A/N: This is for the Spyfest Fic Exchange! My prompt was: Ian Rider/OC Romance with the normal Alex Rider action or Alex/Sabina. I went with Ian/OC
Just a few notes before you read:
1) This is heavily inspired and references "The Snow Queen" by Hans Christian Andersen, so I have taken liberties with the plausibility of certain events
2) The style is inspired by the Fairy Tale Novels by Regina Doman
3) All part titles and quotes are taken from "The Snow Queen" and I do not own them.
4) I wrote this in four hours because I realized I won't have internet for the next 5 days and I've gotta get this in before December ends! FInals happened earlier and I wa g, so this isn't my best but at least it's done. Hope you all enjoy :)
I.
Which Describes a Looking-Glass and the Broken Fragments.
"...when we get to the end we shall know more than we do now about a very wicked hobgoblin; he was one of the very worst, for he was a real demon. . .One day, when he was in a merry mood, he made a looking-glass which had the power of making everything good or beautiful that was reflected in it almost shrink to nothing, while everything that was worthless and bad looked increased in size and worse than ever. . ."
The man had no face.
His head was shrouded beneath a black hood and wide, dark sunglasses that obscured his eyes and nose. The rest of his face, where one might expect to see a smile or a grimace or a sneer, was hidden in shadow. His sweatshirt was black and bulky, giving him the image of a hulking mass of darkness hunched over in the darkness of the porch to try and light a cigarette. The faceless man tried once, twice. Cupping the lighter between steady hands, cursing at the cigarette when it refused to catch fire. He threw it to the side. Stomped on it, kicked it away.
He skulked over to the window to peer in. No one knew he was on the porch; if they did, they would have him evicted. He watched through the glass as women in sparkling ballgowns whirled around the room in the arms of men in tuxedos and suits who knew how to waltz. The chamber orchestra in the corner played a lovely rendition of Hayden, and champagne poured from bottles to glasses like molten gold. It was the image of a beautiful night, but the faceless man was a predator, and his quarry was dancing with a beautiful woman in a dark green dress.
The quarry in question was named Ian Rider. He was a spy, a foolish spy. Foolish because he was in love, and he had the fortune and misfortune of loving a woman who loved him back. She was beautiful; the memory of what an honor her smile was, of how making her laugh felt like winning every trophy in the world, haunted the faceless man.
For he had had her, once, like one of those trophies, and she had left. He had thought he'd gotten her hooked, locked in the glass cabinet like another prize, but one day she stood up and left and the faceless man realized that he had never had a cabinet or a glass, because she had disappeared.
Now, here she was, in the arms of Ian Rider, and she was beautiful.
Her dress was silk chiffon and charmeuse, and it was green like pine forests and envy. The skirt had an overlay that swirled and danced as she spun, and it glittered as if shot through with gold threads. Half her hair, dark brown, was pulled back in an elegant silver clasp shaped like a dove and curled into elegant ringlets that cascaded down her back. Her face shone, flushed pink with exertion and happiness, and her brown eyes sparkled with all the happiness in the world as they looked at Ian Rider.
The faceless man felt his heart twist in anger, as if frozen that way, and he turned his back on the window. He could only take satisfaction in the thought that, soon, his plan would be set in motion. He had done everything; drugged the bottle of wine anonymously left to the wait staff to offer to Ian Rider and Ian Rider only, tipped off someone who could get rid of him . . . and soon Sarah Jenkins, the most beautiful woman in the world, would be his.
II.
A Little Boy and a Little Girl
". . .it was one of those bits of the looking-glass—that magic mirror, of which we have spoken—the ugly glass which made everything great and good appear small and ugly, while all that was wicked and bad became more visible, and every little fault could be plainly seen. [he]. . . had also received a small grain in his heart, which very quickly turned to a lump of ice."
Ian Rider knew he was sick from the moment he stepped into the bathroom. The tile pitched towards his face and the next thing he knew his palms were pressed against smooth porcelain and his knees struck the floor. His glass shattered against the unforgiving surface, sending champagne and glass flying across the floor. He could see his reflection in one piece that was about the size of his thumb.
His stomach heaved, and his shoulders tensed as he vomited. It's gotta be the drink. It was spiked.
Foolish, he was an imbecile! Taking drinks at an open event - he had no idea who was attending, or who had access.
His handler had assured him that nothing was expected to go wrong; no one had to know that Ian Rider was MI6 and so was his girlfriend. Sarah had assured him that all would be well. She had even gotten the first round of drinks. She had been happy, excited for the evening, and Ian had let his guard down because . . . because he loved her, and because she rarely allowed herself to be so excited about anything.
Stupid, he cursed himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What was happening to him? He had other people to think about too, like Alex! His own nephew, whom he rarely saw, was growing up an orphan with all the promise of his father. He had other people to work with who depended on him for guidance or their lives, depending on the situation. What had he been thinking?
He threw up again, contorting on the floor of the bathroom. His eyes watered as the room blurred.
"Ian?" the voice came from behind him. Fine fabric rustled as Sarah crouched down, her hand smoothing back his hair. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine!" he hissed, humiliated at being found in such a state. "Go away!" his voice was more of a rasp than a bite.
"What happened? Do you need me to call extrac-"
"I need you to leave!" Ian pushed himself up on his elbows and dragged his left leg beneath him until he was sitting up, even as vertigo threatened to overwhelm him. "This - this was all a mistake-"
Through the haze over his eyes, he saw her face fall. "Okay, Ian. I'm calling an ambulance, you're ill. We'll talk more later, okay?"
He had the sense of one being placated like a wayward child, and he hated her for it. "Sarah-"
"I love you, Ian."
Why did she say that? Why did she have to say that? Wasn't she supposed to be calling an ambulance? A foreign panic welled up inside Ian's chest and threatened to explode. Suddenly he couldn't breathe - he reached up, trying to claw at his throat, but there wasn't any air -
Somewhere behind him the door opened, but the sound was muffled as if it came from far away. A cool hand touched his forehead - painfully cold, like ice - and a woman's voice spoke soft soothing words that he didn't understand.
"Are you still cold," [the snow queen] asked, as she kissed him on the forehead. The kiss was colder than ice; it went quite through to his heart, which was already almost a lump of ice; he felt as if he were going to die,"
III.
The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure
". . .many tears were shed for him, and[the girl] wept bitterly for a long time. She said she knew he must be dead; that he was drowned in the river which flowed close by the school. Oh, indeed those long winter days were very dreary. But at last spring came, with warm sunshine. "He is dead and gone," said [the girl].
When Sarah Jenkins woke up, she couldn't remember where she was. The unfamiliar ceiling came into focus as she blinked the sleep out of her eyes. As she struggled to sit up, she realized that she was lying on the floor. Her head pounded, the pain worsening with each passing second.
She pressed her palms to her forehead and took a breath.
What happened?
Ian had disappeared. . . he had looked pale and pasty, as if ill . . . the bathroom! He was throwing up, clearly sick - had he been poisoned?- then . . . then everything was black.
Sarah quickly surmised that she had been hit in the head with a blunt object and knocked out, which meant that Ian was in trouble. Heart in her throat, she stood up on unsteady legs and, leaning against the wall, went in search of help.
The ball was still in full swing. Apparently, no one had noticed any scuffle, or at least the disturbance hadn't merited calling off the evening's events.
As she skirted around the edge of the room en route to the coatroom in search of her phone, she saw a glimmer of motion at one of the windows. She paused, stared for a few long seconds. Nothing else happened; she must have imagined it.
Shaking her head, she hurried out the grand doors and into the coatroom, tucked unobtrusively beneath a small staircase that had traditionally been utilised by servants. Her normal phone was at the bottom of her purse, and there was a second one sewn into the lining that had two numbers and a satellite signal programmed into it. Still disoriented, Sarah stepped out onto the porch and flipped open the second phone to send the standard emergency alert code to her handler.
She wasn't paying attention until someone grabbed her wrist.
A scream was torn from her throat and she spun around, trying to yank her arm away only to have the crushing grip around her wrist tighten until she cried out.
There was a man in black standing there, a faceless man in black.
She recognized him.
"Where's Ian?" she snapped, fighting down a rising panic and the tears that sprung to her eyes.
"Does it matter?" the faceless man sneered.
"Is everything okay?" A new voice broke the silence. An elderly, poised woman stood in the doorway, a white-gloved hand daintily cupping a wine glass. Her wine was crimson, and it reminded Sarah unpleasantly of blood.
Ian.
She felt her pulse pound in her throat. She couldn't imagine losing Ian, although she knew she should have braced herself for the possibility given their occupations.
"I'm looking for my boyfriend," she said, clearing her throat. It was only half a lie. "He's sick."
"I believe his friends carried him out," the woman replied. "There, the two men at the gatehouse should know. They phoned for an ambulance."
"Thank you," Sarah said, and this time, the man let go of her wrist when she tugged at it.
"Sarah, I love you," He insisted, a hard edge to his voice that sent shivers down her spine.
No, she thought. You don't. But she didn't say anything, instead choosing to turn and run as fast as she could down the paved driveway to the gatehouse.
Oh, where was her handler?
IV.
The Prince and Princess
". . .she only begged for a pair of boots, and a little carriage, and a horse to draw it, so that she might go into the wide world to seek for [the boy]. And she obtained, not only boots, but also a muff, and she was neatly dressed; and when she was ready to go, there, at the door, she found a coach made of pure gold."
Sarah flew down the driveway and almost plowed into a couple walking hand in hand.
"Are you okay?" the man asked, concerned. He was handsome, with a perfectly charming expression of concern and dark eyes that held depths of warmth like the sun.
"I'm fine," Sarah said, with an attempt at a smile. "Just looking for someone." She tried to force herself to calm down - she was plunging into things again, not being careful, and this is why she wasn't a field agent. She wasn't fine, she was afraid.
"Do you need anything?" asked the woman. She was extraordinarily beautiful, with hair as dark as night and skin as white as snow. Her eyes were bright and blue, as if made of oceans.
"No," insisted Sarah. She just wanted to get to the gatehouse and ask about the ambulance -
In her purse, her phone buzzed obnoxiously. "I need to find someone."
"Let us call you a car," the man said, pulling out his phone and typing in a text to someone.
Sarah didn't know what to do. She was overwhelmed, her head hurt, and she was panicking. What was going on, where was Ian? Had the faceless man arranged all this?
By the time she'd worked through the words to a response a pair of headlights appeared at the top of the driveway. She waited until the car pulled up and the driver's window rolled down.
"Take her wherever she needs to go," the woman said kindly. "Go!"
"Thank you -" Sarah began to say, but the woman's hand on her shoulder pushed her towards the car. She stumbled on her heels and plopped down in the backseat.
"Where to?" the driver asked as the car's engine hummed.
"The gatehouse," she murmured. "Ask about the ambulance."
The men at the gatehouse informed Sarah and the driver that the ambulance was supposedly going to some hospital downtown, the St. Livre Thames. It was a name that made no sense and was probably fictitious - but it had to mean something, right? A sketchy-sounding name was the only lead Sarah had, so she wracked her brain to think of something.
The faceless man - her ex-boyfriend - had taken her to a bookstore on their first date. Livres des siecles, books of the centuries. It was tucked away in an unsavory district near the ports of the river. . .
Leaning forward, Sarah gave the address to the driver.
Her phone buzzed again.
She ignored it.
V.
The Robber Girl
"The coach stopped in the courtyard of a robber's castle, the walls of which were cracked from top to bottom. Ravens and crows flew in and out of the holes and crevices, while great bulldogs, either of which looked as if it could swallow a man, were jumping about; but they were not allowed to bark."
The car stopped in the middle of the street. Sarah thanked the driver and threw her whole shoulder into opening the heavy door. Her heels splashed into a grimy puddle as she stepped out of the car, clutching her purse in her hands. The hem of her dress trailed on the wet ground as she stumbled over to the sidewalk. Neon lights delineated which derelict buildings housed which shady establishments, and the bookstore was one of them.
A small bird fluttered past, illuminated in the streetlight. The entire alley was dingy and depressed in the misty rain, and for the first time that evening, Sarah felt a tingle of fear. She had been terrified for Ian, of course, but now she was fearing for herself. She was all alone in a disreputable area wearing a fancy ballgown and heels. Not the smartest move.
You bulldoze into things, she silently berated herself. How is that going to help Ian?
Once again, her phone buzzed. Sarah miserably fished around in her purse and answered it. "Hello?"
"Jenkins! What's going on?" Poor Jacobs, he was only her temporary handler as she usually worked a desk job. He must be having a heart attack.
"I'm sorry," she sniffed. "Something happened to Ian."
"Where are you?"
She named the street. Jacobs swore. "What are you doing there?"
"I think I know where Ian is-"
WHAM!
Something slammed into Sarah's back and knocked her sprawling across the ground. Her phone fell into a puddle. She rolled to her feet with her hands clenched into fists, whirling around to see her assailant.
A girl with a long ratty ponytail and streaks of dirt across her face was glaring at her. "Who are you," the girl demanded. "And what are you doing here?"
"I'm looking for someone," Sarah replied. "He said he would meet me here."
The girl snorted. "Good one. You, in that dress. There's no reason for you to be here."
"You too. How old are you, thirteen?"
"Seventeen! Whaddya got on you?"
"Absolutely nothing worth taking," Sarah said blandly, forcing down her nerves. "Get out of here."
A stray dog skulked by on the opposite side of the street. The girl's eyes were drawn to it and, pushing past Sarah as if she didn't exist, the girl vanished down the street.
What just happened? Sarah slowly rubbed her forehead, trying to figure out the night's events. She was so close! She just had to go into the bookstore.
A memory came to her head, unbidden, as she slogged through the litter and oily puddles on the ground of when Ian had driven her to Brecon Beacons, just so she could see the infamous facility. At the time, she had wondered how anyone survived that dreary place.
Ian.
Her eyes stung with tears. She wasn't used to - to this, to the stress and panic of life in the field. She had probably messed everything up beyond repair.
Her hair had fallen out of its clasp; she pushed a few pieces back behind her ears and entered the old bookstore. The door dinged as she did.
VI.
The Lapland Woman and the Finland Woman
"She ran barefoot forwards as quickly as she could, when a whole regiment of snow-flakes came round her; they did not, however, fall from the sky. . .The snow-flakes ran along the ground, and the nearer they came to her, the larger they appeared. . .But these were really larger, and much more terrible, for they were alive. . ."
"Can I help you, darling?" The woman behind the counter had a Scandinavian accent. She looked to be in her late forties and had wire-rimmed glasses perched atop her head.
"Has - has anyone -" Sarah faltered. Has anyone brought a kidnapped man in here? Was a bit of an odd question to ask. Still, she was certain that the bookstore was where she was supposed to have gone - unless it was all a trap . . .
"Ah," said another woman emerging from a curtained-off entrance to the back of the store. "You must be looking for your husband."
Husband? "Uh . . . sure. I mean, yes!"
The second woman shook her head sadly. Her voice was melodic and carried a strange lilt, from a country Sarah couldn't identify. "You have a long way to go, my dear. He has been taken by evil men to one of the boats down at the dock."
"Boats? Do you know which one?"
The first woman, with glasses, pursed her lips. "It has blue striping on the sides."
"Did you see?"
"No," the women said in unison. The one with the unidentifiable accent gave Sarah a significant glance. "He was dumped here on our doorstep for a few moments."
"Oh . . . kay." Sarah tried to force her brain to work faster. She slowly reached back to the door, fumbling for the antique knob. Suddenly the heel of her left shoe snapped and she stumbled, almost falling.
Kicking off her shoes, she pushed the door opened and stepped barefoot out onto the step. The concrete was cold and wet, and the chill sank into her bones and settled as she walked, step by step, down the sidewalk. The port was two blocks away, vast and looming. It was one of the largest international seaports in the world.
Tears trickled down her cheeks and she sniffed, not bothering to wipe her face. This was the worst night ever. She had been looking forward to a party, not a disaster. She had no phone to call her handler, or anyone else, and no shoes or jacket.
She was alone.
The buildings looming on either side seemed to close in on her as she hurried down the street.
She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth and started to run.
VII.
Of the Palace of the Snow Queen and What Happened There At Last
"[The boy] was quite blue with cold, indeed almost black, but he did not feel it; for the Snow Queen had kissed away the icy shiverings. . .He dragged some sharp, flat pieces of ice to and fro, and placed them together in all kinds of positions, as if he wished to make something out of them . . ., but there was one word he never could manage to form, although he wished it very much. It was the word "Eternity." He could not accomplish it."
Ian Rider was sure he was dying.
Time had lost all meaning; his world was one haze after another of blurry outlines, nonsense words, and cold. Oh, it was so cold.
Half-formed thoughts flitted through his head like fickle clouds; there was a memory of Alex, clutching a football between his hands, and of John being sworn into the service. There was Sarah Jenkins, lovely Sarah, as she laughed at one of his jokes and the world seemed a little brighter. That was the memory he wanted to keep, but try as he might he could not contain it. Within seconds it left his mind and there was only the delerium.
Every now and then came a sharp prick in his arm, a needle filled with whatever was keeping him in this state between life and death.
He was cold as if dying of hypothermia, so cold that his skin started to burn. Occasionally soft pressure touched his forehead, like a hand, but it brought no warmth.
He had no brain power to try and figure out what was happening. The last thing he definitively remembered was dancing to a waltz with Sarah at the ball. If only he could take that moment like a photograph and live in it forever, but time would not allow such fantasies. Time went on, and somehow he ended up here. Dead? Alive? He didn't know.
Then, suddenly, something happened. Someone was holding his arms, shaking him. He tried to open his eyes, to call out, to move, but he couldn't. His mind blanked out, and there was nothing.
When Ian didn't respond, a great, ugly sob burst out of Sarah's mouth and she collapsed on her knees beside him. He was lying in the belly of a cargo ship, black and blue from being beaten and drugged into a stupor. His kidnappers had left to convene; she'd heard them go.
Now all the panic, fear, and sorrow that had sat in her chest like a giant lump of ice melted, and she sobbed over his unresponsive body in a distant, unknown ship.
His last words to her came to her mind: this was a mistake.
If he didn't love her - he was dead - he died thinking something that wasn't true -
She hunched over, head in her hands, hair falling over her shoulders in a scraggly, tangled mess.
She remained alone.
Ian woke up slowly, as if standing up after being underwater, struggling to the surface. Drops of warmth like liquid fire fell onto his face and shoulders. He blinked with what felt like gargantuan effort and light poured in, burning, blinding light. There was someone next to him, someone he could feel, someone who felt warm like another human being. A smaller hand clutched his left one and the woman next to him -
Sarah.
With a surge of warmth, he sat up.
She rocked back on her heels, startled, and her hands flew to her sides. She was a wreck - her hair was falling down, her dress was stained and torn, and she wore no shoes. Her eyes were red and dirt streaked across her face.
She was beautiful.
"I-" Ian began.
Shaking her head, she gently pressed her fingers to his lips. Tears poured down her face and she laughed, then sobbed. "Ssh."
"Then the boy recognized her, and said, joyfully, "Gerda, dear little Gerda, where have you been all this time, and where have I been?" And he looked all around him, and said, "How cold it is, and how large and empty it all looks," and he clung to her, and she laughed and wept for joy."
He saw something blinking in her hairclip and was about to say something when heavy footsteps echoed from a stairwell nearby. The floor beneath them rocked slightly; they had to be on a ship. Ian hauled himself to his feet and swayed, still managing to push in front of Sarah when a familiar face emerged from the staircase.
Tulip Jones, a field agent on the fast track to the top, stood with a pistol hanging loosely in her right hand and her hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. "There you are."
Sarah's mouth hung open. "How-"
"Satellite," Ian rasped, his throat dry. "Hairclip."
She seemed to figure it out and reached up to remove her barrette, staring at the tiny light.
"There are more upstairs," Jones said, jerking her head towards the stairs. "Come on."
Sarah hovered anxiously next to Ian as he staggered forward. His foot caught on an uneven part of the floor and she grabbed his arms, fingers digging into his biceps.
"I'll crush you," he muttered, but smiled at her.
Shrugging, she gave him a relieved look and shook her head. "I love you."
He sensed an urgency behind her words as if she feared she was speaking them for the last time. The events from earlier came rushing back and he remembered, with a twinge in his stomach, what he had said to her. "Sarah -" He grabbed her hands, pausing in the middle of the staircase.
She waited for him to speak.
"About earlier. I was drugged - I don't know what happened, but I'm going to find out. I'm so sorry. Nothing I said was true."
"Okay," she whispered, twin patches of red blooming on her face.
He kissed her once, softly, then turned back towards the stairs.
No matter what had happened, he knew he would have to go to the hospital for some kind of observation after all the chemicals that had been injected or ingested into his system. After that, though . . . what could possibly have brought this on? He didn't even recognize the people who kidnapped him - granted, he couldn't see their faces - and he couldn't think of anyone in his recent missions who had the means to pull off such a scheme.
As he stepped off the boat, still unsteady, he saw the first sunbeams pierce the dawn. Sarah's eyes were also drawn to the horizon, and it was with sadness that he noticed the sickly pallor of her face.
The truth would come to light eventually but as long as she was with him, everything would be well.