This is a gift for a friend who is going through a difficult time now. So she knows she is loved, and valued. It is an off the cuff interlude, apologies for the sentence fragment, and the other less than polished sentences. It just needed to get out there today. Part two will be a little finer.

Merick

There had been enough tears, more than enough by her reckoning, she had to pull it together, and he was not worth the misery she was putting herself through. She was going to get through this night course, and get through this degree and get her butt back to work to support her son and herself and make her new dreams come true. So with a firm grasp on the handle of her laptop bag, and a shudder to straighten her shoulders, she sniffed back the tears and stepped out of the shadows of Masters Hall, and mounted the limestone staircase to get to her lecture hall.

She loved this place, the university was old, and majestic, and full of architectural wonders that were as wonderful to explore in the daytime as they were at night. There was a power around the place that inspired her and filled her with the energy to push her. It was rooted in the history of place, centuries old, some of the buildings, with courtyards that could have been, might actually have been medieval. There were rumors about the place, as there were with all old spaces, about former jousting yards, and a kirkyard, and temple that had been dedicated, not to Christ, but to pursuits more venial. Of course they were likely just rumors. Still, Clare felt a little more romantic and noble every time she entered Master's Hall. As if she were a royal, or a priestess of some ancient religion moving to her tasks. There was no room for tears here.

The hallways were quiet, which was a little unusual, and even though she'd never been in this particular lecture hall, she knew it sat over a hundred students: though she didn't see anyone else around. Nervous, she checked her watch again, but the time was correct, just before 7pm, there were still lectures at 7 pm, even in the winter sessions. Then she began to worry that her watch was slow and that she was very late, so she hastened her pace to reach the solid oaken doors that led into the hall.

Pausing, she listened, but again there was no noise, and now, beyond curious as to what was going on she opened the door and looked inside. It was as magical as she had imagined it would be. There were iron braces for torches in the wall, even if what they held were electric now a days, and the seats weren't individual chairs with flip up side tables, they were rows and rows of carved benches, polished till they shone by decades, perhaps centuries of use. The whole place looked warm, the way the light reflected off the paneling and the wood, nothing seemed incongruous or out of place. There wasn't even a projector screen on the dais, just a lectern, and a blackboard, and a man, standing behind the lectern, in all the space of the hall, not looking small even though alone, looking as grand as all the atmosphere. He wore full black academic robes that fell to mid calf, and a hood, thrown over his shoulders with the scarlet trim that betrayed his degree in theology. But it wasn't that majesty that caught Clare's breath in her throat, it was his face, and his blond hair, and the long fingers that leafed through sheaves of paper. He was a god, or should have been. Everything was perfect; eyes hooded by symmetrical brows that cast shadows over them, hardly coloring out the piercing blue, but adding a smoke that called out danger. High cheekbones that crowned the corners of a slightly parted mouth, a full lower lip and a clef in his squared chin that betrayed a firm jaw and absolute power. Clare felt her own heart skip a beat. And then he looked up at her.

"Ah, Clare is it not?" His voice was like velvet and Clare felt her knees go weak. Not only was she in the presence of the most beautiful man she had ever seen (and newly single to boot), he knew her name.

"Um, yes, yes sir, I'm Clare." She thought for certain that she must have sounded like a complete idiot as she stammered out an answer. She was actually amazed that she was able to descend the steps between the benches without tripping over her own feet.

"Wonderful, I am glad that you have arrived." He brought an arm up, the sleeve slipping away from his wrist to reveal a silver Tag Heuer watch, and long fingers capping large hands. Clare felt a little faint. "And right on time as well."

"I am? But where is everyone else?"

"There is no one else, just you, and me, of course." He grinned, curling up the left side of his smile a rakish sort of way. "I am Professor Northman. I've been asked to conduct a special class, just for you."

Clare choked a little on her own gasp.

"For me?" She squeaked out.

"You've impressed a number of important people here at the University. They felt my skills would be of benefit."

"Skills?" She heard her own voice getting higher, but couldn't stop it.

"In teaching, and bringing out the full potential of a student."

She had to sit down. The smile, the voice, the implications her broken heart was tossing over everything, it was all too much. But before she could even look for a suitable place to collapse, he was at her side, and his arms were around her back, holding her upright.

"Now don't fall Clare, we have a great many things to do this evening, and beginning the adventures with a concussion would not do at all."

"Adventures? I'm sorry, I'm very confused."

"Then let me show you." In an instant she was swept up into strong arms, feeling so light it was as if she was flying. Professor Northman carried her to the very back of the dais. "You know the stories about this building?"

"Some of them. I suppose."

"Well a good many of them are the fabrications of late nights and too much ale. But at the heart of every fantasy there is some truth." With a careful step, and pressure on a part of the floor paneling, Clare heard a click, and watched as a square of the worn hardwood sank out of sight, revealing a circular staircase.

"Let me carry you, it's dark, and rather steep."

"Sure, of course." Clare was beginning to wonder if everything was just a dream. There had been so much misery, and so many sleepless nights, maybe she'd just fallen asleep on the couch finally. His laugh was deep, and his grip strong, and she figured, if it was a dream that she might just as well enjoy it. So she curled her face into his neck, and breathed in the masculine scent of him; it was quite a vivid dream it seemed.

"You've heard the stories of how old Master's Hall is haven't you?" They reached the bottom of the staircase, and it was as dark as he had said.

She nodded.

"It has been here in some form or another for nearly a thousand years. Though I have only been privy to its secrets for the last one hundred." He set her on her feet carefully. "Allow me to illuminate things for you Clare."

With a gust of air whose origin she could not ascertain, the underground chamber sprang to light and life, revealing a wonder. Well, two wonders, Professor Northman, and the rich woven tapestries that lined the stone walls, making the room seem close, and warm. Proper torches sat in their brackets, unlike the replicas above them in the lecture hall. The crackling of wood directed her attention to an inset fireplace, though for the life of her she couldn't figure out how one could exist underground. But of course if this was a dream, and that was looking more and more likely, anything could happen.

"What is this place Professor Northman?"

"Call me Eric." She hadn't realized that he had come to her side again until she felt his breath as he whispered into her ear. She jumped a little, and again he laughed his deep, desperately sexual laugh. "It is a place of worship."

"What do they worship here?" She whispered in return, mesmerized by the artwork, and the sudden flush she was feeling.

"True passions." And she felt cool lips pressed to her neck. There was no suppressing the moan that escaped her throat.

"Oh yes, cry out, hold nothing back, it will only enhance our pleasures."