A/N: Here's the "even more unusual" story I promised…a lot sooner than I expected. Many, many thanks as always for the amazing and wonderful feedback I've been receiving. Enjoy!
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§ § § -- December 31, 2000 / January 1, 2001

The Christmas-tree lights still twinkled softly in the dimly-lit study, where Roarke and Leslie sat at the tea table reflecting on the imminent passage of the second millennium. He looked at her, visited with a sudden thought, and said, "Did you make your farewell to the old year?"

"About an hour ago," Leslie said, "when that phone call came in." She grinned, still a little sheepish; they both well remembered how he had overheard her do it the first year she was on the island. "I felt like I had to say goodbye three times: once to the old year, once to the twentieth century, and once to the entire millennium."

Roarke chuckled. "Quite understandable. In light of that, you would think there would be parties, of the magnitude of last year's…even our own celebration was unusually low-key. I admit to surprise at its early conclusion."

"I think everybody's still worn out from last year," Leslie kidded. It occurred to her then to recall exactly what she had been doing this time a year ago, and her cheeks went pink, her gaze sliding away from Roarke's and her cheerful façade slipping. "I heard from Christian about that CD I sent him…it made him cry too."

Roarke regarded her with sympathy. Early in the month she had bought a holiday CD by the Carpenters, which contained a song called "Merry Christmas Darling" that expressed her current feelings exactly. She had picked up a second copy and sent it to Christian, telling him he needed to listen to that particular song and imagine her speaking to him when he did so. Roarke had heard the song enough times on the radio that he had to admit it was a perfect fit for Christian and Leslie's situation.

"Why don't you go to the kitchen and see if there is any of Mariki's spiced cider remaining," Roarke suggested gently. "We'll have one more cup and watch the new year come in, and then I think it's best we retire for the night."

"Okay," she said and reached out to set her empty mug on the table. Just then the grandfather clock began to chime midnight, and for some reason she went utterly, absolutely statuelike: even her breathing appeared to stop. Roarke stared at her in surprise and budding alarm before he realized that the clock had ceased striking as well, and the very air had gone still. He put his own mug on the table and stood up, alert and bewildered.

The entire room instantly disappeared around him, leaving him on a platform in some featureless black void with a spotlight shining down on him from directly overhead. It revealed a foggy mist swirling around the platform's base. As he stood there wading through his own rising tide of confusion, the blackness began to gradually turn a smoky gray, until he could make out shadowy, vaguely human forms in a rough semicircle before him.

"Roarke," said a voice, an oddly accented voice—and then he knew where he was, and dread filled him. He should have known he was going to face this moment! How could he have possibly forgotten? At the last thousand-year turn his own father had stood before a panel that had convinced him to step aside and train his only son in the intricate, powerful mental abilities that their clan had brought with them from some ancient, nameless place whose location had been lost to history in the very distant past. Now, Roarke realized, his dark eyes going wide with reaction, it was his own turn.

"Roarke," the voice said again. "Do you know why we have brought you here?"

"Yes," Roarke said heavily, studying each of the gathered shady forms in the vain hope of making out their features. "The millennial tribunal."

"Correct. You recall your father's words to you, then, one thousand years ago..." There was a pause, and Roarke had the feeling he was being assessed. "You seem startled, Roarke. Were you not warned?"

Roarke looked down, gathering himself, drawing in a breath. "Yes, I was…but you must understand that ten centuries is a great length of time, and much has happened in all those years. You will forgive me, I hope, if I admit that it slipped my mind."

To his surprise, he heard a few quiet chuckles. It didn't lessen his dread of what lay ahead of him, but it gave him some hope. Perhaps there would be room for compromise, at least—unless somehow he could defend his own case and prevent repeating history altogether. Unsure, however, he waited, while the voice took an audible breath and spoke again. "Very well…but there is no denying the fact that the millennium changes again, and there is much to be concerned about in this instance. Never have we seen such immense and all-encompassing change in this planet than during the century just elapsed."

"Indeed," Roarke commented tersely.

A second voice, female this time, took over. "We have been quite concerned about you, Roarke. Your circumstances are much different from your father's; and you have undergone your share of adversity and struggled through a number of difficulties, in the last two years especially. I feel compelled to advise you that your case will be complicated. Your life has taken a far different direction from your father's, and your situation calls for much discussion and examination. We will offer you what comforts you require so that you may be as prepared as possible to present your testimony."

Roarke looked around then and saw a leather chair behind him, not unlike those in his own office, with a small table beside it that held a pitcher of water and a glass. "Thank you," he said guardedly but politely, taking a seat but ignoring the pitcher for the moment. He waited quietly; they had brought him here, and it was up to them to explain how this was to proceed. In all honesty, he knew enough to know that he was going to be playing this entirely by ear: there was no script, no agenda. Whatever he said in his own defense would be off the cuff and straight from the heart. Not that it would be very hard to do that; he had strong reasons for remaining in his current position, and he intended to fight for it as he had fought for very little else in his long lifetime.

It was as if the unseen tribunal were reading his thoughts—or at least his expression, he thought ruefully, wondering when he had lost his poker face. "We are well aware that your position is unique, so you need not worry. We are willing to listen to your arguments; we are not totally unreasonable." It was the first voice, which had acquired a gently self-mocking tone. The chuckling welled up again; even Roarke smiled tensely.

"Very well, then," he said quietly, resettling himself in the chair for the maximum comfort: he had no doubt whatsoever that he was in for a siege. "I am ready."

"The main thrust of this tribunal inquiry is the question of stepping down…retiring, if you will," said the first voice. "Your allotted time has come to an end, and when you consider all that you have endured of late, you will surely agree."

"My father told me that the edict was presented to him as having earned a rest," said Roarke ironically. "Perhaps that was because he was already ill anyway, at the time he was summoned, and he was certainly ready. However, that's not the case here. For me to step aside would be decidedly premature. First and foremost, I'm not at all ready to do so; and even if I were, there is no one to take over the position. I have one child, and as yet she is not remotely prepared."

"Ah, yes, that Earth-human orphan girl you adopted," a new voice said. Like the first, it was male, but this one sounded distinctly sly to Roarke. "I've been waiting for that one, my good man. I don't know how you expect to be able to train her. She doesn't have the powers, can't hope to obtain them, and is a pitiful substitute for a blood relative. What's more, she might live a century…if she's very fortunate. These tribunals are draining and very difficult to convene, you know, and I for one have no wish to do this again until the year 3001. And I don't believe even you will be around by then, Roarke."

Roarke said, "Oh? And you expect to be?"

"He has you there," a fourth voice remarked, highly amused.

The sly one grumbled something, too low for Roarke to hear, then loudly cleared his throat. "In any case, that girl just isn't suitable. Why not train your cousin's son? He seems the most likely choice."

"He is my cousin's son, not mine," Roarke said flatly. "Leslie takes precedence, because she is sole heir to all I own. Besides, Rogan has no interest in taking over my job. He seems quite content to operate his greenhouse."

The sly one grunted, "Bah, plants. Must have been something his human mother imparted to him. Truly, Roarke, you have little choice. Don't tell me you are unable to sire your own offspring? It seems odd to me you never produced any."

"It takes two," Roarke pointed out dryly.

"That's not one of the issues on the table," the second voice said sharply to the sly one. "You go too far. And you sound rather too much like Roarke's cousin. Have you been taking tea with Mephistopheles on a regular basis, then?" There was laughter at that.

The first voice interjected, "Please, might we keep to the issue at hand? Roarke?"

Roarke aimed a wintry smile at his ghostly audience, letting it linger slightly longer in the direction from which the sly voice had been emanating, and said, "It's relevant to the discussion, insofar as the assorted vagaries and events of my life never allowed for the opportunity to, as you say, 'produce' my own children. It had never honestly occurred to me to do so, if truth be told. But Leslie's mother made her request of me, and I could hardly refuse. The child had no one else on earth to turn to. She came to me early enough in her life that we two had an unexpected effect on each other. She has apparently absorbed my own values, which she might not have done had her parents—or at least her birth father—lived to raise her to adulthood; and as for me, she grew on me, you might say. Her mother had enough influence on her that her soul was less damaged by Michael Hamilton's mistreatment than I might have expected. She merely needed some guidance and encouragement, and I was very pleasantly surprised to find myself raising a kindhearted and generous girl. She has grown into a lovely young woman, and I am proud to call her my daughter."

"But what of her merely-human state?" protested the fourth voice, yet another male. "You say she will inherit all you own one day. To begin with, you are likely to outlive her, not the other way around. More importantly, should she somehow actually inherit, how can you reasonably expect her to fill your shoes? She has no powers, no mental abilities at all. She can't be trained beyond a certain point. What sort of role can she possibly play in the business you've so painstakingly built up across the years? When she needs to perform a feat that only you can pull off, how is she going to do it? Smoke and mirrors?"

"There are ways," Roarke said knowingly. "I have even seen those ways employed. If and when I find it necessary, there will be no question of my utilizing one or another of them. Moreover, Leslie is a very intelligent young woman, eager and more than willing to learn. She has always been thoroughly fascinated by what I do; I could hardly ask for a better starting point than her level of enthusiasm. She has been my assistant for a bit more than ten years now, and has performed remarkably well."

The sly one broke in, "How would you know of ways to endow her with our powers?"

"Are you suggesting that you don't know of those ways?" countered Roarke.

"Why don't you give up," said the second voice to the sly one. "He has a counterpoint for each brickbat you throw. Your bigotry is showing, so you might do well to cease and desist before you get yourself into a hole of illogic too deep to climb out of."

"If I may distill it to the essentials," Roarke said, "I categorically refuse to renounce Leslie merely because she is my adopted daughter. She is my child in every way that truly matters, and I see no point in continuing to belabor the issue. You will not persuade me to change my stand, so perhaps we might consider the matter closed and move on."

The first voice said, "There are a few points that could be examined more closely, but I find them of minor import. You have presented a compelling argument on your daughter's behalf; so as you request, we will discuss the next issue."