Title: L'Ecrivain se Lamente [1/7]

Author: Airebella E. Spencer

Rating: mild R

Distribution: CD okay, but as always, remember the Golden Rule: Ask first, post later.

Feedback: the nourishment of my soul his_gray_eyes@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: Not mine, not now, not ever. Go see the man with the papers.

Summary: Post ATY…again another character of my own creation, but this is a seven part serial, so it'll be finished. Sydney and Vaughn are tangled in another web of lies, and their ties are deeper and stronger than what could have ever expected.

[AN]: I'm planning on updating on a weekly basis, so please keep the feedback coming, I'd love to know how you feel about this piece. BIG thanks to everyone who looked at this for me: kat you ARE the best beta ever, and I hope everything works out great for you and jess, thanks for helping me work out the kinks. If there's any confusion, don't hesitate to email and ask.

"There's something about the look in your eyes/something I noticed when the light was just right/it reminded me twice that I was alive/And it reminded me that you're so worth the fight" incubus.echo

------

"Seien Sie heute lieblich, aber wird morgen schön sein. "

Today is lovely, but tomorrow will be beautiful.

{Then}

Her name was Annika. Long skeins of chestnut curls ran down to the middle of her biceps, and she had biting emerald eyes that sparkled like diamonds. Her limbs and torso were long and thin, perfectly defined from every angle. Her toes always pointed, her dimple always shown, and her words were always deep, yet somehow flowing, elegant, disarming.

The amount of German she could remember, no matter how miniscule at times, had been instilled in her by Annika's patient teaching. They would converse in German together in front of which-ever maid Jack had hired at the time. Miraculously, none of the three employed during that six year time period spoke a word.

Other than Francie, Annika had been the closest thing she'd ever had to a sister. Moved somehow by an anonymous outside influence, Jack had applied to be the host home for a student from overseas, and during the fall of Sydney's twelfth year his request had been granted.

She came to them tall and lanky, with perfect colonial English, a bright smile on her face and authentic designer sunglasses shading her eyes. The summer of '86 had been one of the worst heat waves Sydney could remember, and the pale German was so enthused by the unbearable warmth that they took her to their family physician. Twice.

They both started the school year in a new place, beginning their education at a renowned preparatory school that taught the last two years of junior high to the last year of high school. One was in seventh grade (Bristow, Sydney A.) and the other was in ninth (Hopf, Anni L.). Prior to the commencement of the school year, they'd had two weeks together, two weeks that would turn into six years of bonding that no one could break. Their relationship was irreplaceable, their ties unbreakable, and so much more.

As they blended into the backgrounds of their own misery, their lives became ambiguous, and their true purpose would be hidden behind a shadow of lies.

{Now}

her

Emily was gone. Her funeral had been well attended, her life well mourned. Although is wasn't advised, she spoke at Emily's service, her eyes full of tears, her voice full of sorrow, hiding the hate for the deceased's spouse that still ran fresh in her blood. She had returned to her seat at her father's side only to excuse herself a few moments later, full of another pain. A pain that only one person could wash away.

And that person was gone. He never existed.

She'd gone home and rummaged through her items, not hearing Francie's inquiries ("Are you okay, sweetie?"), nor answering her questions. Seek and you shall find, which was true, as the silver frame took no less than two minutes to find. The frame that once held her Mother's picture, a woman who she'd idolized so much, never realizing she knew so little, that she knew so much, and that it was all a lie.

{Before}

The darkness that had consumed her once more faded away into a bright splash of color which injured her naked eyes. The air had become surreal, and for a split second she forgot that she had been tied to a chair before her presumed-to-be-dead mother. She'd forgotten the tears that began to run down her cheeks in a mass exodus from their protective captors, tears that began to flow down her cheeks unwanted. She forgot the look of horror on his face when he realized that he couldn't make it out: she forgot that he wasn't with her all together.

But as her pupils dilated and her eyes began to adjust, her senses tuning in once more, she realized that she wasn't tied to a chair at all. The room she was in was completely white, the only exception being the mahogany hardwood floor, and the four posts of the large bed that held her. A white goose down comforter had been pulled up underneath her neck, her aching head leaning back against pristine white pillows. Immaculate strips of chiffon hung from each post, encompassing her in a square of white that began to make her head spin.

The snowy white walls comforted her sore pupils, leading her trained eyes towards the open doors that led out onto a sweeping terrace. She slowly made the attempt to stand, and in doing so realized that she remained in her latest mission's grungy attire, her hair bright blue, her clothes a sickening black. Her contrast with the rest of the room increased the bile that had collected in the back of her mouth, and increased her need to escape from this place.

The only thing she felt was nausea as she used her forearms to push herself up into a sitting position. The room began to sparkle as she slowly swung her legs over the frame's edge. Her raw emotions were intensified by the throbbing that began to escalate at the back of her head. Clutching the nearest bedpost she slowly hoisted herself up, breathing in long, controlled breaths that were more suited for meditation that normal respiration.

The shocking hue of the azure sky screamed at her eyes, beckoning her forward. She wobbled, almost sauntering as she moved towards the wooden doors that lay open, paneled with cool glass that singed her boiling skin. As she finally wobbled out into the wide doorframe she found a pale piece of paper tacked to the wood, it's elegant loopy writing grabbing her attention.

Sydney,

Freedom is yours. Live your life the way I couldn't live mine, and may happiness always be yours. The puzzle is still missing pieces, and on the forty-seventh day, when the story unravels, the answers will all become clear.

Much love,

Your mother, Laura

The paper crumbled in her fists, the blood rushing to her face as adrenaline surged throughout her body. A fresh breeze caressed her cheek, her nausea replaced by a nostalgia that she couldn't quite place. It lead her eyes from the crumpled vellum in her hands to the glistening blue-green sea and the blunt, sandy bluffs that rose all around her.

She would leave the villa in the Palisades two days later, a bright yellow sundress wrapped around her thinning form. She walked through the front door and didn't say a word, only nodding to Francie's screams, tears silently running down her cheeks.

{Then}

The summer of '88 they were in England. Both in summer programs for the talented at Oxford where they remained for a month and a half, mastering Arabic and ballet (Bristow, Sydney A.) or Shakespearean theatre and Russian (Hopf, Anni L.). Annika took a class of Krav Maga instruction in London, and returning to the United States with her host sister some two months later the German was branded with an even thicker discipline than she possessed when she came to them.

By then she could read and write in German. The rest of the duration of the summer was littered with parties and late night outings, the days full of activities that Annika often referred to as "the body's recreation." Mostly yoga or Thai chi, or military-style calisthenics on occasion.

Alexander Deverko came into their lives in January of '89, his haunting gray eyes and tousled smile instantly melting her frozen heart. He wrote poetry in Russian and pointed his hockey stick into the crowd with each goal, yet none of it was for her. Still, her goofy laugh could always make him smile, and nothing could keep him from tweaking her nose.

But he did write poetry in Russian. He did salute the audience with his stick after each goal scored, yet he'd only been branding the green-eyed German, following a tradition set by his elders. He'd delighted her tomboy senses and tickled her delicate emotions, and no matter how much she knew he loved Annika, he loved her too, if only in a different way.

He'd been the first one to notice the striking similarities between the two of them. Both were long and wiry, with the same shade of wooden curls ("You should leave your hair down more, Sydney, it's beautiful"), same jutting jaw and cheekbones. Their strict discipline was painfully identical, leaving no room for mistake or flaw.

Annika came home several years later with tears streaming down her cheeks. As quickly as he'd entered their lives, Alexander Deverko was gone. And Annika was never the same.

{Before}

him

He wasn't sure which was worse: breathing in water, or the feel of sickness that washed over him as the walls of his lungs collapsed. He gasped suddenly, desperately hungering for oxygen, raising his ribcage and diaphragm so fast that he began to regret it soon after. He shot up into a sitting position, heaving along the way, the contents of his drowned stomach and lungs splashing onto the cool tiled floor.

The checkered tiles began to spin, blacking out in certain sections of his peripheral vision. He gagged again and added to the mess that he'd made on the floor before his head abruptly hitting something soft. The darkness deluged in on him again, and he saw no more.

--

The first thing he saw was her face. Her soft eyes, her defined cheekbones, and her gentle curls, all competing for his attention. She smiled brightly, and he felt a cool hand caress his forehead. Her dark eyes sparkled, their luminous twinkle blinding his sensitive pupils.

"Sydney?"

Her smile faded, and it was then that he noticed several of her dimples were missing. His eyes adjusted to the light and he realized that her eyes weren't the deep brown he'd always found comfort in. They were green.

He shot up and released a yelp like scream, the shock registering across his face before his training began to kick in. He had been a field agent at one point, after all. He drew a blankness over his face and stared at "Sydney", his mind bulging out in shock.

"Sydney" was draped in all white, her dark emerald gaze falling across him from her perch on the end of the cot that cushioned him. She ran her long, bony fingers through the silken sheets, and sighed gently. A great sorrow drew itself over her eyes, and she peered down at her feet, examining the hypnotic, checkered floor.

All in all, she looked like an angel. Her hair was perfectly curled, her skin perfectly bronzed, its surface immaculate and smooth. Her kind expression warmed him: it was somehow familiar, in a way that he couldn't quite place. When she looked back up at him, a sheet of tears had glazed over her eyes, and the all too real instinct to comfort her pulled at his chest.

"I knew Sydney once," she spoke, her voice laced with a British lilt, deep and feathery. "Sadly, I am not she. My name is Anna Deverko: you may call me Annika."

{Now}

her

She needed to get away. Every day in that house, returning to that office, meeting his replacement in their warehouse, it all ate at her. She went to the humane society the week she came back and adopted a kitten, to Francie's delight, ignoring the fact that she was allergic to most of them. She named him Mikey and took him everywhere with her when she could, never knowing why, never caring. The third week she decided that she needed a break, and left him in her roommate's care, driving to the airport.

She took the first flight to Rome, not sure if she would ever come back.

{Then}

The class of 1990 graduated on a beautiful Sunday afternoon on the grassy bluffs situated just outside Malibu, overlooking the gray ocean. Jack Bristow took the day off, and she even thought she'd seen her father smile. He chatted with the Hopfs who hadn't been delayed in the Hamptons, and calculated the many precious seconds that led up to the attentive buzz of his pager sounding throughout the courtyard where the party was held, calling him away from that place into another.

She had been introduced to Annika's younger brother Heinrich, a tall handsome teenager with Scandinavian features. His accented English and love of European football drew her to him, and her gaze seemed to never let him go. She loved poetic voice, each flowering pronunciation never the same.

A European summer hiatus was followed by an enrollment at the University of Southern California in the fall. Annika would live with them, Sydney and the Russian maid Olga, until the fall of '92. After her graduation (Bristow, Sydney A., class valedictorian) Annika accepted an internship in Georgetown, and after putting in a transfer in to the university, moved to a loft in the city common.

They never heard from her again.

{Now}

Some days she could lie on the beach and just live in the moment. Forget how her life turned out and remember all the color that filled the black-and-white life of espionage. She would look back on her youth and remember feeling innocent and carefree: it was on these days that she would always remember Annika.

Then there were other days. Days when she would clutch the pregnancy test abandoned in the bathroom of her villa and wish that she had a purpose for it. She would only retreat to the ocean to drown in a sea of liquor and hope that it would wash her away the way he had.

She set out for the shore one day with a classic in hand, a light in her eyes and a smile on her face. After a month she had adjusted to the change in her life and had decided to make the best of it.

She plopped down on a lawn chair in sand of a shoreline café, her eyes shaded and her intellect fed. A server in white would approach her hourly to refill her slowly disappearing scotch. The third hour arrived and the penguin suit came back, this time a cosmopolitan on his tray and note in his hand.

Seien Sie heute lieblich, aber wird morgen schön sein. Leben Sie heute, als wenn es Ihr Leisten war. Der vierzig-siebt Tag ist nah.

"Today is lovely, but tomorrow will be beautiful. Live today as if it were your last. The forty-seventh day is near."

him

They told him nothing. He didn't know who was keeping him there, but it was understood: the two letters his captor had sent him he had burned instantly on the spot. They told him nothing.

Then they told him everything.

He would see her soon.

[End Part I] next update: 08.09.02