From cicilean2@aol.com Mon Apr 26 07:43:48 1999
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW: "The Sea & The Serpent" by CiCi Lean (1/1)
From: cicilean2@aol.com (CiCi Lean2)
Date: 26 Apr 1999 11:43:48 GMT
Category: Story, Angst, Romance
Pairing: Spender/Marita
Rating: R (for adult themes and sexual situations)
Spoilers: For all Spender and "mytharc" episodes, especially Two Fathers/One
Son.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, CC does. Sue who? Sue me? Ha-ha!
Archive: Ferret Cage is fine, nowhere else, thank you.
Feedback: If you enjoyed this on any level, please hit "reply" and let me
know! :-)
Summary: Takes place in "The Reward" universe. The chronicle of Spender's
recovery and ultimate decision. Notes at end.
=========
THE SEA AND THE SERPENT
by CiCi Lean, 1999
cicilean2@aol.com
=========
Time had stood still in Belligio for nearly a millennium.
Quietly situated at the southernmost tip of the Italian mainland, the seashore
village was a sleepy throwback to the ancient coastal towns that once lined the
shores of the Mediterranean. It was sunny, lush and surrounded by an ocean as
blue as the flawless sky above.
There were small villas dotting the shoreline with their sunbaked yellow
exteriors glowing warmly through the quasi-tropical heat. Most had been
abandoned for centuries, left to crumble back into the sands from which they'd
been built, but one of them had sprung back to life one bright morning, much to
the surprise of the surrounding village.
It had been the talk of the entire town for days, the beautiful blonde woman
and the dark haired man she was tending to night and day in the old western
villa. Speculation abounded and the village was at a near frenzy when the
woman finally came to shop at the local market one morning, basket in hand.
She spoke perfect Italian, a bit too upper class of a dialect for some, but she
was so charming, so beautiful and so soft spoken that she quickly disarmed the
most cynical of her detractors. She floated through the market, smiling shyly
at everyone, asking for recipes from the young women, joking about her poor
cooking skills. Asked for traditional healing remedies from the older women
and ignored the men completely, even when they practically fell to their knees
in front of her, begging for a word or even a glance in their direction.
She gave them neither.
Soon, the women forgot to be jealous and the men could only watch as she glided
back down the path, overflowing basket in hand . The town returned to its usual
rhythms and all was quiet along the ancient shores, except for the eternal
sound of the sea, kissing the land in acquiescence to the moon above.
========
Every morning Jeffrey Spender awoke to the scent of bitter coffee and warm
seas. He'd stretch gingerly, discovering muscles that had finally decided to
cooperate with the healing process while noting others that still protested
from either injury or lack of use. He'd fall back against his pillows with a
sigh, still waiting for the day he'd be able to rise with ease.
The welcome smell of breakfast would waft in next. Most mornings it would be a
simple one: a bowl of smooth farina and cream served with thick pieces of brown
bread and a huge glass of fresh juice. There was the occasional omelet, a
fritatta, filled with tiny bits of sauteed vegetables; sweet onions and peppers
surrounded by wild mushrooms, just the slightest bit browned along the edges
and served with crisp slices of hot buttered toast.
Marita would bring the meal in at the same time every morning, eight o'clock on
the dot and he'd laugh at her determined punctuality. She'd sit cross-legged
beside him in the bed, sharing the food, pouring more dark coffee into a pair
of tiny espresso cups while insisting he drink all of his juice.
For the first few days, Spender listened to her quiet voice wash over him,
telling him about that day's weather, invariably sunny and warm, along with
news from the town, invariably sleepy and dull. The repetition soothed him and
chased away remnants of the nightmare that had plagued him ever since he'd
awakened from his coma.
Every night ... the same terrible dream. He was in a dusty, dank room filled
with terrifying secrets. He'd see a waiting man, an evil demon, surrounded by
acrid smoke staring at him with an emotion that hovered somewhere beyond
hatred, somewhere beneath contempt.
There would be a moment of denial. A moment of terror followed by fire and he
would see the bright red of his own blood smeared over his palms. And every
night Jeffrey Spender would awaken sweating, gasping... sobbing. Unable to
forget either the fear, the pain or the fire.
For every night Jeffrey Spender dreamt that his own father had tried to kill
him.
=======
The local doctors visited daily for the first two weeks and Marita spoke with
them, her Italian effortless. They called her "Signora" and Spender couldn't
help but smile when she didn't correct them. He understood some words, ignored
others, especially the ones that sounded particularly ominous. He merely
waited until she led them from the room, thanking them politely and then
returned to him with her brilliant smile lighting even the darkest corners of
the room.
"Idiots," she'd say, laughing softly as she kissed him. "Such idiots."
He ate what he could of dinner, which usually consisted of fresh fish baked in
an earthenware dish or a bowl of chewy pasta, steaming and covered with a light
touch of oil and herbs. Drank without complaint the bitter medicinal teas she
carefully steeped for him and let her feed him soft bread dipped in honey for
dessert, kissing the sweetness from her fingertips, listening to her laughter
sing throughout the cottage.
After dinner he would drift off to sleep in Marita's arms only to face his
nightmare ... his demon, once again.
It went on this way for weeks until the man he saw in the mirror no longer
frightened him. He became strong enough to sit up on his own, soon moving into
a wheelchair and the first time he'd ventured out into the sunlight, Marita had
been right by his side.
He insisted on leaving the wheelchair behind and after some argument, she
agreed, but held on to his arm and waist with a grip so strong it surprised
him. He grew fatigued after but a few steps and it was only her strength that
kept him from falling where he stood. With her help, he kept going until
reaching the doorjamb and he leaned against it squinting into the bright
sunlight until the outlines of soft dunes came into focus.
Along with an ocean that was astonishingly calm and blue.
In the days that followed, Spender slowly made it to the front porch on his own
and took a seat in the sunlight. He'd watch as Marita returned from the village
every morning, cradling a woven basket filled to overflowing with every sort of
green thing imaginable. Occasionally, there would be a bouquet of wildflowers
clutched in her other hand and their scent would permeate the villa for days.
She'd lost some of her pointed slimness along the way, growing voluptuous and
tanned, her hips and cheeks filling out, making her look sensual and content.
She'd taken to wearing long, loose dresses, with a bright silk scarf tied
around her waist accenting her new curves. Her hair had lightened to a
wheat-colored blonde and she often went barefoot down the soft dirt roads or
through the warm sands. He even noticed a freckle or two dotting her
sun-browned cheeks and teased her about them every morning when she awoke in
his arms, kissing them as he searched for new ones.
Afternoons would be spent lazing in the sun together, either on the porch or
lying on a nearby dune, talking, his lips against her hair. He'd occasionally
brush a bit of sand from her cheek while staring into her eyes ... eyes that
were as calm, as blue and as radiant as the sea itself.
It was during that time his usual nightmare retreated and he dreamt of her
instead, smiling when the sun bid him to rise.
=======
When summer arrived, Spender took to swimming every morning at dawn. At first,
his strokes were tentative but they quickly grew stronger and soon he was far
out into the ocean, floating for hours, staring at the cloudless sky above.
He'd always return in time for breakfast which he ate ravenously, much to
Marita's obvious delight. He loved the joy that filled her features, replacing
the barely concealed worry that had marred their delicacy for so long.
Every day he presented her with the brightest shell he could find during his
wanderings along the beach and watched as she carefully added it to a growing
string of shells from mornings past. Felt the tenderness between them begin to
mix with the sharper, more restless pangs of desire and was elated to see that
same heat reflected in her eyes.
Realized how much he wanted her ... more than sunlight, more than air.
One morning he returned from his swim and instead of eating, he kissed her
softly and unbuttoned the light cotton that separated them. Let it fall to the
floor and with his newfound strength he picked her up and carried her to their
bed.
Soon, she was stretched out before him, a living Botticelli, naked and
glorious.
The first time he made love to her it was reverently, a quiet devotion to her
faithfulness, but the second time he lost himself within his own desires, which
she returned in equal measure. As hot as the sunlight that filtered through
the ancient room, she tasted of the sea itself, tangy sweet salt, wet against
his lips.
He took his time, waiting for her to lose control, teasing her gently with
swirling nips and tastes along every inch of her body. Explored her with his
fingertips and tongue, savoring every essence discovered, every gasp elicited.
Finally entered her as she writhed beneath him, urging him on until he was no
longer able to control himself and he thrust mindlessly, crying out her name.
When he came, he saw sparks behind his eyelids, burning in every shade of
indigo, gold and crimson ... the very shades of the sea, the sands and sunset
themselves.
It was ... perfect.
Afterwards, he spooned up behind her, caressing her gently, whispering to her
in syllables half-understood. He realized it was Paradise this sanctuary they'd
created and sleepily wondered how it could possibly ever end.
He received his answer almost immediately.
=======
The next morning was an uncharacteristically cold and gloomy one.
Spender decided to forgo his swim and instead walked along the shoreline,
feeling a strange unease. Stared out into a foreboding ocean and watched the
usually calm waters begin to swirl less than a few dozen yards from the shore.
Saw them churn in bubbling waves ... swirling in slick dark whirlpools.
Whirlpools colored a deep ominous red.
Took a step back when he saw black fins start to circle, growing frenzied and
disordered at the scent of distress. They struck lightning fast and the water
suddenly exploded into a bloody geyser of crimson and gray, with an attack that
lasted mere seconds, but to Spender it seemed like hours.
Hours upon hours of fear, pain and blood.
Spender's heart pounded as he watched, torn between horror and acceptance. He
knew in his heart that this was the way of nature. To live or to die. Devour
or be devoured.
Kill or be killed.
And yet he was trembling as he made his way back to the villa. Marita was
waiting for him in the doorway -- her eyes bright, too bright, in the dull
sunlight. He could see that she too had witnessed the attack, but from afar.
Knew that she understood -- as no one else ever could.
"It's time, isn't it?" she whispered, her voice ghost-like ... raw.
He nodded. "It's time," he replied hoarsely, before gathering her into his
arms and making love to her desperately, as if for the very last time.
=======
The next morning Spender asked Marita to order three things for him when she
went into town. The first item was a new suit, the second, a pair of handguns
and the third ...
A copy of "The Prince" by Machiavelli.
For exactly one week Spender locked himself in the villa's tiny den to read.
Lit a small fire to read by, rising only to feed its embers when they faded.
//Conquered states that have been accustomed to liberty and the government of
their own laws can be held by the conqueror in three different ways. The first
is to ruin them...//
He ignored the food that was left faithfully by the door three times a day,
opting instead to fast when he discovered that hunger, real hunger, was much
more inspiring.
//For men will sooner forget the death of their fathers than the loss of their
patrimony.//
Sat for hours, staring at the fire and forced himself to remember. Forced
himself to accept.
Forced himself to hate.
//He therefore took occasion to have Messer Ramiro put to death, and his body,
cut into two parts, exposed in the market-place of Cesena one morning, with a
block of wood and a bloody cutlass left beside him. The horror of this
spectacle caused the people to remain for a time stupefied and satisfied. //
When Spender finally emerged, Marita was waiting for him, her body once again
slim and her carefree dress replaced by a fitted black suit. Her entire
demeanor was now razor fine ... and deadly sharp.
He kissed her passionately and she led him into the bedroom where an array of
items were already waiting, laid out precisely on the spot that had almost been
his deathbed.
Allowed her to dress him, which she did deliberately, with a studied attention
to detail.
Over the undershirt, she slipped on an ultra thin Kevlar vest, adjusting it
with extreme care. Knelt and strapped on an ankle holster, followed by a fully
loaded Sig Sauer which she buckled across his shoulder with nimble fingers.
Secured a small icepick-like device beneath the gun, keeping a watchful eye on
the activation button.
Handed him a small leather attache filled with tiny vials and carefully went
over the contents of each, patiently explaining which were the sedatives and
which were the poisons, along with their various uses and accepted doses.
Gave him a bright orange document pouch, with the words "Diplomatic Immunity"
stamped across it. Inside were diplomatic passports from ten nations, a dozen
aliases, access codes to U.N., NATO and CIA networks worldwide and a Swiss
bank card, one with a guaranteed two million francs in pure gold behind it.
Finally helped him into his suit, one that was as dark and sharp as her own,
but with a distinct Italian flair to the pants and jacket. Expertly knotted
his tie, a brilliant Versace, resplendent in shades of indigo, crimson and
gold. Stood back to survey her work and satisfied, she handed him his final
accessory.
A string of shells, beaded together over many seaside mornings past. Gifts
from an adoring lover, carefully saved by one who loved just as deeply.
"For luck," she whispered. "But I'll expect them returned."
He stared at the shells and pocketed them carefully. Lifted her fingers to his
lips and kissed them reverently. "They will be. Soon," he replied. He
brushed a light finger along her cheek. "Very soon."
She smiled and walked with him to the villa's door where the limousine was
already waiting. She didn't say goodbye, but instead, stared out to the sea as
if he'd already crossed its great depths and her waiting was nearing its end.
He followed her lead, and didn't turn around once, not even when the car pulled
away from the villa.
Instead, Jeffrey Spender kept his vision fixed before him, to a land far past
the sea, to where his destiny, his quest ... the serpent, waited for him.
=======
fini
All comments, even little ones, are happily devoured at: cicilean2@aol.com
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The seaside town of Belligio is fictional. Any geographical
errors are thrown upon the mercy of artistic license and my dear readers'
suspension of disbelief. The quotes are taken directly from "The Prince,"
English translation courtesy of the Barnes & Noble web site. Hopefully His
Highness, Messer Machiavelli won't think my copyright infringement of his
devilish masterpiece is worth returning from the dead from, but, with him, you
never know. So, my apologies in advance. :-)
(
geocities.com/area51/zone) (
geocities.com/area51)