Title: Rara Avis

Author: lisek16 (lisek16@yahoo.com)

Disclaimer: I don't own Alias that makes me sad. But the story is mine. The poem below (Hope is the thing w/ feathers) is Emily Dickinson. The lyrics to "La Habanera" can be found @ http://www.charlottechurchfans.com/music/enc3.html

Archive: cd…anyone who wants it...just let me know

Summary: What is a Rara Avis?

Classification: if there is one…it has yet to be identified and clarified to me.

Author's note: this story is a little different then what I usually write. I had an idea and I ran with it. I would like to thank Skye for all her help. Her ideas and thoughts were invaluable and I'm happy that she didn't question my sanity on some coincidences/ things she noted. In case you're wondering about the title. It's Latin, and thanks to dictionary.com and those handy dandy cut and paste buttons I can show you the definition in case you didn't know prior. In Latin It means rare bird…but in English everyday jargon (my comp's thesaurus tells me I can replace jargon with gobbledygook…that's an interesting word don't you think?) it means a rare or unique person or thing. Enjoy…Please R/R.

*~*

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

----Emily Dickinson

~*~

Through rotting plated glass, a figure could be seen stirring in the dilapidated opera house. A quarter century ago, the house was at its prime. Massive shows attracted Hollywood's attention. Every night the performers played to a sold out theater. The theater's seats were well worn and crumbled now under the weight of the wind. The whimsical tunes that had echoed through the small town had caused fame to breeze through and lives to be changed. The stained glass mural was cracking, its color faded through rough winters and steamy summers. The masonry which was commended on by business moguls was rusting and the oak carved staircase was rotting. The house was in ruins, the magic that had accompanied the music had long passed. Memories and a stoic piano were all that remained. It was apparent to any Will, Michael or Jack that the house's hay day had long passed, but yet a figure was still dwelling in the decrepit building.

Amongst the thick blanket of snow dotted with ice, a light from an upstairs office glimmered off the frozen white sea. Inside the vacant opera house, a young woman was humming the refrain from a popular opera that played twenty years prior. The tune was intoxicating and vaguely reminiscence of a time that had long passed; a simple innocence that had perished long ago.

Why was she here? She still didn't know. Her employer, Arvin Sloane had given her the week off and she took it gladly. Time was something that she was constantly deprived of, with her job and school rarely allotting her much free time. She had planned to spend some time with Francie during her well needed hiatus but one thing led to another and she boarded the first plane to New Jersey.

New Jersey held one of the few memories that she had which involved her mother, who had vanished before a real bond could form. It was hard to be in elementary school during those peppy mother's days and have to endure the room mothers' sympathetic gazes searing holes into the back of her head. No card making materials were placed before her because her life story was common knowledge, and thus she was forced to remain dormant during the festivities. It offered her a chance to observe her classmates and notice the fact that she was different from them in so many ways. For example, she had been the only girl who had no mother and this was known by all the other students in her classes. They treated her differently because of it and ultimately excluded her despite their scorched pity for her dearth.

Her lack of school friends offered her an interest in the written word. She decided to entertain herself through reading as a school child, and by the 3rd grade she had easily completed Jane Eyre. It quickly became her favorite novel, until she continued to indulge her passion for reading and discovered there were millions of stories to become wrapped up in. Her teachers noticed her flare for literature at an early age and one instructor, Mrs. Perka, wrote "Sydney Bristow is an avid reader who continues to amaze me. You should be very proud of her and all of her accomplishments. She is a true Rara Avis."

It was Mrs. Perka who grew to be a mother figure in her life. Daily suggestions of new books and innovative diction were not the only things that they shared. Visits to the local park even after Sydney graduated from middle school, enhanced their bond. Sydney had returned to meet with the one woman who was always there for her even after she graduated high school. She had offered Sydney the last ounce of push to want to be an English professor.

Sydney had all the makings to become a memorable educator, because she had the passion to ignite flames in future students, but her father never pushed her. After she had flaunted the comment on her progress report by plastering it upon the refrigerator, it disappeared. Her father had told her that he didn't know what had happened to her prized possession, but she found it crinkled up in his garbage can. She salvaged it and it survived another 20 years with minimal damage. She assumed at the time that he didn't realize what he was doing. That he was being cold and heartless. Later, as she grew to learn more about herself and her mother; it was apparent that he was trying to slyly discourage her from following in her mother's footsteps.

The moment Mrs. Perka referred to her as a Rara Avis or a rare bird as it was inscribed in Latin, she found herself relating to birds because she felt as caged as they were. Emily Dickinson, her favorite poet wrote the poem "Hope is the things with feathers", where a little bird survived all the elements and offered hope for the future. She was so much like that little bird that for years she believed the poem was about her.

As she slipped back into present day reality, she realized that it was silly to return to New Jersey almost a quarter century later and see if the opera was a lie too. It was apparent that she never really knew the woman who bore her; the woman who took her to see "Carmen".

As a child, when she was 5 to be exact, her mother and father had brought her to the Zuni Theater for her first opera. The trip had offered her the chance to hear French and become mesmerized by everything that the culture encompassed.

"Carmen" was a beautiful opera and its enchanting melody "La Habanera" offered Sydney hope for the future. Its jaunty French lyrics described love in a new light that always intrigued Sydney despite the situations she found herself battling. It offered that love was a rebellious bird which was a concept that she knew all to well. Sydney was a rebellious bird too and soon enough she would be forced to take flight and fight for her freedom courtesy of mommy dearest....