it was late afternoon by the time I managed to climb back on my horse and return to the castle. I would have managed the saddle on the first try but Joya leaned out the window and let her gown slip off one perfectly rounded shoulder and I stepped into a flowerbed instead of the stirrup.

At any rate I was in a mellow and contented mood as I rode through the town in the growing dusk. My wife and child were safely protected by almost a dozen men-at-arms. I could devote my attention to finding the writer of those threatening notes and ensuring that the preparations for the king's arrival were underway. Of course Joya would have seen to all of that herself but it wouldn't hurt to check on things. Have to keep even a good staff on their toes. I made a mental note to threaten the steward with torture in the morning.

My horse clattered over the wooden drawbridge into the castle grounds. High walls ensured that the area was already dark, even though the sky above was still blue. I tossed the reins to a groom and jumped down. No doubt the evening meal was awaiting my presence. I strode into the great hall and glanced instinctively at Joya's chair, fighting the feeling when I saw it empty.

Marion was sitting by the fireside. Her head swiveled in my direction and I could see that while she didn't seem very pleased to see me, she also looked rather anxious. Wondering what this was all about, I nodded with dignified geniality and joined her by the hearth.

"Good evening, Marion. I am pleased to report that Joya is settling in very nicely with our Poitevin visitors. And of course, my lady wife sends her regards to you." I pulled up a third chair and sat down. She continued to regard me with that peculiar look. I could feel my temper start to simmer.

Finally she spoke. "I am so pleased to see that you remember your wife. It will make these next few days so much easier. For all of us." She resumed gazing at me.

I waited politely for another comment that would make sense of this gibberish. None seemed to be forthcoming. "Yes, well. I'll take that as a thank-you. Where's Locksley? Out hunting in the forest or something?"

"And you remember my husband too." She smiled in a saintly manner. "I begin to think that you can be dissuaded from your intentions."

For my part I was beginning to think that Marion had suffered a fall and taken a nasty knock to her head. The feelings of good fellowship that had resulted from my wife's company were evaporating fast. "Marion, what on earth are you babbling about?"

"We know what your plan is all about. There's no sense in any of us playing games to hide it." She leaned forward in her chair. "Robin and I discussed it after you left this morning. You must understand that there can be no future for us. You must learn to be happy with Lady Joya. She deserves your unswerving loyalty."

Yes, no doubt about, she must have really concussed herself badly. I wondered if they'd thought to call in an apothecary. Best not to upset her unduly until professional help was present. "Thank you for your concern, Marion." I spoke slowly, careful to pronounce every syllable distinctly. "Rest assured that I am very happy with Joya and I have reason to hope that she is happy with me. Does that make your head feel better?"

She blinked. "My head? My head feels fine. What do you mean? There's nothing wrong with my head." Her manner became more like what I was used to. A hand fluttered in a dismissive gesture. "At any rate, you're the one we are discussing. And I must tell you again that your plans will not work. I realize that you still harbour some idea of marriage to me but that's over. In the past. You must forget it and get on with your life."

I was reluctant to let go of the concussion theory as it made more sense that what I was currently hearing. However it seemed that this was just another instance of Locksley strategic thinking. "I assure you, Marion, as I believe I have done in the past, that I have no further ambitions to be married to you."

Of course I might as well have been talking to the wall. She shot me a suspicious look. "I'm serious about this, my lord. We know why you took such pains to send Lady Joya to the town and it had nothing to do with our -" She grimaced slightly. "Distinguished visitors. I'm warning you: if you have some plan to fool Robin into leaving the castle, it won't work. We're ready for anything."

I took advantage of one of the servants bringing me a cup of wine to consider the matter. I wasn't used to being threatened. Rather cheeky behaviour for guests, of course, but what could one expect with the decline of manners these days.

Marion continued. "To answer your earlier question, Robin is not hunting but rather is upstairs in our chamber working on a proposal to present to the king when he arrives. It’s a detailed summarization of the legal proofs of our marriage and we have no doubt that when the king sees it he will alter his plans. Were you as concerned to preserve your marriage as you claim, you too would be preparing such a document." She rose to her feet and shook out her gown. "And now I really should join him. We informed your steward that we would prefer to dine in our chamber tonight. I'm sure you will not miss our company." With a regal nod, she turned and crossed the hall to the stairs, disappearing around the bend on her way upstairs.

I glared after her, the wine turning sour on my tongue. Annoyance with her assumptions battled with gratitude that I had been prevented from actually marrying the woman. Gratitude won. I took a hearty gulp of wine, trying to recall the good mood I'd been in just an hour earlier.

So lost in thought was I that I didn't immediately see the servant standing in front of me. She cleared her throat and quickly curtsied when I finally looked up at her. "Begging your pardon, my lord, but the cook wonders if you'd be liking some pork or chicken tonight. We got both but we didn't get any instruction from my lady before she left and we don't want to do wrong."

I waved a hand. "Whatever's edible. Pork, I think. And bring it to my room."

She bobbed up and down again and then scurried away.

I stood up. Time to refresh myself before dinner. As I trudged up the stone steps I pondered Marion's comments about having all the marriage documentation at hand before the king arrived. Typical that Locksley would wait until the last minute to do this; I'd had attorneys in three countries assembling the various certificates weeks ago and now they rested in an iron box under my bed. I shook my head. Fine words for Marion to accuse me of playing games; I was the one who took this whole thing more seriously than almost anyone. "Playing games", indeed.

I had barely settled myself in my chair when the retainers came in with the evening meal: pork, turnips and bread, an entire flagon of wine, and a small bowl full of soft yellow rocks. I pointed at it. "What's that?"

The cook's apprentice looked around. "Dried apricots, my lord. They're from the Holy Land and are quite good. My Lady Joya had cook buy a whole five pounds from a merchant last week."

"I see." The servants bowed themselves out, shutting the door softly behind them. I lifted my knife and cut into the meat. It tasted acceptable, not at all like the special concoctions we ate when Joya and I feasted in our room rather than the great hall. I spooned sauce over the pork. Or perhaps it just seemed that way when Joya was with me; without her company, food was simply food.

I looked at the small bowl of foreign fruit. For some reason it seemed to me that I didn't like apricots, although I couldn't remember ever eating them before. I picked one up and bit into it. A bit leathery but a rather nice sweet flavour. Very odd. Yet I definitely had a very unpleasant feeling associated with apricots...

Finally it came to me. That ridiculous script that Estrilda had expected me to act out when she "interrogated" me in her home. I snorted at the memory of her romantic fantasy about being taken by a Saracen sheik. How had the stupid thing run again?

"Never have I seen such an Exquisite Body as Yours. Your Breasts are as the Apricots of the Oasis, Round and Sweet! Your Lips are as the Honeyed Figs of the Sultan's Own Banquet, Delicious to Taste!"

Ah, yes, the pathetic maunderings of the sexually unfulfilled wife. Well, that would account for my aversion to an otherwise innocent fruit. I picked up another apricot and popped it into my mouth. They really were quite good. Joya had made a good purchase. How long would five pounds last? Perhaps through most of the winter if -

I froze. An image of the parchment with Estrilda's written instructions rose before my mind's eye. Suddenly another note appeared beside it. "Stay away from your wife, or she will die - this I promise you." I choked slightly.

The handwriting was identical. Estrilda was in my castle.

I stood up and then sat down again. That was where I'd seen the handwriting before. Familiar yes, because that experience was burned into my memory but at the same time not something I saw on a regular basis. Suddenly a wave of molten rage surged through me. I leaped to my feet again and crossed to the hearth in two leaps. Tearing the sword from its resting-place over the mantel, I raced to the door and threw it open. It crashed against the wall but by that time I was already down the hall and running hard for the stairs.

Ed and Claudia

The Doctor found himself at a dead-end, and surrounded by leggy women in gray uniforms. “Ladies, please, there has been a misunderstanding. I was looking for a map, I was lost.”

They closed in on him, and a two burly guards grabbed his arms, and dragged him backwards down the corridor.

“Madam! Please, I’m perfectly capable of walking.” They ignored him, and the rest of the women fell in around him, boxing him in. Even if he’d got his balance and stood up, he wasn’t going anywhere they didn’t want him to. “Dare I ask where we are going?” He put in. “Is it too late to say ‘take me to your leader?’”

To quote someone who once visited this site "you women are amazing."
ACC
Dante's inferno-very classy!, - Saturday, September 20, 2003 at 18:57:06 (EDT)

I usually read them twice (sometimes more!) anyway. :-) Double deleted.
D.o.C.

The Palace:

Anton looked up to see Cynthia poised to enter the room. She stood in the doorway as if suspended there, her eyes downcast and her expression thoughtful. The aqua blue pleats of her skirt swayed about her though she was unmoving. The fingers of one hand lay across her chest and rested upon the blue-green beads of her necklace. Her blouse was buttoned up except for the top button. The tip of her index finger fell across her bare throat. She looked up at where Anton stood but her gaze was unfocused. He wished to go to where she stood. She continued to step forward into the room.

They occupied the settee together for a few moments without speech. Anton thought to break the silence but for the first time in their long acquaintance he was unsure of what to say. The silence was not uncomfortable, but in it he could sense the change in her. There was a new dynamic. The thought flashed that perhaps the change was in him.

“This must be terribly hard on him.”

She had spoken but he was unsure of the context. He made an enquiring guttural sound.

“Your son. Just to sit and listen to Brandon’s testimony must have been difficult on so many levels.” When Anton didn’t reply she went on, “But I suppose in the beginning she saw something there. I don’t know Renie, but,” she paused, “she seems the sort who sees deeply and truly. It makes me wonder what happened to the man she knew so long ago. Can a person loose so much of themselves?”

Cynthia looked up to see Anton staring at her with a look in his eyes she was sure she’d never seen before. It was disconcerting and she supposed she’d gone too far. She knew how much family meant to him and the man on trial had done his best to ruin his son’s and his now daughter’s lives. It wasn’t that she felt sorry for the prisoner. The smug evil emanating from the cell was enough to preclude that. How could one not loathe the man who had done such things to a man like Colonel Brandon? But she couldn’t help wondering about the slow metamorphosis that must have taken place to create the creature in the cage. And what had sent the woman who had been a wife running to the safety the Colonel’s protection.

Anton did not much care what had been in the Interrogator’s heart once. He cared only that his fixed sense of justice was served by this trial. His mind was full of the testimony given and what he anticipated was to come. This had been difficult for Mary Anne but she had more to endure. But what Anton wanted to say right now had nothing to do with the trial for which they’d come to the Palace. It had occurred to him that Cynthia had been lost when he’d first encountered her on the steps of the auction house. He knew she had nightmares and worked too much. He knew she could not help wondering about the children. This he understood. He knew she grieved for the husband and what it was to have been a wife. He knew what it was to be a husband with no wife and he supposed it was much the same. He had never heard her cry until they’d come to the Palace. He now realized that in the privacy of his mind’s eye he’d always imagined her shedding those tears on his breast.

“I know I did, for a time.” It was as close as he’d come to discussing the losses in his life. “But its not the same thing.” His desire for vengeance was overshadowed by something else.

“No.” She thought about his lost family. Here was common ground they’d both traversed at different times. They were not at the same point in the experience but it seemed wrong that they’d never shared their journeys. Cynthia looked at Anton.

In the doorway of the sitting room another figure appeared. This one was in cream coloured silk. The ensemble came perilously close to violating the protocol of dress for the Palace. The man no doubt knew it. The richness of materials was obvious from boots to jabot. His dark mane of hair was set off by the paleness of his costume. His eyes flashed and then his teeth. His expression became solicitous and his tone, when he addressed Anton Gruber, was sorrowful, “I expect your son is sorry he ever cooperated with HIM.”

A shadow crossed Anton’s face. Then, a shadow appeared across Valmont’s beautiful suit. A cultured voice with an accent reminiscent of Anton Gruber’s was heard. “Valmont, you always were one for inconvenient timing.”

Imperial Palace, Justice Chamber:

Mary Anne cannot tell how—or whether—her enemy responds to her silent threat, for the questioning of her husband has resumed and that commands her full attention. After a moment, she can perceive a certain change in Brandon’s manner, an easing of his tension. He is still grim-faced with his resolve to endure, but his posture has relaxed—no more gripping the arms of his seat, bracing himself as if in expectation of torture and shame.

“So, Colonel, The Interrogator left you there with the pistol.”

“He did.”

“Will you tell us what happened afterwards?”

“HE . . . returned.” Brandon frowns. “I am not certain of the interval. It seemed long, but in such a place . . .”

“And what took place when The Interrogator returned?”

“HE seemed astonished that I had not touched the pistol. Seemed, I say, for who knows the thoughts of such a man?”

Mary Anne stares at the floor. Oh, Christopher . . .

“What did HE do, Colonel?”

“HE took up the weapon and held it in HIS hands.” A long breath. “I thought I was looking upon my own doom, though I had not expected that it would come to me so . . . easily.” Deliberately, Brandon turns his head toward the cage, raking the occupant with his measuring gaze before again addressing himself to Mansel. “But HE merely asked me, ‘Why didn’t you leave when you had the chance?’ As though I had been offered a genuine opportunity to escape.” Brandon shakes his head. “But to this day I have never known whether the pistol was loaded—and the opportunity genuine. And HE would neither confirm nor deny it. I can only believe that I was meant to wonder. And despair. For HE left the room once more, and took the pistol with HIM. The chance, whatever it might have been, was gone.”

“And then, Colonel?”

“And then . . . I was left to myself, wondering what would befall me. I knew better than to believe HE had finished, and to speculate about HIS intentions would have been to run mad. I . . . tried to think of other things. And it was then—“

Watching, Mary Anne can see the least flicker of a smile on Brandon’s face. Not amusement. A sort of tired wonder at the ironies of life.

“—my rescue came, and the rescuer was Mister John Willoughby. I have never known how he slipped past The Interrogator’s people, but he got me away to safety and never asked a thing of me in return, save permission to marry my ward. A small enough favour to grant to a man when you owe him your life.”

Rupert Cadell rises to address The Empress. “Your Majesty, the Alliance has visited Mister Willoughby and his confirmation of Colonel Brandon’s story—the ending of it, I mean—is a matter of record. As to the earlier portions of it, our records also show that Miss Claudia was present at the time The Interrogator was holding Colonel Brandon captive. According to our records, HE meant her to take part in the later stages of the interrogation, but the Colonel’s rescue prevented it. These records can be supplied for your perusal, at your convenience.”

“Very well.” The Empress’ voice, cool and remote. “We shall consult with your further on these records, Mister Cadell. Mister Mansel, have you any more questions for this witness?”

“None at this time.” Mansel turns to Brandon. “Colonel, you may stand down, but if necessary, you may be recalled and you are still under oath.”

Brandon nods, rising from his seat.

Mary Anne watches as he make his slow way from the stand, moving toward her like a man in a dream. Or perhaps, like a man just awakened from a nightmare, still uncertain of what is real. Real? The light of common day; the faces of friends, the lord of terrible aspect whose name is Love . . .

What can I say to him? thinks Mary Anne.

Or would it perhaps be best to say nothing at all?

A lord of terrible aspect . . . Yes, that will answer. Only too appropriate for what her husband has endured.

He seats himself besides her once again, and Mary Anne sees him nod toward the Grubers, toward Venn, and there is a slight bow for Cynthia.

Mary Anne very carefully does not look at him, though she pulls her chair slightly closer.

She must be certain that he shall hear, as she begins to murmur for him alone and for no other.

“My guide and I entered that hidden road
To reach the bright world once more,
And with no thought of rest we strode

Ahead, he first, I following, as so often before,
Until, through a round hole, I looked up toward Mars,
Venus, and all the beautiful things in Heaven’s store . . .”

Mary Anne allows her voice to trail away. For a moment, there are only the sounds of the chamber, the restless noise of spectators shifting about in their chairs, muttering to each other, wondering what will be the next installment of the drama.

And then Brandon’s reply, soft, clear, and certain as his hand settles upon her own.

“And we came out again to see the stars.”

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday

They were both glad for the work as it provided an excuse to escape the conflicting emotional aspects of the situation for now. Severus had but forty days to spend with the object of his divination. He had waited over twenty years for conformation. Gwenevere kissed him on the mouth, and they took a moment to let sobering thoughts of life and death pass through them before walking to the den.

Gwenevere made herself comfortable in the leather chair and slipped white archival research gloves on to view the new material obtained from Madam Pince earlier that day. Again they worked in silence; the only sounds were quietly turning pages, and Severus’s occasional writing.

Every now and again Severus’s eyes glanced up from the page and rested upon Gwenevere’s relaxed form; he was truly festinated by the way she absorbed advanced information seemingly effortlessly. What a vast and brilliant mind she had. He narrowed his eyes as a passing thought crossed his mind; it was of the brains kept in the department of mysteries.

Gwenevere glanced up at him just then and he let out a sheepish smile, then shook the thought from his mind and quickly resumed grading from the formidable stack of research papers on the desk before him. Gwenevere cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, then shrugged and went back to reading after wondering what Severus was thinking just now.

It was getting late and Severus had finished grading all except Gwenevere’s writing, which he had planned to do privately. He watched as Gwenevere carefully gathered books and collected quill, ink and parchment, she was always considerate and left his den exactly as she had found it; removing all evidence suggesting she had ever been there at all. He wouldn’t have minded any lingering traces of her. She walked toward the entranceway and waited there for a moment, expecting to say goodnight to Severus, though it pained her to leave him now.

She looked up and into his eyes as Severus approached her. She became acutely aware of his bearing; in fact every minute detail of him as she felt adrenalin enter her bloodstream and clear her mind. The fatigue that had settled upon her in the den a short time ago had vanished completely upon his powerfully focused attendance to her. He was intense and deliberate as he slowly took the books from her hands and set them on the Chippendale chest all the while looking deeply into her eyes, which had turned from hazel to the dye of pitchblende.

Sometimes when he became this way, his commanding presence overwhelmed her and caused a catch in her breath. He moved in closer yet, and gently traced the contours of her throat with his index finger before placing his warm hand there ever so gently, still, looking deeply into her eyes as his thumb moved lightly along her jaw line.

She was reminded of their first kiss and how her heart had been fit to burst. His thoughts were extremely focused and passionate before her, as he leant in and kissed her softly on the mouth, causing her to experience impassioned vertigo. He sensed his effect on her and braced her steady.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

Gwenevere patiently contemplated his answer. She would not ask him to divulge the meaning of the prophecies, as they were obviously very personal. They were silent for several moments.

“I received one of them during a divinations exam; I was taking my fifth year O.W.L.s. I didn’t believe in it at the time, and of course lied to the examiner. After waiting so long for the divination to come true, I eventually willed it out of my mind completely, until just recently.”

Gwenevere listened carefully and didn’t interrupt him as he paused to choose his words. Her heart grew tender as the result of his openness, as always, when he let his guard down completely in her presence. However, it was usually very late at night, when the darkness served to mask their vulnerabilities; surrounding them in privacy as sight was not possible and only his voice could be heard as her loving hands comforted him.

“We were told to gaze at the crystal sphere and clear our minds of everything accept the willingness to receive a prophecy as part of an exam on destiny. I was tired and had been through a difficult week. This was the last exam before school closed for the summer.
I had no trouble clearing my mind because it had already cleared itself before I walked into the room, I was in a bit of a daze, just wanted to stare out of the window and let the events that had transpired during the week fade into a forgettable blur.
I looked at the ridicules crystal only to try and pass the O.W.L. exam and as I looked in, I saw an image there. Out of mild curiosity, I tried to discern what was there and it began to come into focus, slowly at first and then faster.” He looked intently at Gwenevere.
“You were standing there, holding the reins of a bay horse. You had long hair glistening in the sunlight, and a figure that had lethal possibilities even at about age fifteen. You were so beautiful, yet there was a sense of loneliness about you, something that I identified strongly with at the time. The horse lowered its head and looked incredibly serine as you slowly stroked its jaw…” his voice trailed off as he remembered and waited for her to speak.

“I was telling him all of my secrets, dreams, and aspirations alas I had no friends to confide in, no one understood me or even cared to.” She said, as she remembered the lonely and depressing teenage years she would have liked to just as soon forget.

“For a while, I dared to think that I would meet you eventually. Whenever I saw someone with long dark hair, I instinctively looked to see if it could be you. I sometimes dreamt of you, until I stopped dreaming altogether, or at least stopped remembering them. I eventually gave up ever believing the image of you ever existed at all, how could such a rare beauty fit into my life in any case.”

Gwenevere stood up and walked over to where Severus was sitting. She put her hands on his shoulders and stood behind him, she kissed his hair. He was very still and his eyes were closed.

“Severus, thank you for telling me.” She said sincerely.

“We had better start work now, before it gets too late.” He said, as he stood to face her.

Imperial Palace, the Justice Chamber:

“Absolutely and completely . . . alone.”

The room is still. No rustle. No sound of breath. Even Mansel pauses, then seems to realize that he is doing Brandon no favour by hesitating—or so Mary Anne concludes from the straightening of his shoulders and the keen gaze he fixes on the witness.

“You may continue, Colonel. What did you do?”

Brandon stares at him for a moment.

“Do?” It is a bleak and bitter syllable. “There was nothing to be done. The Interrogator left me the pistol but . . . I would not touch it. I knew what HE expected, what HE hoped, but . . .”

Mary Anne has never seen such a colour in any human face: grey and weathered, flesh hardening into stone. For the first time, she catches a glimpse of how Brandon might appear when he grows old, and shuts her eyes, then opens them again, shamed by her weakness. I can hear it, if he could survive it.

“Go on, Colonel.”

“I suspected a deception, Mister Mansel. The Interrogator, from all I knew of HIM, would not leave me a loaded weapon. I suspected HE meant to taunt me with a false hope of escape—escape by the most drastic means possible, but escape, nevertheless. But if I had been wrong, and the weapon was indeed loaded . . . I feared the temptation might prove too severe. Though self-slaughter is repugnant to me, I have been acquainted with circumstances that could make it seem . . . desirable . . .”

Mary Anne sags sideways in her chair, gripping the arms of it as the world goes grey before her eyes.

In an instant, there is a firm hand on her arm, though she cannot at first tell whose it might be, until the German-accented voice sounds at her ear. “Mary Anne!” Low and smooth, though urgent. Hans. And then, another. “Frau Brandon!” And a third. “Missus Brandon—“ Diggory Venn. Dimly, she can hear a call of “Look to the lady!” from the front of the chamber, perhaps it is from the Council table, she cannot tell, she is struggling to remain upright, she is . . .

. . . cruelly dragged down into memories of that cell where she had been trapped with Brandon. Blaming herself for Renie’s death. Attempting to turn Brandon’s sword upon herself, hearing again his frantic “NO!” as he had wrenched the weapon from her.

Or again, in their escape from the Valley of the Moon. Her plea to Brandon, that he not allow The Interrogator to take them alive. Brandon fingering the Magnum, clearly horrified at the idea, but steeling himself with the resolution that they should not suffer at HIS hands . . .

Her eyes flicker open, to see Brandon on his feet, leaving the stand, starting toward her.

“Remain where you are, Colonel, please.”

That is The Empress, and Brandon halts, though his whole posture still strains toward her as if he means to disobey, and Mary Anne pulls herself upright in the chair, accepting the glass of water that Mansel has brought to her, sipping at it slowly for a moment before handing it back. “That will do, Mister Mansel. I am quite all right.”

“You are certain, Mrs. Brandon?”

Mary Anne fixes her eyes upon her husband. “I am perfectly certain, Mister Mansel. I am not leaving.” I’ll not leave Christopher alone with this, not if I were to be killed for it.

“Very well, then, Mrs. Brandon. Colonel, if you will take your seat, and we can continue?”

Drawing long breaths to steady herself, Mary Anne glances briefly about her, smiling her thanks to Hans and Anton and to Diggory Venn. Bless you, Diggs. Her heart quickens to the concern and support clearly displayed by all those about her; even Valmont, who to this point had been watching the proceedings with the critical detachment he might bring to a theatrical performance, seems relieved by her recovery and nods to her with uncommon warmth and sincerity.

Mary Anne turns back to the proceedings—and her gaze falls upon The Interrogator.

HE is watching her with that hungry alertness of a predator feasting upon the prey’s anguish and horror, and at that moment she can feel a shriveling in her heart, the death of any pity she has ever felt for this man. Compassion, extinguished beyond hope of recall. Or is it? With HIM, she can never trust herself. Nevertheless she returns that gaze with eyes of steel. Forming the resolve into words and putting all the force of her thought behind them, she signals to the man in the cage: Look to yourself. If I can do you harm, I will. Expect no mercy from me.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

Returning to the second floor after class, they collected three books from Gwenevere’s entranceway before having an informal light supper in Severus’ dining room. Whilst dining, they discussed her Arithmancy findings. He read her findings and matched his numbers with information contained in the book. As he read down the list, he specifically sought out disagreeable information for the purpose of discrediting the subject.

“This is rubbish.” He said scornfully, as he read the personality traits written on the page. “It says here that ‘twos’ can be moody, withdrawn, contrary, anti-social, overly intensive in nature and may even lack patience!” Gwenevere gave him a concerned, compassionate look.

“As for the heart, how could I be a one? Indeed, the number on the individual. Oh yes, independent, self centered, egotistical, overbearing and domineering. All nonsense. And what about this, difficult to work with and often opposed to taking orders. Me? Difficult to work with, I think not!” He said begrudgingly. Gwenevere smiled slightly, and then quickly took a sip of wine as a clever diversion. He read on.

“Well here it is then, I am a nine in social.” He said arrogantly. Severus arched his brow; the situation was getting brighter.
“Achievement to the fullest degree…highly intelligent…an intellectual…professor… strongly determined…yes how true… now what’s this! Arrogant and conceited when things don’t go their way! Prone to fits of temper! Setting unobtainable goals and expectations! Clearly this is pure rubbish and Parker would be best advised to find a subject worth teaching.”

“Severus, what about willing to take risks, a natural born leader, loyalty, and a heart capable of extreme depth and complexity, you didn’t mention those noble attributes.” She said, trying to add the proper perspective to matters.

“All true, however, I still think it’s rubbish.” He took a hasty gulp of wine.

“Arithmancy is about destiny Severus, There are some events which are necessary and others which are not.” She said, sipping her wine and considering him from across the rim of the glass.

“The providential man makes his own destiny.” He stated bluntly.

“Yes, but often provident men, far from making their own destiny, succumb to them. Is it not destiny which makes them provident?” She countered.

“In every aspect of one’s life, one must be circumspect, which serves to gently guide one’s own destiny.” His demeanor softened considerably as if spoken from personal experience.

“So you don’t believe in divinations at all then?” she asked him.

“I do, in certain circumstances.” He answered somewhat evasively.

“Such as?” she challenged playfully with raised brow.

“You can’t go looking for them, if you are supposed to receive a prophecy, it will find you and there is nothing you can do about it.” He stated as if he knew for certain.

“Severus, have you ever received a prophecy, one that came true?” she asked sincerely, and then politely sipped from her water glass.

“Yes, I have received two of them, one that has come true, and one… yet to be determined.” He said quietly.

David Farrell (aka David Friedman) & Verity Lawrence (aka Verity Lavelle)

FoF Sets -- Director's Office

"David," Verity said, with a warm smile.

He gave her a nod and a quick handshake. "Lots," he replied by way of greeting.

Her smile broadened. "Savage."

He shrugged and tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. "So?" he asked.

Verity's smile lightened, but didn't disappear. "Follow me," she said. "There's someone you need to meet." With a questioning look at Cindie, who nodded them through, Verity led David back to the Director's office.

*******************

"A pleasure to meet you, sir," David said, shaking the Director's hand.

"Likewise, Mr. Farrell."

"Right then, Lots, what kind of job is it?"

The Director quirked an eyebrow at Verity.

"It's always a job, David?" she asked the actor.

"I know you well enough, Lots," he replied. "When you've got that smug look on your face, it's a job."

The Director snorted.

Verity nodded. "Fair enough," she said. "You're right. It's a job. You get to use an American Southern accent, bully people, threaten them with firearms, get dumped into swamps, hide from voodoo queens, watch an arsonist work and eat a lot of good food."

"So much for the plot," David sighed and slumped in his chair. "What's he like?"

"Who?" asked the Director.

"This villian."

Verity and the Director exchanged knowing looks. "Oh, no, David," Verity said. "That's the good guy."

A spark ignited deep in David's eyes.

*******************

"How accurate are we going to be," David asked, "in terms of the various systems of law?"

"Does it matter, really?" Verity said, dismissively.

"Yes." It was the Director who spoke. "Something you need to keep in mind, Ms. Lawrence, if you want to produce. Quality goes all the way down." He shuffled some papers on his desk. "To that end, I've taken the liberty of contacting an individual with a wide experience in US and UK criminal law. If he accepts the offer, he will serve as our legal consultant for the duration of this storyline."

"Oh."

"He's a member of the police force?" David asked.

"Yes," the Director replied, surprise lifting the end of the word.

A sardonic twist in the corner of his mouth, David met the Director's gaze. "Met him after the kidnapping attempt?"

The temperature in the room dropped a degree. "Yes."

Silence.

Long silence.

"I get death threats," Verity blurted suddenly.

"And marriage proposals," David replied calmly. The mood in the room lightened.

"Well, yes," she said, "amongst other things."

"Graphic?"

"Oh, yes, terribly lurid. They ought to write fiction."

The Director snorted, knowingly. "Yes, they ought."

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

Upon Severus’ departure, Gwenevere began pondering Arithmancy, which had always been one of her favorite subjects as a young girl. She took out parchment and quill in order to work a simple equation using her beloved’s name.
She wrote S E V E R U S S N A P E on the page and assigned numbers to each letter, according to a simple chart: 154593115175, which added up to 47. She then reduced the number to single digit form. 4+7=11, 1+1=2, which became his character score. She then selected only the vowels for the heart score, and the consonants for a social score.
She arrived at a character rating of two, a heart rating of one, and a social rating of nine.
With a smile, she penned results for his discernment later, placing the parchment inside her Arithmancy book and then setting it on top of the books on the table in the entranceway.

Gwenevere readied herself for lecture and strode the corridors toward the dungeons. She met Severus in his office and after a brief chat, and a coveted over his shoulder sneak-peek at the lecture notes, entered the potions lab from there. She took her seat in the front row as usual and Boots flopped down on the table beside her books.

Severus consulted with her on two points regarding his planned lecture and was pleased with her insight. He often consulted with her on various potions related topics and thus benefited from her extraordinary mind and the volumes of research she involved herself with day to day. Her areas of interest varied slightly from his, which added perspective; he was more concerned with perfecting existing formulas and she clearly leant toward discovery and research. Although not surprising, together, they made a perfectly balanced team.

Severus’s lecture was superb tonight and he managed to cremate only two students with his temper, who made the mistake of talking during one of the most important points he was making. He pummeled them relentlessly with a barrage of questions taken directly from his lecture and threatened to fail them for the day or worse make them gut a shipment of slimy, appalling bottom of the sea dwelling creatures until dawn for extra credit.

Gwenevere pondered the notion that Severus’s passionate nature translated well to all aspects of his life; combatant or lover, academic or connoisseur of the finer things that life offered, he did nothing in half- measures.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday

Gwenevere took Severus’s arm and urged him through the door in front of her. She closed the door behind them and hung robes on brass hooks. Severus was unusually quiet as he absently massaged the inside of his left forearm with his thumb for a moment.

“I hope you are here for tea Severus.” She said as she put her arms around his neck.

“Yes.” He looked down at her with a raised brow and a hint of a smile, like melting ice.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me hello?” she asked, smiling at him and freeing some hair from the back of his collar with a playful index finger. He tilted his head slightly and kissed her once quickly. Then again much more slowly…there was a loud knock at the door.

“That’s Dobby. Extremely punctual isn’t he? Just a moment please Severus.” She said, as she turned to open the door.
Severus exhaled audibly and went into the living room, taking off his coat and laying it on the back of a chair. He vaguely heard them conversing in Spanish about the weather. Gwenevere was there a few minutes later and poured out tea for them.

“So he’s the new Arithmancy professor.” Severus said, an edge of disgust in his tone caused Gwenevere to look up and take particular notice of him. She had never known Severus to have actual jealous tendencies. Certainly Professor Parker had no glaring flaws for Severus to flatly dislike. Maybe that was part of the problem. She handed Severus his tea.

“Yes, he happened to be in the library as I was leaving and insisted he help me carry the books.” She sipped her tea. “ Saved me from making two trips though. Turns out, he transferred to Hogwarts from Excelsior where he taught Finance and Arithmancy.”

“Brilliant.” He said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “Just happened to be in the library,” he thought. Gwenevere smiled slightly.

“He seems reasonable. What do you have against him?” she asked, inclining her head slightly to the right.

“He was about to ask you to tea if I hadn’t been there.” Severus said, raising a brow again. He then noticed that her eyes had turned from vivid blue to a rich emerald green in the short time since they had been inside her quarters. He chose not to make the obvious connection.

“No he wasn’t, he said he needed to leave. In any case, it really doesn’t matter does it? I wouldn’t have accepted his invitation. He’s nothing like McClane.” She said, taking another sip of her tea. Snape bristled at the mention of McClane, though he didn’t show it.

“Severus, you penetrated his thoughts, didn’t you?” she asked, thinking of the last remark he had made to Professor Parker.

“It was child’s play. Unavoidable.” He said, taking a sip of tea. Gwenevere smiled slightly, she couldn’t help but to be vaguely amused by his occasional possessiveness, he could not genuinely doubt their love for an instant. She knew that Professor Parker had been affected by him and would not soon forget his first encounter with Professor Snape; suspecting that very few people did.
“I don’t think we should volunteer personal information. We have to be very careful with the curse.” He added.

“I agree, that’s why I didn’t tell Madam Pince this afternoon. They do notice the ring Severus, it’s too beautiful to ignore.” She said softly.

“Parker had no trouble ignoring it. Besides, you need to wear it at all times, it is an extremely powerful amulet.” He said. “It’s magic has worked wonders already, don’t you agree?” He shot her the beginnings of a devilish grin, which she returned.

“I would not dream of taking it off, ever.” She said, earnestly.

After tea, he stood up and lifted his coat from the back of the chair. Gwenevere followed him to the door and helped him smooth the points of his white collar; she was actually calming his hackles. He glanced at the menacing stack of potions books on the table and remembered he had an enormous amount of grading to complete tonight so he suggested they spend the time together and work from his den after class. Severus kissed her goodbye and set off to deliver a two-hour N.E.W.T. lecture to sixth years.

Imperial Palace, the Justice Chamber:

“You may continue, Colonel.”

Brandon had paused to sip from the tumbler of water placed by the stand. But even after he sets down the glass, he is quiet for several moments, gathering his strength, until Mansel’s prompting recalls him to his story.

“The Interrogator sent those men away, after a time, and spoke with me, the two of us alone.” Brandon’s lip curls. “Quite civil, at the beginning. HE said nothing to me that one . . . gentleman . . .”

Brandon’s eyes flicker toward the cage, a flash of sheet lightning.

“ . . . might not say to another. HE was apologetic for the behaviour of HIS people, even. HE said they ‘have their uses, but their lack of subtlety is simply deplorable.’”

There is a murmur through the chamber—something that is not quite laughter, though only a note away from it: the low-pitched purring of the crowd’s appreciation.

Mansel raises a hand for order, and receives it.

“And so, Colonel, HE spoke with you alone.”

“HE did.”

“What did HE say to you?”

Brandon’s expression is that of a man on a forced march, summoning his already exhausted will to his aid. Keep walking. But what of this mountain ahead, one that he cannot possibly climb . . .

“HE questioned me as to where I had sent Miss Renie.”

“And what did you tell HIM?”

“I told HIM nothing.”

No vocal response from the crowd this time. No actual noise, merely a shifting, a turning of heads. People turning to look at one another in alarm, in dread, in certainty that there must be more.

Mary Anne does not move. Her eyes remain fixed on her husband, willing him to go on, to finish. She will not look at the cage, though she can feel the force of that dark will seeking for her, demanding that she acknowledge her adversary. Do not look away. Answer!

”You told HIM nothing, Colonel, and so then?”

“HE—urged me to reconsider. When I would not reply . . . “

Brandon halts. He is terribly rigid in his chair, a figure carved of marble.

“HE . . . summoned them again, the ones who had beaten me before. I thought it would resume, but they were only there long enough to restrain me, as I was given a drug.”

Mary Anne swallows.

“Or it may have been more than one. I could not see all that HE did. There were too many of them. Then they were gone, and I was left with HIM once more.”

“Did HE question you further?”

After a moment, Brandon shakes his head. “No. Not in so many words. HE merely waited for what had been given me to make itself felt. Which it did.”

“Describe the effects for us, Colonel, if you can.”

Brandon gives his questioner a long look. “Mister Mansel, I cannot. I can say what I remember, but the effect was quite literally indescribable if you have not felt it for yourself.”

“Then tell us what you remember.”

“Fear.” The word is flat, ugly, forced out through clenched teeth. “Pain. Not so much a pain of the body. But a dread so beyond reason that the body could not but respond to it. I believed my heart would stop.”

Radix pedis diaboli, thinks Mary Anne, her own heart raw with hatred and rage. All part of HIS little private pharmacy . . . it would serve HIM right to have to feel that, to know what it’s like. Even I didn’t do that to HIM!

Ah, but you would have, eventually, mocks that shadow, her own frightful fiend that doth close behind her tread. Not so different after all from that Machine, and you were more than ready to use that when Brandon stopped you . . .

At the thought of Brandon, Mary Anne forces her attention back to the stand.

“More than all else, a sense of agonizing . . . melancholy. I believe there is another term for it. Depression?”

“Yes, Colonel. Both terms for great sadness and despair.”

“Yes. That is it, Mister Mansel. Sadness and despair, of an order that, once again, I cannot describe to you in any terms . . . “ A brief silence. “The darkness visible of Milton’s Hell, perhaps. Or the abandon all hope of Dante’s. Induced emotions, with no component of actual physical pain, they were nevertheless excruciating.”

Silently, Mary Anne blesses Mansel for his composure and reflects that Brandon is fortunate in his questioner, for Mansel has displayed no least sign of shock. Here is a man who can remain calm in the face of the unspeakable.

“The Interrogator began to speak with me again. To point out, in the most reasonable of tones, that it was just as well that I had sent Miss Renie away, because I was after all quite useless as a protector. Had HE not found her, in spite of me? I could not protect her. And had not my wife just died a short time before?”

“Your wife, Colonel?”

“My first wife. I had lost her to an illness.” Brandon clears his throat and sips again from the water glass. “HE set before me in very clear, hard terms the . . . utter vulnerability of all I would love and wish to preserve. I, myself, was an example, was I not? So HE said. I had been easily taken from my guests at the estate and was now in HIS hands, and so it would always be.” Brandon’s brows draw together. “I do not clearly recall all that the man said along these lines, nor would I wish to repeat it if I did. But at the end of it all, HE asked me if I was prepared to live such a life, continuing my ‘feeble attempts’ to protect my happiness from the terror that could snatch it away from me at any time.”

“What was your reply?”

“Reply? I made HIM none. There was none to make. I felt every word of it, like a brand burnt into my flesh. HE waited, and when I still would not speak, HE left and returned with a pistol.”

A catch of breath throughout the chamber.

Brandon, gazing into the distance. “HE left the pistol there in front of me, on HIS chair, easily within my reach. Then HE left the room. I heard the key turn in the lock, and knew that I was alone. Absolutely and completely . . . alone.”

Further entries from the obtained journal, submitted to the Board of Commission Investigating the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart

Of course it was much smaller than our bedchamber in the castle. The only light in the room came from two small windows set high in the outside wall. Trunks lined the other two walls. An empty brazier in the corner took the place of a hearth. I needed just one stride to bring me to the bed: very convenient for dropping Joya on the mattress and kicking the door shut almost simultaneously. The latch looked like feeble protection but I was sure no servant would be daft enough to disturb us.

I turned around to find that Joya had rolled off and was rummaging in one of the trunks. She pulled something out and promptly put her hands behind her back. I raised my brows. She smiled, shook her head and nodded at the bed. I humoured her and lay down to await her next move.

Humming slightly, Joya glided over to the bed. With a loving smile, she took one of my hands and pulled my arm up over my head until my fingers brushed against the bedpost; then her other hand appeared, clasping a white cloth and before I realized what was happening she'd secured me firmly to the post. I tugged experimentally; the cloth stretched but the knot held firm. From the other side of the bed, whence she'd moved with alacrity, Joya secured my other arm and then stepped back to admire her work.

I won't deny that I found the position stimulating but the quality of the mattress left much to be desired. I shifted around on the blankets, trying to avoid the more egregious lumps. Joya watched me with interest. "Is something wrong, George?"

I stopped wriggling since all I was doing was disturbing the covers and glared at her. "Yes, there is. I'm not at all comfortable in this position."

She nodded. "I can see that. Let me take care of that little problem for you." She climbed onto the mattress beside me and placed one hand on my chest to push me gently back down to the bed. "Just relax now."

I let my head fall back onto the thin pillows and closed my eyes. The delicate scent of lavender floated on the air, stimulating my senses. Fingers moved down my chest to my belt. The buckle came apart and the leather strap slid away. One hand shoved my tunic halfway up my chest while another hand tugged at the knot on my braies.

"Oh, my goodness. No wonder you're so uncomfortable." Her husky voice rasped across my nerves. "This problem is rather larger than I thought."

With an effort I kept my eyes closed. "Joya, have mercy, please."

"Of course, George. Don't worry. I can take care of the problem." The laces pulled back and forth before coming apart. Suddenly her breath was hot on my flesh. "Just lie back and try to relax."

She's a sadist, this wife of mine. I hauled at the ties around my wrists until the bedposts creaked alarmingly, my head thrown back and beads of sweat bedewing my brow. Movement was impossible; all I could do was feel. Finally there was an ominous cracking noise and one arm was free. I reached down and seized her, rolling her over until she was laughing up at me and then I completed what she had so boldly started....

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday

Gwenevere had already opened her door and was now busily taking the books from him and carefully stacking them on the table just inside. Parker was furtively glancing about her quarters. He noticed that her immaculately kept home was exceptionally uncluttered almost to the point of looking unoccupied full time. ‘She obviously has exquisite taste in antiques, and has the necessary means to support such expensive predilection.’ He thought, thoroughly impressed as he noted some of her rarer finds.

“It’s quiet here, I like it very much.” She answered plainly, setting the last book neatly atop the daunting tower of ancient academic acumen. “ Well, thank you Professor Parker, it was very nice meeting you.” She said with a hint of polite finality in her tone.

“My pleasure Professor Collins. I don’t know many of the Hogwarts professors very well yet; maybe we will run into each other again. We can compare notes on Excelsior.” He said hopefully, desperately trying to read something more in her eye contact and tone. He was seriously thinking of asking her to tea; he practiced the invitation in his mind.

“I am sure we will, especially since our classes are both on the fifth floor.” She said.

“Don’t let’s wait until next fall before we…” Professor Parker was about to suggest they engage in their next conversation long before next fall; in fact today perhaps.
Professor Snape walked up and stood in the corridor just outside the door. Parker was stepping out into the corridor and sharply curtailed the remainder of the sentence. Gwenevere looked up and saw Severus standing there a second after Parker did. Snape did not look especially pleased this afternoon. Gwenevere stepped out into the corridor.

“Severus, er…Professor Snape, this is Professor Parker. He was kind enough to help me carry some library books.” She turned to Parker.
“Professor Snape is of course the Potions Master here.” She looked from one to the other.

In an indescribably long and uncomfortable moment Snape and Parker regarded each other. They resembled two dogs who were considering a fight. Gwenevere felt as though she was suddenly on tenterhooks, but she didn’t understand why exactly. Neither of them offered their hand. Professor Parker backed down first; he had obviously lost his chance to ask her to tea today, owing to Snape having shown up. He had heard the rumors about Snape being intense, almost to the point of frightening at times, but as far as he was concerned the rumors fell well short of reality. Snape’s unyielding eye contact had unnerved Parker and the tension was palpable.

“I must be on my way now, it was nice meeting you Professor Collins. Professor Snape.” Parker said with a nod, as he turned to leave.

“You may wish to go the opposite direction Professor Parker, the owlry is north.” Snape offered. Parker retraced his steps and turned right, disappearing from sight at the intersection.

Below, is actually TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

“Please let me help you… Professor Collins I presume?” said a tall handsome wizard in midnight blue robes. He had light brown hair with blonde highlights, attractively graying slightly at the temples. His clear hazel eyes were sensitive and intelligent, and a show of perfect teeth flashed as he smiled a peppermint white smile. He was now taking the books from Gwenevere’s arms.

“Thank you, I don’t believe we’ve met.” She said, as she confidently met his eyes and waited for him to introduce himself.

“Owen Parker, I will be teaching Arithmancy next fall. Your class room is just across the corridor from mine on the fifth floor.” He said. He held her eye contact until Gwenevere looked away and down toward the books in his arms. She had the most amazing blue eyes he had ever seen.

“A pleasure, I’m sure, Professor Parker.” She said, and quickly shook his awkwardly outstretched hand before he withdrew it hastily to mind the books, as they were about to unbalance themselves.

“I would be glad to help you carry these if you’ll just tell me where they need to go.” He said, flashing the peppermint smile again. His voice was almost as deep as Severus’s she noticed.

Thank you Professor Parker, but they are going down to the second floor, and I don’t wish to send you out of your way. I can manage, really, I am quite used to it.” She assured him, but he didn’t look as though he was inclined to release full custody of the books any time soon.

“Nonsense. I am going very near there and I insist.” He lied, as he slowly advanced toward for the door.

“Very well then, thank you. At lease let me take some of them.” She said, as she leant nearer towards him taking the four largest books from the top. His nostrils readily accepted the pleasant scent of her freshly washed hair as it fell forward near his face.

“You’re new to Hogwarts this year, correct?” He asked loudly, as they walked along the noisy corridor, passing and ducking around students along the way.

“Yes, I have been here about three weeks. You?” she asked politely, as they came to a long set of stairs.

“I recently transferred here from Excelsior; a school located in Spain, where I taught Finance and Arithmancy.” he said.

“Interesting. That’s where I went to school.” She said, as they descended the stairs.

“Small world. Was Headmaster Alessandro Perez there when you attended?” he asked, as they came to another bustling corridor.

“He had just been instated the year before. Is he still Headmaster?” she asked.

“Oh yes, still going strong. I noticed these are all potions books. Are you interested in potions then?” he asked, slightly out of breath as they came to the last staircase.

“My family has been heavily involved in the field for generations, I am very interested in Potions in fact.” They took a sharp right; the corridors seemed to go on forever, and in perplexing circles around turrets and then two sharp lefts before coming to the last corridor.

“I hear that Professor Snape is very good.” He said, tiring to catch his breath slightly, he wondered why Gwenevere wasn’t the least bit winded, as she was caring approximately the same weight in books as he.

“Yes, he is the very best actually.” She said, smiling sentimentally at the mention of his name. “My door is just down to the right.” She said, as they approached the secluded nook on the second floor.

“This is quite out of the way isn’t it?” he said, looking around and wondering how he was going to find his way back to the owlry which is where he was actually headed when he spied Gwenevere in the seventh floor library.

Several hours after Alex and Sandy's rooms are searched in Connemara, Ireland
Approximately one hundred and fifty miles north of Nuuk, Greenland:

A loud moan was heard from one of the sleeping area rooms. The man and woman who had been doing surveillance of the bleak and snowy landscape via TV security cameras strategically placed around the perimeter turned in the direction of the moan. "I'll look in on him," the woman murmured as she rose to her feet and stretched. She winced when her knee popped audibly.

"Right." The man turned around and began studying the various monitors once more, typing notes into a laptop computer. "Call if you need my help," he said, following it up with a loud and face-splitting yawn.

"Will do." The woman took one last glance at the flickering monitors and rubbed her weary eyes. She strode into the tiny bedroom and saw that the new arrival was slowly waking up. She pulled up a metal folding chair and sat next to the bed. "Johnston?" she asked, reaching out to feel the man's forehead. Her brow creased with worry when she discovered that he was running a fever. "Damn, I was afraid of this!" She turned her head and yelled, "Pete! He's coming to - and bring the med kit!"

"Mmmphhhhhhhh...." Johnston mumbled, flinching from the woman's gentle touch. He began thrashing underneath the bedcovers violently.

Pete ran inside the small sleeping area, med kit in hand. "That dirty son of a bitch O'Malley!" he cursed as he opened up the med kit. "God, I hope that I'll see the day when that rotten bastard belched up from the ninth circle of Hell finally gets what's coming to him..."

"Nothing would please me more than to see that lowlife scum get tossed someplace where he can never be seen or heard from again!" the woman snarled while she pulled out a syringe and a clear colored bottle of medication from the kit. She plunged the needle inside the bottle and withdrew 10 cc's from it. Her unusual silver colored eyes sparkled with worry when Johnston's thrashing grew more violent. "Hold him down, Pete!" she snapped as she tapped the syringe to insure that there were no air bubbles inside.

"Believe me, I'm trying to!" Pete growled as he tried grabbing at Johnston's flailing arms and just barely managed to avoid being belted across the face. "What the hell is that stuff Psycho Boy uses, anyway?" He grunted when Johnston slapped him soundly against his chest - but it also gave Pete the opening that he was looking for. He grabbed the drugged man's hands and pulled them away so that Johnston's arms were up over his head. "Jesus, he's burning up! Is that ready yet, Liz?"

Liz squirted a bit of the antidote and nodded curtly. Silently, she moved forward and shot the medication into Johnston's right bicep. She withdrew quickly, just as Pete lost his grip on Johnston's arms and he began flailing in the bed once more. "All we can do is wait now," she mumbled. "Poor bastard."

Two men and another woman burst into the small sleeping area, still dressed in their heavy outdoor gear. "He's finally coming to?" one of the men asked, roughly pulling off his ski mask to reveal a weather-beaten face that looked much older than his forty-five years.

Liz and Pete nodded. "Worse reaction than usual," Liz remarked with a sigh. She watched Johnston carefully for any signs of a reaction to the antidote she had just shot into the unfortunate man's arm. To her relief, it seemed to be working and the drugged agent slowed down his thrashing.

"Wonder what he did?" the second woman mused out loud as she took off her gloves and knelt down to unlace her government-issued insulated knee-high boots.

"He was unlucky enough to get assigned to that psychopath, plain and simple!" the second man said with a sneer while he shook off his heavy down parka. "Just like the rest of us - except for you, Rick," he added in. "You've just been stuck here for the last ten years because you drew the short straw."

Rick shrugged eloquently. "Better to be assigned here than working with O'Malicious - or any other lunatic that sprouts his Earth Purist ilk." He sighed, leaning up against the wall and crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Unfortunately, there's too many like that nutcase that occupy high places in the Agency." A little smirk crossed his face. "But the time will come when people like him are tossed aside like the scum of the earth that they are. I'm a very patient man." He pushed himself away from the wall and walked over to the threshold. "Let me know if there's any change in his condition, Liz," he said as he walked outside the sleeping area. "I need to report in on today's patrol."

"Right," Liz muttered, turning around to gaze at Johnston, who had grown still and appeared to be sleeping. The rest of the people in the room filed out behind Rick to go about their own tasks about the surveillance station.

Several hours later:

Johnston's eyes snapped open and he squinted at the harsh overhead lighting, but his dark eyes quickly adjusted to the brightness. He had a vague memory of O'Malley smirking at him contemptuously and then - nothing. He saw that he was in a sparsely furnished room and he realized that he was lying on a bed. He tried to rise to a sitting position, only to be pushed back down onto the mattress.

"Don't try to get up," a soft voice - an American accented woman's voice, Johnston's mind registered distantly - commanded.

"N..." Johnston struggled to speak, but found that his tongue felt like it was twice its normal size, his mouth was stuffed to the brim with cotton balls, and he had a horrible metallic backlash when he swallowed. "Wh..."

"I see that Sleeping Beauty's finally managed to wake up," Rick entered the room and grabbed another metal folding chair. He opened it and set it down with a loud clunk on the opposite side of the bed so that the back of the chair faced the bed. Rick then sat down in the chair and folded his arms over the back of it.

"That's not funny!" Liz exclaimed, rewarding the older man with a furious glare.

Rick ignored Liz's comments and turned back to Johnston, who was still struggling to speak. His eyebrows rose when the young man's complexion suddenly changed from stark white to a slight greenish tinge. Without another word, he grabbed the small wastebasket sitting next to the small bedside table while Liz swiftly pulled Johnston up to a sitting position. Rick stuck the basket in front of the young man and pushed his head down towards the wastebasket's opening just as Johnston began retching violently. A foul, metallic odor quickly permeated the surveillance station.

The others, hearing and smelling the disturbance inside the sleeping area, ran over to the threshold to see what was going on. The woman turned pale and covered her mouth with her hand while the two men watched Johnston empty the contents of his stomach impassively.

Shuddering as the dry heaves finally stopped, Johnston blinked away the reflexive tears that came to his eyes away and slowly raised his head. He gazed at the strangers surrounding him blearily and wordlessly took a tissue from Liz so that he could wipe his lips while Rick put the wastebasket on the floor next to his chair. "Wh... Where am I?" he managed to choke out.

One of the men standing in the threshold snickered. "Welcome to the jungle. We've got fun 'n' games."

The woman standing next to him suddenly drew her fist back and slammed it into the man who had spoken right in the bicep, making him holler. "You jackass!" She roughly pulled him away from the threshold, using his heavy sweater for purchase and the sound of soft arguing started up.

Johnston stared ahead, his mouth slightly ajar. Pete sighed and walked inside the small room. "Those two-" he jerked his thumb towards the door. "-argue like that all the time. You'll get used to it." He leaned up against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. "Name's Pete Palumbo, by the way. I'd say nice to meet you, but who'd want to meet in a place like this hellhole?"

Johnston's mind whirled, trying to process everything at once and failing. "What happened? Where am I? Who are you people?" he asked, licking his lips.

"What do you remember?" Liz asked softly.

Johnston put a shaking hand to his forehead. "Last thing I remember was that I was in Ireland..."

"Working on the Dane case, were you?" Rick asked.

"Yes..." Johnston said slowly, his forehead creasing as he frowned. His dark eyes lifted to gaze into Rick's weather-beaten face. "We had just finished searching his hotel room... O'Malley flipped out and I... Something hit me in the neck. Don't remember anything after that."

Rick and Liz exchanged glances. "You had words with him, didn't you? Questioned his authority," Liz stated in a dry and brittle voice.

Johnston nodded.

"That's why most of us are here too, except for me," Rick said. "This is what he and others like him do if anybody disagrees with their so-called 'Earth Security Measures'. You get shoved off to remote outposts with no real outside contact aside from the folks who bring the supplies that get flown in on a regular basis, radio, reports to HQ, and heavily monitored computer access."

Johnston looked around, his eyes turning bleak. "There had been rumors of agents suddenly going missing in the field while under deep cover, but..."

"You never believed it," Pete finished bitterly. "Same for the rest of us here." His face turned cold. "Be glad that you're here than..." He left the rest of his thoughts unspoken.

Johnston's complexion turned paper-white. "Oh my God... You mean?"

"Yep. Saw it happen first-hand and then the next thing I knew, I'm here," Pete murmured.

Johnston stared at the three, stunned into silence.

The three exchanged glances and turned back to Johnston, gazing at him sympathetically. "Look, we know it's a lot to take in - and it's going to take time to get adjusted to everything, but the only thing I can tell you is to make the best of it," Rick told him. He held his hand out for the young man to shake. "Name's Rick Salas. Welcome to the middle of nowhere in particular on Earth. Somewhere in Greenland, to be exact."

Johnston shook Rick's hand weakly. "Dennis Johnston," he muttered.

"Liz Contessa," the woman introduced herself while Johnston's eyes slowly shifted away from Rick to stare at her as she slowly rose to her feet. "Better check on the others. It's gotten too quiet out there for my liking," Liz continued with a long-suffering sigh as she walked outside the bedroom. Pete pushed himself away from the wall and followed behind her.

After a minute of pained silence, Rick also rose to his feet, picking up the soiled wastebasket at the same time. "There's clothing, boots, and outerwear that should fit you in that closet over there," he pointed. "Bathroom's two doors down on the right. Kitchen's on the opposite side of the building." He began walking towards the doorway, still speaking. "Briefing is at 0600 tomorrow morning." He turned around to face the bewildered young man. "I'm sorry," he said gruffly and strode down the hall.

Johnston slowly fell back onto the mattress, his head hitting the pillow with a soft thump. He blindly stared up at the ceiling, the final lines from The Eagle's Hotel California echoing over and over in his mind.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

Monday Morning.
”Good morning Gwenevere, Sleep well last night?” Sir Nicholas said eyes wide with glee as he teased her mildly.

“Yes, thank you I did as a matter of fact”. She pretended not to understand his insinuation.

“Sir Nicholas, did you find out any information about the curse for me?” she asked, hopefully.

“Well now that you mention it, yes.” He was pleased indeed.

“Don’t be coy, do tell.” She said as she smiled sweetly at him and batted her long lashes over vibrant blue eyes.

“Gwenevere, you need to go shopping dear! Our less than cheerful Professor Snake has acquired two of the three rings needed to satisfy rule number three! Oh, this mystery solving is so much fun!”

“That’s wonderful sleuthing Sir Nicholas I’m Impressed, will you try and find out for me, the rule concerning the day and time of the wedding and the waiting period between wedding vows and…”

“Yes I will try and get the answers to those questions and more, I must fly now. See you soon dear.”

After her bath, Gwenevere quickly dressed and planed to work all day on the third research project. She had completed her second project days ago and was likely that Severus would submit it for publication as well, the first one having