BDP51
Ian stirred in his sleep, his dreams dark and filled with fragmented images. Since sleep was a brain's downtime, where it assimilated the information it had collected during the course of the day, Ian was unsurprised by the tone of his unconscious. A great many things had happened today, some boding ill for the future.
He wandered through the shattered dreamscape, trying to pick a path around edges sharp as coral. The air was dry and a faint metallic scent teased his nostrils. Before him lay a small shard with the image of a solemn, green-eyed girl inside. Ian bent and picked it up, wondering why his mind had chosen to show this to him.
A closer look revealed brown hair with caramel colored sun streaks and the edge of the garage at the mansion. It was an image from a very long time ago; the elm tree she was sitting in had been infected with blight when Ian was ten. The groundskeeper had replaced it with a smoke willow. The edges of the shard were sharp, and despite his judicious handling, blood welled in the palm of his hand.
"Blood is the river of memory." The image of the little girl said. She leapt from the branch and disappeared from sight, the leaves quivering from her abrupt motion.
The blood in his palm rose up over the shard, and spilled off his hand. It snaked over the broken ground, splitting into two streams that crossed and re-crossed one another like a strand of DNA. As it passed a large spire of rock, Casca stepped from its shadow.
"Blood will tell." The grey-eyed man tossed a small packet just in front of the flow.
Scarlet slid against the white case, altering its course. The blood found its way to the base of a marble statue. Instead of going around again, it began to soak into the stone, tainting the white figure. Ian realized with a jolt that the marble woman was Moira.
Ian clenched his fist in an attempt to stop the flow, forgetting the shard that lay in his palm. The edges sliced through his hand, the pain of it driving him to his knees. Blood flowed more freely from his mangled flesh, feeding the rosy stain that was now spreading over the stomach of the statue. How fast it was rising! What would happen when the statue was consumed? Ian knew he should do something, but he was frozen in place.
A familiar weight settled on his shoulder. The silken voice of his master at his most furious purred into his ear, the tones deceptively pleasant to the uninitiated, "Ian, you disappoint me."
Kenneth pried the shard from Ian's frozen grip, heedless of the new wounds made by it's passing. The jagged silver sliver changed in Irons' grasp, becoming a dagger. He thrust it into the white marble chest, striking up under the ribs to find her heart.
Moira's scream echoed in Ian's ears. It became apparent that this was no statue. Her eyes begged for his aid as she sank toward the bloody ground, her own blood falling to mingle with his. Still caught in the grip of that strange paralysis, Ian watched the light fade from her eyes.
"Remember Nottingham, the weapon that slew your beloved came from your own hand." Kenneth's voice rolled over Ian like a wave. "Unfortunate really, that you could not leave her be, she was quite lovely."
Ian awoke, still cold to his bones from the cultured malice that emanated from Irons. He deserved whatever happened to him, he had been disobedient. Punishment always followed failure, but it was his own flesh that suffered. The idea of Moira paying for the blatant disregard of his training horrified Ian.
He opened his eyes and looked over at Moira. He hoped to find a measure of peace watching her sleeping face, only to find her awake and watching him. Concern had darkened her eyes to the color of twilight. She was lying on her side, one hand propping up her head. Ian got the feeling she had been watching him for a while.
"Nightmare huh?" Moira asked as she reached out with her free hand to stroke the arm he had flung outward during his dreaming.
"You could say that," Ian grimaced, unable to shake the feelings of guilt and fear that had tormented him. He wanted to believe it was just a bad dream, but there were too many disturbing elements for him to be able to shrug it off. "I think we took too many chances tonight."
"Perhaps, but they are called chances because things can go either way. Failing to act could have been far worse. Besides, look at what we have gained. We have the data from Casca's computer, Casca himself is temporarily out of commission, the Dragons will have no offspring born into bondage, and we helped set free an abused child. Not a bad night's work really." Moira's hand reached his clenched fist.
At her touch, Ian realized it was still closed from his dream. He opened his hand slowly, half expecting it to be scarred in some way, but there were only four small crescent marks from his nails. Nottingham stared at the indentions, remembering the blood that had fallen from him to weave a serpentine trail across the cracked ground. "I need to get back to the lab."
Moira rolled away from him to glance at the alarm clock behind her. The glowing red display said 2:11. Ian was probably right; he should be getting ready to head back. The last thing they needed was for his absence to be noted, especially since they had been so bold this night. When Casca inquired later, it would behoove them to have the duty staff remember Ian as being in his berth all night.
Ian slid out of bed and walked to the bathroom, totally unaware of the erotic picture he made. Moira sighed behind him, appreciating the view. The fact that they could not be a normal couple chafed her sometimes, despite her best efforts. Logically she knew that such wishes were counterproductive, they had to be happy with what they could get. Emotionally though, Moira was coming to resent their time apart, as well as all the subterfuge. What she wouldn't give for them to have an entire day free of intrigue. A day where they talked, laughed, and made love without fear or concern.
Nottingham stood under the shower's spray, trying not to remember the last time he had been in here. He couldn't afford to be distracted with such things, pleasurable as they were. He needed to get back to back to barracks without raising any suspicions, which meant going to the hospital to check on Casca. As far as anyone back at the lab knew, he had followed the paramedics to check on Casca's well being. If he returned without any information on his condition, the jig would be up.
After the dream Ian had just had, he didn't want to go anywhere near Casca. Somehow his subconscious knew something that his conscious did not, and was trying to tell him. What had that little white case held? He'd only seen it for a moment, not long enough to get any real idea. He'd said 'Blood will tell' when he'd thrown it though. Maybe it was some kind of sample kit? Was there something different about him, something that would show in a blood test?
Knowing there were no answers to be had here, Ian dried off and dressed, pausing to exchange a long and concerned look with Moira. She saw the questions in his eyes, as well as his desire to think alone, and let him go in silence.
Ian stirred in his sleep, his dreams dark and filled with fragmented images. Since sleep was a brain's downtime, where it assimilated the information it had collected during the course of the day, Ian was unsurprised by the tone of his unconscious. A great many things had happened today, some boding ill for the future.
He wandered through the shattered dreamscape, trying to pick a path around edges sharp as coral. The air was dry and a faint metallic scent teased his nostrils. Before him lay a small shard with the image of a solemn, green-eyed girl inside. Ian bent and picked it up, wondering why his mind had chosen to show this to him.
A closer look revealed brown hair with caramel colored sun streaks and the edge of the garage at the mansion. It was an image from a very long time ago; the elm tree she was sitting in had been infected with blight when Ian was ten. The groundskeeper had replaced it with a smoke willow. The edges of the shard were sharp, and despite his judicious handling, blood welled in the palm of his hand.
"Blood is the river of memory." The image of the little girl said. She leapt from the branch and disappeared from sight, the leaves quivering from her abrupt motion.
The blood in his palm rose up over the shard, and spilled off his hand. It snaked over the broken ground, splitting into two streams that crossed and re-crossed one another like a strand of DNA. As it passed a large spire of rock, Casca stepped from its shadow.
"Blood will tell." The grey-eyed man tossed a small packet just in front of the flow.
Scarlet slid against the white case, altering its course. The blood found its way to the base of a marble statue. Instead of going around again, it began to soak into the stone, tainting the white figure. Ian realized with a jolt that the marble woman was Moira.
Ian clenched his fist in an attempt to stop the flow, forgetting the shard that lay in his palm. The edges sliced through his hand, the pain of it driving him to his knees. Blood flowed more freely from his mangled flesh, feeding the rosy stain that was now spreading over the stomach of the statue. How fast it was rising! What would happen when the statue was consumed? Ian knew he should do something, but he was frozen in place.
A familiar weight settled on his shoulder. The silken voice of his master at his most furious purred into his ear, the tones deceptively pleasant to the uninitiated, "Ian, you disappoint me."
Kenneth pried the shard from Ian's frozen grip, heedless of the new wounds made by it's passing. The jagged silver sliver changed in Irons' grasp, becoming a dagger. He thrust it into the white marble chest, striking up under the ribs to find her heart.
Moira's scream echoed in Ian's ears. It became apparent that this was no statue. Her eyes begged for his aid as she sank toward the bloody ground, her own blood falling to mingle with his. Still caught in the grip of that strange paralysis, Ian watched the light fade from her eyes.
"Remember Nottingham, the weapon that slew your beloved came from your own hand." Kenneth's voice rolled over Ian like a wave. "Unfortunate really, that you could not leave her be, she was quite lovely."
Ian awoke, still cold to his bones from the cultured malice that emanated from Irons. He deserved whatever happened to him, he had been disobedient. Punishment always followed failure, but it was his own flesh that suffered. The idea of Moira paying for the blatant disregard of his training horrified Ian.
He opened his eyes and looked over at Moira. He hoped to find a measure of peace watching her sleeping face, only to find her awake and watching him. Concern had darkened her eyes to the color of twilight. She was lying on her side, one hand propping up her head. Ian got the feeling she had been watching him for a while.
"Nightmare huh?" Moira asked as she reached out with her free hand to stroke the arm he had flung outward during his dreaming.
"You could say that," Ian grimaced, unable to shake the feelings of guilt and fear that had tormented him. He wanted to believe it was just a bad dream, but there were too many disturbing elements for him to be able to shrug it off. "I think we took too many chances tonight."
"Perhaps, but they are called chances because things can go either way. Failing to act could have been far worse. Besides, look at what we have gained. We have the data from Casca's computer, Casca himself is temporarily out of commission, the Dragons will have no offspring born into bondage, and we helped set free an abused child. Not a bad night's work really." Moira's hand reached his clenched fist.
At her touch, Ian realized it was still closed from his dream. He opened his hand slowly, half expecting it to be scarred in some way, but there were only four small crescent marks from his nails. Nottingham stared at the indentions, remembering the blood that had fallen from him to weave a serpentine trail across the cracked ground. "I need to get back to the lab."
Moira rolled away from him to glance at the alarm clock behind her. The glowing red display said 2:11. Ian was probably right; he should be getting ready to head back. The last thing they needed was for his absence to be noted, especially since they had been so bold this night. When Casca inquired later, it would behoove them to have the duty staff remember Ian as being in his berth all night.
Ian slid out of bed and walked to the bathroom, totally unaware of the erotic picture he made. Moira sighed behind him, appreciating the view. The fact that they could not be a normal couple chafed her sometimes, despite her best efforts. Logically she knew that such wishes were counterproductive, they had to be happy with what they could get. Emotionally though, Moira was coming to resent their time apart, as well as all the subterfuge. What she wouldn't give for them to have an entire day free of intrigue. A day where they talked, laughed, and made love without fear or concern.
Nottingham stood under the shower's spray, trying not to remember the last time he had been in here. He couldn't afford to be distracted with such things, pleasurable as they were. He needed to get back to back to barracks without raising any suspicions, which meant going to the hospital to check on Casca. As far as anyone back at the lab knew, he had followed the paramedics to check on Casca's well being. If he returned without any information on his condition, the jig would be up.
After the dream Ian had just had, he didn't want to go anywhere near Casca. Somehow his subconscious knew something that his conscious did not, and was trying to tell him. What had that little white case held? He'd only seen it for a moment, not long enough to get any real idea. He'd said 'Blood will tell' when he'd thrown it though. Maybe it was some kind of sample kit? Was there something different about him, something that would show in a blood test?
Knowing there were no answers to be had here, Ian dried off and dressed, pausing to exchange a long and concerned look with Moira. She saw the questions in his eyes, as well as his desire to think alone, and let him go in silence.