Date:         Fri, 5 May 1995 16:20:19 -0300
From:         Pandora 
Subject:      FLUFF:  Shades of Gray, Part 24

Shades of Gray, Part 24

c. 1995, A. Fraser, J. Gray, L. M. Wallace
{fraser@vax.library.utoronto.ca, jgra@music.stlawu.edu, wallacel@ac.dal.ca}

* * *

The rushing sound of waves pulsed in Pandora's ears with an insistent,
rhythmic throbbing.  The pungent odour of pine and sea penetrated her
nostrils, stirring her senses, like smelling salts.  She blinked, black
night sky filling her sight, stars pulsing with shooting streaks of light.
Groaning, she reached up to touch her face which was stinging with the salt
of tears.  She tried to sit up but could not, and she pushed with her arms
in panic, trying to free herself.  Finally, the weight that enveloped
her and pulled her down withdrew, coalescing into a human form.  As she
again became aware of the Adept's body, a painful shock knocked him off
of her.

"Oh my goddess," she whispered, half in astonishment, half in prayer,
sitting up.  She clasped her knees to her chin and lowered her head as a
wave of dizziness and nausea washed over her.  "My goddess," she repeated,
sobs rising in her throat, her body shivering uncontrollably from shock
and cold.

The Adept crawled back towards her, his breathing shallow as he reached
one trembling hand towards her.  "Pandora?"  The name seemed to take all
of his strength to utter.  She rocked back and forth on the hard stones,
careless of the way they bruised her naked flesh.

"Pandora, shhh, Pandora," the Adept pulled her into a weak embrace,
whispering her name over and over, trying to soothe her, warm her.  He
tugged at her cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders, unmindful of
the icy wind tracing shivers into his own spine, the hardness of
the pebbles pressing into the bare skin of his knees.  he
commanded, stroking her mind with satin fingertips.

"Oh," she cried softly, pulling back from the Adept's embrace,
suddenly aware of their nakedness.  She looked at him questioningly and,
as strength and awareness slowly returned, she noted that his entire
being, mental and physical, trembled in sonic stress.

His eyes were closed and his teeth chattered loudly.  "We'd best..."
he began, only to have a sudden gust of wind pull the breath from him.
"We had best get dressed," he said finally, managing to hand Pandora
her dress as he retrieved his pants from the pile of discarded clothing.

Pandora nodded dumbly, pulling her dress over her head with trembling
hands then wrapping herself in her cloak once again.  She avoided
looking at him until he was fully dressed.

"What happened?" she finally asked. She remembered making love with him,
remembered her abandonment to her senses, the unquestioning way that she
had accepted their inevitable union, allowing herself the taste of
passion and fulfilment.  She remembered the release, the sensation of
sailing in air and the fusion of their spirits in the sky, but then
the dusk had come, that smothering shroud that had filled her
with such panic.  And the scream.  His scream.  Oh goddess, that
terrifying sound.

"I--I don't know," the Adept responded, shaking his head sadly.
"Something happened--something went wrong.  I don't know why, or
how," he looked at her helplessly.  "It was like, like being turned
inside out...and sucked down a drain."  He shuddered at the memory.

Pandora hugged her knees, still too unsure of her balance to attempt
standing.  Everything had seemed so right only to suddenly seem so
wrong.  Lost in thought, rocking on the sand, she heard the Adept's
sudden intake of breath.  Looking up she saw the Northern Lights at play
above the horizon to the northeast.  Their colors melted and oozed,
touching the more pleasant parts of her recent experience.  Weakened and
confused, the two solitary figures huddled in their rumpled clothes and
searched for answers in the glow of ionized atmosphere.

"Adept," Pandora said softly, finally, reaching tentatively towards him.
He flinched as her fingertips brushed his hand, recoiling from her
touch.

She fought against the tears this action inspired, the utter hopelessness
that welled up at this physical rejection.  She understood it, however, and
calling on all her spiritual strength, all her healer's instincts, she laid
her hand more firmly over his, weaving her fingers with his, grasping
tightly.

"Please," she whispered, shifting so that she could sit closer to
him, so that she could see his eyes.  As blue-gray met gray-blue, a
sense of peacefulness arose, a serenity sealed in their hands.

"Do you remember before, when you first revealed your true form to me?"
she started, her voice trembling slightly.  At his slight nod of response
she continued.

"I flinched, involuntarily, when you reached out to touch me.  And that
saddened you.  You told me that you recognized how strange it was."
Pandora tightened her grip on his hand when she felt him move it ever
so slightly.  "It was strange, yes, but beautiful.  And I did not pull
away the second time, did I?  When I asked you to show yourself."

The Adept nodded, but his face was still strained.  "I'm not sure I get
the point of this, Pandora," he said quietly.

She looked up at the sky again, at the pulsing aurora borealis, the taste
of wine and honey seeming to explode on her tongue in visceral memory.
"There is beauty in strangeness, but we need to let go of our fear to
see it.  I think we made a grave error, Adept, in choosing to go there
deliberately, but not an irrevocable one.  There was power there, and
knowledge and hope. We need to take strength from that."

"Honey and wine," he smiled, his face reflecting the soft colors of the
sky.  "If...when this power manifests in the ritual, it will be so."
He nodded towards the aurora.  "It will be so," he repeated, as if
speaking were the only necessary control.

Pandora nodded in agreement, the shaking of her body subsiding as
she relaxed into the knowledge.  She rested her head on the Adept's
shoulder and he put his arm around her in response.  Together they
sat in companionable silence, watching the night sky as they had
before in that strange and wonderful otherdimension, when the sharing
of a secret had strengthened the bonds of a nascent friendship.  Slowly
the lingering taste of fear and shock was replaced with warmth and
comfort, desire receding for the moment.  Both communicated on a mutual
channel, their own singular thoughts blending as one.  No words were
spoken, only a silent exchange of the senses, like a whisper of velvet,
a whiff of tangerine and meadowsweet.

"I must go now," Pandora finally spoke, softly, awareness of time passing
creeping into her consciousness.  Nicholas would be home soon, she knew.

With that thought, a slight touch of anxiety scratched at her belly, but she
felt no guilt or shame for what had transpired here tonight.  Whatever else
it had been, it had not been a betrayal of her love for her husband, that she
knew with unshakeable conviction.  Perhaps some day she would try to
explain what had happened, but she could only do that when she understood it
herself.  And perhaps she never would.  With growing relief she realized that
would be okay, too.  She now knew, she and the Adept both knew, that the
desire was a part of this power, something that seemed designed to bring
them together.  For what purpose, she did not know, but suspected it would
manifest at the ritual and, of that, she was no longer afraid.  At least
now that they knew where it came from it was no longer so frightening,
or demanding.

"Yes," the Adept agreed, rising with her.

The two faced each other, eyes locked.  There was nothing either of
them could say, they knew, so they did not try.  Pandora reached
up to stroke his cheek once again, then kissed him lightly on the lips.

"Good night, my friend," she said, smiling, then turned quickly away and
hurried down the beach, towards her home.

"Good night...Pandora," the Adept whispered to the wind.

Date:         Thu, 11 May 1995 20:36:53 -0300
From:         Pandora 
Subject:      FLUFF:  Shades of Gray, Part 25

Shades of Gray, Part 25

c.  1995, A. Fraser, J. Gray, L. M. Wallace

{fraser@vax.library.utoronto.ca, jgra@music.stlawu.edu, wallacel@ac.dal.ca}

* * *

Ray Griffin left the meeting of the Brotherhood deep in thought.  He
had felt an instant kinship with the Adept--the kinship of being a
suspected outsider.  True, the Brotherhood was slowly coming to accept
him, but he still knew what it was like to have all those eyes watching
you narrowly.  He was glad he'd impulsively offered Pandora his support.
She'd looked like she'd needed it--even Nicholas was shutting her out.

He let himself into his house, where only emptiness greeted him.  Maybe
he should get a cat.  At least there'd be something warm and alive to
welcome him then.  A witch was supposed to have a cat--a big, black
cat, of course.  Except that Ray had never really cared for cats, not
after seeing what Matthew had done to them...

He shied away from that train of thought.  Ray got a beer from the
fridge and thought about the meeting instead.  What Michael had seen in
the scrying bowl intrigued the ex-sorcerer.  He'd never had much luck
with scrying himself--it was not his brand of magic.

What did some of those visions mean?  Not the ones the Brotherhood were
all hot and bothered about.  That the Adept had once interviewed
Ravensbrook or spied on Pandora's ritual neither surprised nor worried
Ray.  It was the intriguing glimpses of a mystery that the witch
fastened on:  an Asian man with the Adept's eyes; the Adept being able to
hide his essence within a tree.

Ray put down the beer untasted as excited thoughts chased each other
around in his mind.  He _had_ to know the answer to this puzzle.  Maybe
the others were content with what they already knew, but Ray wasn't.

A small pile of black clothes hit the floor.  A lifetime of training in
certain methods cannot be shaken off, and Matthew had firmly believed in
performing skyclad.  Bare feet padded quietly across the floor as Ray
prepared.  He might be better off doing this outdoors, but although the
winter was mild, it was still winter.  Potential frostbite wasn't on his
agenda.

Finally he was ready.  He lit incense and cast warding symbols around
his workspace.  He sat within their protective glow and propped his
grimoire open on his bare knees.  Since he was not entirely certain what
he was looking for, it was a fairly general finding spell.  The
ingredients were simple, not even calling for blood.  Many of the scars
on Ray's arms were from spells that had not been so lenient.

The spell was cast, and he emptied his mind as best as he was able, waiting
for the results.  The only sounds were his own deep breathing and the
ever-present background noise of the Atlantic.

The Atlantic.  A picture came slowly to Ray's receptive mind:  a rocky,
treacherous beach below towering cliffs.  _Something_ was out there.
The answer?

It was the "beach" below the Cliff Road, Ray knew, that narrow strip
between the cliffs and the ocean.  Not the most hospitable spot on Earth
--it was littered with scree from the cliffs, there were bogs with
quicksand for the unwary, and high tide could be fun.  The answer would
be there, however.  The magic never lied.  It seldom told the whole
truth, either.

Still partially in trance, he attuned his breathing to the sound of the
waves.  The tide had turned and was heading back to sea.  There were
several hours yet when the beach would be safe.  As safe as it ever was.

Ray came out of his trance and dismissed the signs.  He put his clothes back
on, made a thermos of coffee, and threw a sandwich and some other snacks
into a backpack along with a few other possible necessities.  Ready at
last, he slid into the backpack.

"I'm going to the beach in the middle of the night in fuckin' January,"
he muttered.  "I'm crazy."

He left his house and headed along the cliff-edge's path.  Oakwoods
loomed ahead, light cheerfully leaking out from the many windows.  Ray
spared a good thought for the woman lying ill in one of those rooms.
Genevieve had always been distant, but at least she was polite about
it.

His flashlight beam picked out the steep and dangerous stairs cut into
the cliffside.  This was the only way down to the beach from the cliff.
In theory, one could walk there from the public beach in the village,
but no one had ever tried.  The Brotherhood relied on Mother Nature as
their security guard against trespassers on that route.  The bogs and
rocks were far more effective than signs or gates.

Finally, Ray was at sea level.  There was nothing to be seen except the
ocean.  Still, that sense that here were the answers nearly overpowered
him.  Eventually, something would happen here to enlighten him.  Might
as well get comfortable.

So he perched on a beached, upturned dinghy that someone had left on the
rocks.  She was useless, her bow stove in, and he wondered who had
bothered to save her.

Time passed.  Alternately sipping coffee from the thermos and
smoking pensively, Griffin wondered just when this revelation was
supposed to come.  Luckily it wasn't that cold, but even his house was
more cheerful than this desolate spot.

He felt the need to get rid of some of the coffee, and looked around.
The cliffs formed a little corner-type arrangement a few feet down the
beach, where he'd be hidden from anyone looking down or walking along
the beach.  He was just zipping back up when he heard someone coming.
He froze.

* * *

The Gray Adept stumbled down the stony beach, his shoes now painfully
past repair.  He no longer had the energy to watch his step.  He had
left Pandora reluctantly enough, aware that they were each trying to
deceive the other about how much their "dance" had taken out of them.
Now all he could think of was getting to his "home," the only real home
he had, and retreating to his inner sanctum.

Were he not in such a state of exhausted distraction, he might have
noticed the figure lurking by the cliff.  As it was, his attention
was more carelessly directed toward the sea.  He pulled the electronic
notebook from his pocket and pushed a few buttons in sequence.  Not too
far out in the surf the dim glow from the still dancing Northern
Lights illuminated a dark mass disturbing the surface of the water.
Slowly, uncertain with bone weariness, the Adept began to walk on the
shifting tension of sea breakers out to the object.

"Jesus!"

The Adept heard a sharp hiss from behind.  He whirled about quickly, lost
his footing and fell into the salty foam with a curse and a splash.

"No pun intended," the dark figure said as it approached him.
Sputtering the salty tang of the Atlantic, he pulled himself up onto
the beach, now shivering noticeably.

"Are you all right, Adept?"

The figure hurried to his side and he now saw it was the curious man in
black from the meeting.  What was his name?  Griffin something.  Rob or
Ray, he thought.

"I'm fine," he panted.  "You startled me, that's all."  Surreptitiously,
he tried to finger a few buttons on the notebook in his pocket.

Satisfied that the Adept was not harmed, Griffin was staring out at the
ocean intently.  "So that's how you get about."

The Adept did not have the energy to curse silently as he realized Ray's
(yes it was Ray) eyesight was quite perceptive in the dark.  He moved his hand
away from the controls in his pocket.

"That would be it," he nodded grimly.  As he picked himself up off of
the cold pebbles, the Adept remembered that this was the one man at the
meeting of the Brotherhood who had extended him anything like trust.
He turned to Ray and said, "Care to come aboard for something to drink?"

"Would I!" Ray nodded vigorously.

The Adept gestured toward the sleek, non-reflective disc in the water--
a smooth, stationary hump on the ocean's otherwise flat and rippling
plane.  Together, the witch and the visitor from another world walked
across the undulating surface of the water to the waiting craft.

* * *

Ray paced back and forth from shelf to shelf, examining the books and
artifacts collected throughout the spacious room.  While the furnishings
were of the same sleek metal as the rest of the craft, the various
collected objects gave the chamber a very homey feel.  There was a
definite preponderance of Native American artifacts from the South-
and Northwest.  Here and there amongst the pots and skins and rattles
were collections of books, most of them old but well preserved.  His
attenuated senses picked up the echo of arcane energy from not a
few of the books and objects.

The artifacts and wall hangings struck Ray as strange.  They had been
the last things he expected to find when he entered the circular port
that seamlessly irised open on the surface.  He had fancied sleek lines
and the smooth polish of super-advanced technology.  In truth, there was
something of that art deco feel underneath all the bric-a-brac, but
it was mostly obscured by the Adept's incredible collection.  He stooped
to peer in a large pot that depicted Kokopelli dancing with his flute on
the side.  A sharp, dry odor assaulted his nostrils from the narrow
opening and he was momentarily light-headed.

"I'd be careful with that," the Adept warned as he entered the room
carrying a tray with two steaming mugs.  "The powder has a tendency
to induce visions."

The Adept settled the tray on a low table and eased his sore muscles
into a nest of loose-weave rugs on the floor.  He had changed from his
soiled clothes into charcoal-grey silk pajamas.  He absent-mindedly
rubbed his sore and slippered feet as he gestured Ray to sit in the
cushions opposite him.

Ray moved with feline grace and curled his legs beneath him, lotus
style.  His head was cocked to the side as he caught the faint lilting
of strident chords, a music oddly familiar but very strange.

"Is that music from your world?" he asked, trying to conceal at least
part of his eager curiosity.

The Adept smiled.  "It is called 'Beaching Ballad: Transcendence in
Weight and Stillness.'" He paused to listen to a particular phrase,
his head swaying in a deep serenity.  "It is an anonymous work by a
great grey oral poet."

Ray looked at him, still not comprehending.

"It is a whale song."

Despite himself, Ray let his jaw drop.  "The ballad of what?" he asked.

"'Transcendence in Weight and Stillness,'" the Adept repeated.  "It is
not really my field, I just like this poem.  The poet speaks of a common
theme in the genre: looking for wisdom in stillness and gravity.  In
these songs, you see, spiritual transcendence is experienced as
gravity and feeling the weight of the world, free at last from currents
and weightless flow."

Ray considered the poem more intently as the Adept picked up a warm cup.
They both listened quietly for a few moments to the drifting and somber
echoes of the whale's song.

Ray shook his head in calm amazement. "It makes perfect sense."

The Adept nodded in agreement.

"And so do you," Ray added, eyeing his host.  "You know, The Brotherhood
would not be so mistrusting if they could see you this way.  It is such
a simple explanation, after all."

"Not so simple," the Adept shook his head wearily.  "It is not allowed.
Not yet, anyway.  You should not even be here."

"But why?" Ray sat forward eagerly.  "It would explain so much to them.
I imagine it could be the most important new discovery in years for some
of them!  You would be welcomed with open arms as a sort of...well,
ambassador, I guess."

The Adept sighed deeply, his body still drained and weak.  "For those
reasons precisely, and many more besides.  It is not yet time, Ray.
You must trust me and keep this knowledge between us."

"But you're hardly even an...'alien.'  What?  Are there humans on other
planets as well?  Is all extraterrestrial life so familiar in
appearance?"

"Appearances can be deceiving, Ray."  The Adept reached over to a nearby
shelf and pulled out a curious, oblong object.  It looked much like a
microphone, although its matte black casing was seamless and smooth.

"What is that?" Ray asked, curious but cautious.

"Part of my survival kit," the Adept answered.  "This tool could
wipe clean your memory of this conversation.  You would find yourself
on the beach again, with only a vague memory of witnessing a passing
school of dolphins in the dim light.  Whatever.  I can be very
creative."

Electric blue fire crackled at the ends of Ray's brown hair.  "I
would not advise it," he cautioned, trying to cover his concern with
out-of-practice bravado.

"I won't," the Adept replied simply.  "I despise the thing.  I do not
like the philosophy that permits it.  But you, in return, will keep
my secret for me.  For a while, at least.  Please."

Ray relaxed visibly.  "Yes," he nodded.  "Yes, of course.  But I do not
understand."

"I know," the Adept agreed.  "I realize this silence is a burden.  I
wish, a little, that you had not stumbled upon me and my craft.  But it
is done and so must be dealt with.  And so this web of deceit grows
thicker."

"Thicker?" Ray asked, obviously confused.  Then, in a sudden burst of
insight, he exclaimed, "Pandora!  She knows this too.  Of course."

The Adept simply nodded.

"And Genevieve?" Ray asked, more doubtfully.

The Adept shook his head.  "No.  None other.  Here."

Ray pondered for a moment.  "I am honored," he said.

"Perhaps," the Adept conceded.  "But perhaps the knowledge will only
bring you trouble as it has Pandora...and Genevieve."

Ray Griffin eyed the room, its sleek walls and lines cluttered with a
homey collection of artifacts and years of accumulated knowledge.  The
room and its contents positively glowed to the witch's eyes with
power and potential.  He could not help but smile in eager anticipation
at all the possibilities.  "No," he said at last, "I think not."

* * *

Date:         Thu, 18 May 1995 11:14:32 -0300
From:         Pandora 
Subject:      FLUFF:  Shades of Gray, Part 26

Shades of Gray, Part 26

c.  1995, A. Fraser, J. Gray, L. M. Wallace
{fraser@vax.library.utoronto.ca, jgra@music.stlawu.edu, wallacel@ac.dal.ca}

[With special thanks and acknowledgement to M. Farrell (aka Samantha the
Vampiric Cat) for her contribution to this section]

* * *

"I am nervous, cheri," Genevieve confessed.

Gideon reached out and patted her hand.  "I am sure you are, darling,"
he said.  It was the night after the explosive meeting of the
Brotherhood.  Gideon had told Gen all about it, and now they were
discussing the upcoming ritual to be performed, seeking reassurance
in each other's company.

"I am so very tired," the French lady confessed.  "If this does not
work..." she sighed, her eyes looking off into the distance.  "Well, I
have lived long, and it has not always been a good life."

Gideon looked at her sadly.  He knew the lady too well to be shocked by
this sentiment, or to react with a trite "Don't say things like that!"
He knew the deadly ennui that could overcome an old vampire, especially
one who had witnessed as much personal tragedy as his mentor.

She looked tired, he thought, his heart sinking.  Pandora's special tea
had returned some of Gen's strength but little of her spirit. Her
beautiful hair was still dull and lifeless, her skin so pale as to
be translucent.  She was still seriously ill, and she was likely exhausted
from the fight to cling to her existence.  Vampires weren't used to
being ill for such a long time.

"The ritual will be interesting to have a part in," Gideon said, trying
to focus her attention back on that, to give her something to look forward
to.  "I am very anxious to see how it is conducted.  Michael did not seem
very enthusiastic about it, though."

"He is even older than I am," Gen smiled.  "It is hard to change your
opinions when you are that old."

The rest of the Oakwoods household was spending a quiet evening, as
well.  Mitch and Joshua were playing chess in the downstairs parlour,
the latter bundled up in a blanket even though he protested that he was
feeling fine.  Evan was doing his rounds of the house, not expecting any
visitors.

The front door banged open unceremoniously, without a knock to announce
the caller.  Pumpkin and Warg both rose to their feet, the former
barking loudly and the latter growling.  Evan was up on the second
floor, checking on a window in the gallery that he thought might be
leaking.  He effortlessly leapt over the high railing that enclosed the
gallery, landing on his feet in the conservatory, and took off like a
shot for the front door.

"Stay here," Mitch said to Josh, who'd half risen from his chair.
"Whatever it is, let Evan handle it.  You might get hurt if it's
trouble."

"Ou est-il?  A voice roared, echoing throughout the Georgian manor.
"Where is the little mouse?"

Upstairs in the Rose Room, two people looked at each other in shock.

"Jean!" Genevieve sat up, her eyes shining with excitement.  "Jean est
ici!  Oh, il est bienvenue!"

Gideon looked less than thrilled.  "Merde," he whispered.  The
Frenchman's loud and volatile presence was about the last thing he
needed at the moment, after the shock of the previous night.

"Cheri!" Genevieve reproached him.

"I don't suppose he'll just go away if I don't answer?" Gideon asked
hopefully.

"Gideon!  I know you are here!  Show yourself!"  Jean's too loud voice
rattled the china ornaments in the house.

"Non, je pense que non," Gideon sighed.  "Merde!"

Genevieve gave him a look.  He sighed again and left her room.  With a
heavy heart he went downstairs to find Jean glaring at Evan, who was
glaring back.

"You could have been a vampire hunter, or some enemy," Evan was pointing
out, obviously ruffled by the unmannerly intrusion into his domain.

"I am not," Jean sniffed, then saw Gideon.  The French vampire surged to
his feet, upsetting the delicate little chair he'd been threatening to
break, and grabbed Gideon by the shirt front.  "You!" he yelled, shaking
the Baron.  "Give me one good reason why I should not just put you over
my knee and spank you."

"Give me one good reason why you should," Gideon replied, with as much
dignity as he could muster.  He knew from experience that Jean was
quite capable of carrying out this threat.   In the Frenchman's eyes
Gideon was forever the frightened eighteen-year-old he had met at the
vampire ball.  Anyone under twenty was deemed spankable material to
Jean.

"What is the idea of kidnapping my Genevieve?" Jean roared at him.

"Kidnapping?"

"What do you call it, then?  I come back home to France, only to find
that she is gone, and the little cousins insist that you are holding her
prisoner here.  Prisoner!  My Genevieve!  Mon amour!  Ta mere!"

"I am _not_ holding her prisoner.  Now let me down, or I won't tell you
the story."

Mitch and Joshua had come out of the parlour and Evan moved towards
them.  He nudged Mitch with his elbow.

"Go up and sit with Genevieve, in case she needs anything," Evan told
the young man.  When Mitch opened his mouth to protest, Evan said,
"Now."

Mitch went.

Gideon smoothed the front of his clothing and proceeded to give Jean a
greatly edited history of what had happened at the Winterfest and afterwards.
Far from looking mollified, Jean was seething by the time Gideon finished his
narration.

"Why did you not call me?" Jean demanded furiously.

"You were in Spain!" Gideon snapped back.

"That is no excuse!"

"Jean, no one knew how to find you!  And events happened so fast!  You
have no idea of what has been going on here since Christmas!"

"I'll bet you have not even told Samantha, ma petite soeur."

Gideon groaned.  He had not thought to notify Samantha that her vampiric
"mother" was seriously ill.  He felt ashamed of himself.

Mitch appeared, leaning over the balcony on the top floor landing.

"Jean!" he called out.  "Genevieve wishes to see you."

The Frenchman snapped his fingers at Gideon.  "I will deal with you
later," he said, and Gideon groaned again.  Jean stormed up the stairs
to the second floor.

Gideon followed a few minutes later, walking very softly, and let
himself into his private study.  He picked up his phone and dialled a
number he knew well and should have called some time ago.  He was
injudicious enough to use the household line rather than his private
one.

"Samantha?"

"Hi, Gideon."  The vampiric shapeshifter's voice sounded slightly
strained.  "You sound a little upset," she said, echoing his own
thoughts about how _she_ sounded.  "Is everything there okay?  It's not
Joshua, is it?"

"No."  Gideon looked up as the mentioned breather gently let himself
into the study.  Joshua looked a question and Gideon mouthed, "Samantha"
at  him.  "He's right here, in fact, and says to give you his love.  No,
it's Genevieve."

"Genevieve?" Samantha's voice was alarmed.  "What's wrong?"

Gideon sighed.  "I should have contacted you sooner, forgive me.
Everything has been at sixes and sevens here since Christmas."  He gave
her a brief version of all that had happened and that was being done.
"And now Jean is here, and he's upset, and he reminded me that I should
have called you.  I'm sorry, Samantha."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.  Gideon waited and then
nervously spoke.  "Samantha?"

"Uh...um...I'm here."  Her voice sounded distant.

"You have every reason not to be speaking to me right now, I'm sor--"

"Gideon!  Please stop apologizing...it's okay.  Really."  Gideon did not like
the distracted tone in her voice.

"Should...do you want me to come out there?" she continued.

"Ah, no, I think that Genevieve would probably prefer less fuss than she's
getting over here right now.  We are doing everything we can."

"I know...I'm sure you are."

Gideon's brow wrinkled at the tone in his "cousin's" voice.  "Samantha, what
is it?  Get *mad* at me for heaven's sake, but do *something*!"

Gideon was slightly relieved to hear a small chuckle on the other end of the
line.  "Would you settle for me being relieved?"

Gideon's finely shaped eyebrows went up.  "And I thought I was confused
before!"

He could hear the smile in her voice as she continued speaking.  "I know. I'm
sorry.  Oh, great, now *I'm* apologizing!  Actually, there's been something
nagging at me since Christmas, but I didn't know what it was!  I thought I was
just worried about Darcy's pregnancy, or myself and Peter, but I never thought
to think it was Genevieve!  I wish our connection was stronger!"  Gideon
nodded absently.  He knew that because of the circumstances of Genevieve's
turning of Samantha, that Gen had a much stronger link to her than she did to
Gen.  Samantha had been a shapeshifter in her mortal existence, and was turned
while unconscious and in the form of a cat.

"At least I know that this feeling of uneasiness has a definite cause now.
Is there anything that I can do?  Any supplies you might need for the
ritual that I can get?"

"Not as far as I know, dear.  I could ask--"

"Gideon!"  Jean's imperious tone cut into the conversation.  He'd picked up
one of the extensions in the house.  "Why are you wasting time talking on
the telephone when--"

"Jean!  You bombastic lunatic, what are you doing blustering around a sick
woman like a hurricane in a hothouse!?"

Gideon couldn't help but grin at Samantha's tone, and could just imagine
the look on Jean's face.

"Ma petite!  I am so glad to hear your little voice!  Did you know that these
*people*--"

"Have been taking wonderful care of Genevieve while *you've* been traipsing
all over continental Europe!  And now you come charging in like a bull in a
china shop stomping all over everyone--"

Gideon murmured a goodbye, after assuring Samantha he'd call again if anything
changed, and hung up the line, still with a grin on his face.  There were two
creatures in the universe who could cut Jean dead in mid-bluster, one was in a
sick bed upstairs, and the other one was on the other end of the line.

* * *

When Jean hung up, his ears were burning and his temper had considerably
cooled.  Tail between his legs, he slunk back into the Rose Room.  His
first reception there had been a little overwhelming for him--he had not
expected to see his turn-mother and lover so very ill.  He had kissed her
and held her hands, then hurriedly left the room in a burst of fury at
Gideon.  He was going to make the little mouse pay dearly for allowing
Genevieve to get into such a state.  But now he wanted only to see her
recovered and happy again, to see the spark back in her eyes.  Samantha had
well and truly put him in his place.

"Cheri," Genevieve struggled to sit up when Jean came back in, and he
rushed to her side to help her.  "What is wrong?  You left so quickly,
when I had just become used to the idea that you were here."

"Genevieve," he replied hoarsely, "I did not expect to see you so...
so..." his hands flailed Gallically as for once words failed him.
"Cherie, I was hoping that they were exaggerating, or lying, and that
you would be well.  It shocked me to see you like this."  He hugged her,
very gently.  That a large, blustering man like Jean could be gentle was
surprising, although it did not startle Genevieve.  She knew her man.
"I was furious with Gideon, that he could allow such a thing.  He is
even now expecting me to exact revenge on him."

Genevieve's hand tightened with all her remaining strength on Jean's
arm.  "Do not _dare_ to lay a hand on Gideon," she hissed at him.  "If
you so much as touch him, I will never speak to you again."

Jean made an imploring gesture.  "Non, non, his backside is safe from
me.  I have learned my error.  What truly happened, cherie?  I was too
angry to listen to Gideon when he tried to explain."

Slowly, haltingly, Genevieve retold the story.  She did not speak at
length about the ritual, since she had little idea of what it would
involve, but the notion set Jean on fire again.

"The very thing!" he cried out.  "It will work, Genevieve, you will
see!"

"I hope so, cheri."

"And this Adept of the Gray--he will meet my challenge!"

Genevieve frowned.  "Do not be so dramatic, Jean!" she snapped.  "You
cannot challenge the Adept to a duel--this is 1995."

"Aha!  So you harbour some feeling for this blackguard, do you?"

She did not answer, for she was considerably shaken to realize that this
charge was at least partially true.  She drew the pretty coverlet up
protectively to her chin while Jean glowered at her.

There was a rap on the door.

"Depeches-toi!"  Jean growled.

A sigh could be heard.  "Jean," came Evan's voice, "you are tiring out
Genevieve.  Come and let me make you comfortable in another guest room,
and let Gen rest."

"D'accord, d'accord," grumbled the Frenchman.  "But I will return, mon
amour."

"Jean..." When he turned, Genevieve smiled tenderly.  "Je t'aime."

De la Mare swallowed, and went out into the hall, letting Evan guide him
to a remote guest bedroom without a murmur.

"Je t'aime, aussi," he whispered.

Date:         Thu, 25 May 1995 11:55:18 -0300
From:         Pandora 
Subject:      FLUFF:  Shades of Gray, Part 27

As always, comments and feedback are most welcome and encouraged.

Pandora (wallacel@ac.dal.ca)
The Gray Adept (jgra@music.stlawu.edu)
Baron Gideon Redoak (fraser@vax.library.utoronto.ca)

* * *

Shades of Gray, Part 27

c.  1995, A. Fraser, J. Gray, L.M. Wallace
{fraser@vax.library.utoronto.ca, jgra@music.stlawu.edu, wallacel@ac.dal.ca}

* * *

Pandora was sitting pensively in front of the fireplace when Michael
knocked at the door.  Nicholas had gone to the club to take care of
some paperwork.

The bard had come home quite drunk late the night before, brought home by
Gus and Ian.  While the reasons underlying the binge nagged at Pandora, it
had been something of a mixed blessing, since Pandora did not think she
could have managed any conversation with him about the meeting, about the
ritual, and especially not about the Adept.  She had helped him to bed
where he had fallen almost immediately into a drunken slumber, while she
herself had lain awake until dawn, listening to the sound of his deep
breathing, struggling alternately with feelings of elation at the memory of
her strange experience with the Adept, and with feelings of shame over how
that experience had been triggered.  Nicholas had mumbled something about
a woman at the bar who had been sending him drinks and flirting with
him, commenting finally on how the presence of a wedding ring did not
seem to matter to some people.  That had stabbed her conscience deeply,
casting a shadow of doubt over her earlier conviction that she had not
betrayed him. Pandora was no stranger to jealousy either, it seemed, and
she found herself wondering if circumstances could indeed excuse one's
actions. She had finally fallen into a troubled, restless sleep, not waking
until late in the afternoon.  Nicholas had already left.

"Hello, Michael, please come in," Pandora greeted the Druid warmly, but
the smile on her face barely reached her eyes.  He frowned in response to
the deep lines of worry etched around her mouth.

"Nicholas is out," he stated, having noted the car's absence.  "That
is good; we need some privacy, I think."

"Yes," Pandora nodded, another half-smile forming on her lips.  "Won't
you sit down?  I've just made some tea...will you have some?"

She led him to the sofa, then kneeled down in front of the coffee table
to prepare a cup for him.  She poured some for herself, then reached
for some honey.  Halfway to the cup she paused, staring with some wonder
at the honey-stick, unmindful of the sweet, sticky substance dribbling
onto the table.

"Pandora?  Niamh?" Michael spoke her name, but when she didn't respond
he reached over and grabbed her wrist.

"Wha--?  Oh!" she exclaimed, dropping the stick back into the pot. "What
a mess," she mumbled and went to the kitchen to get a cloth with which to
wipe it up.

"Are you all right, Niamh?" Michael asked with concern when she returned.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," she murmured as she wiped the honey up from the
table.  "Just a bit distracted, I guess.  I don't normally take honey
in my tea--I don't know what I was thinking of..." she shook her head,
frowning slightly at her task.

"It's been a trying time for you.  Are you getting enough rest?" the
Druid queried.  Green fire crackled around the tips of his fingers as
his healing instincts kicked in.

Pandora folded the sticky cloth and laid it on the tea tray before
settling back into a cross-legged position on the floor.  "I'm sleeping
okay," she said absently, taking a sip from her cup.  Grimacing,
she reached forward again for some honey, this time successfully getting
it into the tea.  Taking another sip she smiled.  "That's better," she
nodded to herself.

Michael studied his friend thoughtfully, noting the dark circles under
her eyes and the lustreless hair pulled back into a ponytail.  Her
normally clear, bright eyes were dull and unfocused.

"Are you sure?" he asked.  The look in his green eyes, the healing power in
his hands, both told her that he wanted very badly to help her, if she would
let him.

"Well, maybe it hasn't been very restful," she admitted, rubbing her
eyes.  "Last night...well, I slept today some."

The magic still dancing from his fingertips, Michael reached over and
touched Pandora's wrist again.  She felt the healing infuse her
bloodstream, reinforcing her strength and washing away some of the
weariness.

"You can't let yourself get run down, too, Niamh.  Nevyan is worried about
you and, frankly, so am I."  He released her wrist, satisfied that he had
helped a little.

"Nevyan...yes I know he is.  I'm fine, Tadg, really," Pandora
reached across the table and squeezed his hand, her eyes transmitting
a silent thank you for the exchange of energy.  "The end is in
sight, right?  Once the ritual is over..." she trailed off and
looked towards the fire.

"The ritual, yes." Michael repeated.  "We must discuss that, Niamh.
I confess to being somewhat concerned about the Gray Adept's role
in this."

Pandora's head snapped back to stare at her friend.  "But he's an
essential part of it, Michael, we can't do it without him.  I
_know_ this," she emphasized vehemently.

Michael was somewhat taken aback by the strength of her assertion but
nevertheless nodded, ignoring the urge to ask her how she knew this
for the time being.  "He is not of our ways, Niamh, nor are many of
the others.  How can we have an effective ritual with so many disparate
parts?"

"It is not so strange, Tadg," Pandora responded quietly, studying
the contents of her teacup thoughtfully.  "The healing that is
required is so much more than just physical...it is spiritual and
psychic as well.  It is not just Genevieve who has been affected,
but all of us.  It is about...it is about integration."

Michael nodded again.  "Yes, I understand that, but what form is
it to take, what elements will there be from us and from him?"

In response, Pandora reached for the butter knife from the tray
and placed it in her cup.  "'The Sacred Marriage,' Tadg, the
wedding of the intuitive sub-conscious with the thinking mind.
Water and Air.  Desire and Intellect.  Genevieve must drink from the
Chalice.  We must all drink from the Chalice, from the cup of
life, of enlightenment." Pandora closed her eyes, her brow furrowing
with concentration as she continued to hold the cup with the blade.

Michael watched her, struggling to make some sense of her disjointed
musings, but able to follow the essence of what she was trying to say.
She seemed to be struggling with the metaphor somewhat, however, and he
found that puzzling.

"The timing is important, too, Tadg," she continued, opening her
eyes and placing the cup on the table.  "We are soon entering the
month of Willow, a powerful time for healing.  And the time of
the waning moon.  That, too, is powerful and works to our favour.
We need to open ourselves to our night vision, our intuitive vision,
to see beyond the veil of reality.  To see the truth beyond the
illusion," she smiled, and this time it reached her eyes, lighting them
from within with a deep glow that made them shine.

"Yes, the timing is important, and the influence of Brigid, the Goddess of
healing," Michael agreed, noting the transformation in her manner with both
relief and concern.  Her behaviour was very odd this evening, and while he
followed her reasoning, he found himself questioning its source.  "But the
Great Rite, Niamh?  Is that really nec--"

"Yes!" she interrupted loudly, startling them both.  "I have seen it,
Tadg," she explained quietly.  Her eyes still shone, but a slight
shadow deepened their colour as they flickered briefly to the fire
once again.

"You have seen it?  Have you had a vision?" the Druid leaned forward,
studying her with an intensity that made her look away.

"Yes...no...both," she shook her head, powerless to explain.  "You
must trust me in this, Tadg," she beseeched him, a hectic flush
rising into her cheeks.   "I'm sorry to be so cryptic," she shook
her head.   "I'm talking about the symbolism of it--the healing
aspect.  This is not about fertility, but wholeness...wholeness
of Self and of community."

"The Adept," Michael began cautiously, "was he a part of this
somehow?"

Pandora looked Michael squarely in the eye, fighting the urge
to turn away.  "Yes.  He was there," she said.  Finally she
did look away and when she turned back to him her face was a
portrait of such a complexity of emotions that Michael gasped
aloud involuntarily.

"Together we...we have, or have access to this power that...that,
well, I don't know what it does, only how it manifests itself.  And I
don't know why or how we, the two of us, when we're together--" she
broke off, pulling the elastic impatiently from her hair so she could
run her hands through her long tresses.

Michael sat quietly, waiting for her to continue.  His heart beat
rapidly in his chest as he tried to grasp the implications of what
she was trying to tell him, sensing that in this revelation lay
the key to a number of things, not the least of which was Nicholas's
distress over the relationship between Pandora and the Adept.

"It is not a malevolent power, Tadg," Pandora hastened to explain.  "Nor
benevolent.  It just *is*, and for some reason, the Adept and I, our
joint rhythms invoke it."

"Rhythms?" Michael repeated, puzzled.

"Rhythms." Pandora asserted.  "Movement...dancing."

Michael leaned back against the sofa, his mind racing.  The image of
the Adept and Pandora dancing at the handfasting returned, the image
he had seen while scrying.  He still was not sure he understood what
it meant, but the connection now was obvious.

"Dancing," he mused aloud.  "And the manifestation?  What happens?"
Michael asked, the need to know overriding his caution.

"We...we travel. To another dimension," Pandora explained slowly,
absently toying with a stray thread on the cuff of her jeans.  "I'm
not sure I understand it myself, Tadg, but it's happened more than
once.  The first time was at the Handfasting when we danced.  One
minute we were at the club and the next...well, the next we seemed
to be dancing in air and space, while scenes played out around us--
an, an arctic wasteland, an ancient mosque, Atlantis...goblins..."
she trailed off, her eyes seeking the fire once again, as if she
could find words there, words to help her describe these incredible
experiences and emotions for which she had no language.

Michael watched her carefully, his eyebrows raising slightly at
her extraordinary assertions.

"It was fleeting, though, and only lasted the length of the song to
which we danced.  We thought...well, I thought it was because of
the night, of Midsummer Eve, and the strange goings-on.  The thinning of
the barrier between the Otherworld.  And those dreamscapes," she shuddered
briefly in memory.  So much of what had happened the night she and Nicholas
had wed had been magickal and playful, but there had been a dangerous
element to it as well, a threat of power growing out of control.

"It happened again at the Winter Solstice party," Pandora continued to
explain, her brow furrowed with remembrance.  "When we danced.  Again,
we travelled through changing landscapes, but always the sky remained
the same...like twilight.  We were there for a longer time, then.  It
took us some time to get back..." she trailed off and looked at the floor,
lost in thoughts of that incredible night.

She had almost succumbed to that strange desire then, she remembered,
in an uncharacteristic expression of passion for a man who was not Nicholas.
She had tried to explain something of the experience to Nicholas later that
night when they were home, and she searched for the words she had used then,
to help explain this to Michael.  And it was there, too, that the Adept
had revealed to her his true identity, showing her his alien body; but
that was not something she was at liberty to explain.

"It--Tadg, it was like crossing over to the Otherworld, and losing
sense of time and of...of Self.  Or maybe it's more like being
caught between worlds, or dimensions..." she shook her head again,
indicating her difficulty in explaining the phenomenon.  "It happened
again.  Last night.  It was there I experienced it--the...the...symbolism
of the Sacred Marriage.  I became part of it," she whispered softly, so
softly that Michael had to lean forward to hear.  "We both did."

In Pandora's eyes he saw incredible wonder, but underlined with something
like fear and even shame.  He believed her, but he couldn't really
understand what she was trying to tell him.  Travelling to the Otherworld?
Becoming part of a symbolic rite--no, not part of a ritual, but part of
the *symbolism*.

"But how, Niamh?  I want to understand this...how did you become a part of
it?"

Pandora took a deep breath before answering.  "It was like moving
through a portal, Tadg.  Into an expanded awareness...an awareness
that went beyond my body.  I believe that a similar experience is
called "astral projection"?  It was like travelling into a dream...and
of having both the consciousness and the sub-consciousness turned
inside out.  It was not transcendence, somehow, but immanence."

Michael exhaled sharply, letting the enormity of what she was saying
sink in.  But it was too big, too mind-boggling for him to be
able to digest it all at once.  He also suspected there was something
she was hedging around, and he was suddenly not at all sure that he wanted
to hear it, because he strongly suspected what it was.  But she was his
friend--had been his own healer and spiritual guide when near death--
and despite his close friendship with Nicholas, her needs were also
important to him.

"Niamh, I believe you, even though I'm not sure I understand this,"
he told her.

She smiled.  "I don't really *understand* it, Tadg, I can't expect
you to."

"But is there anything else you want to tell me?" he asked.  "In
confidence?"

"Only that...only that my actions have been guided by my spirit,
Tadg," she answered him, grateful for his discretion.  "Whatever this
power is, it is not separate from us, it is a part of the whole, of the
web...of the spiral.  I feel its energy in communion with the Goddess,
with the Earth, with the...Air.  That it has made me confused, I cannot
deny, but it is as it is," she said, unconsciously imitating the Adept's
very words in the meeting of the Brotherhood.

"I have been called upon to play my part in this and I cannot walk away
from it, no matter how difficult, no matter the consequences," she sighed
then and stood, stretching her cramped muscles before crossing over to
the sofa and taking a seat beside Michael.  "It is connected with the
ritual, Tadg, with what we must do for Genevieve.  It is for everyone's
sake.  But Nicholas, I don't think he would understand, not now, not
yet..." she trailed off and fixed Michael with a penetrating gaze.
"I wish I could say this has nothing to do with him, but I cannot.
But it is not in the way that he might interpret.  It _does not_ affect
how I feel about him, it does not change the vows I made to him...Do
you understand this, Tadg?" she finished with a question, staring
down at her hands.

The Druid was silent for a moment, struggling with his own conflicting
emotions.  He could not deny that Pandora's revelations frightened
him, but he also recognized the sincerity with which she spoke and
was able to read between the lines of what she said as well as believe
what she did say.  He knew that she did not want to intentionally
hurt Nicholas, but saw clearly the struggle she was caught in and the
very real lack of choice she had in the matter.

"I understand, Niamh," he said finally, taking both of her hands in
his own.  "Only understand that you are not alone in this--you must
trust me too, and rely on me.  I know that is difficult for you,
but you must let others help."

"Yes," Pandora nodded, her voice barely a whisper.  "I know."

"Well," Michael said, leaning back against the sofa again.  "Now
we must confer with the Adept and talk to Genevieve."

"Yes," Pandora said again.  "She will need reassurance about this.
I can give her specifics on what to expect--I am already clear in
my mind of the healing aspects of this ritual, of my role, anyway.
We have only our own traditions to be concerned with, Tadg--the
rest will fall into place."

"I understand," Michael smiled.

At the sound of Bel's barking the two turned around to see Nicholas
enter the house.  The bard smiled broadly at the sight of both
Michael and Pandora and made his way to the sofa, dodging the excited
pup who was weaving through his legs.

"Michael," he addressed him as he sat down beside Pandora.  "Have
you been here long?"

"Oh, an hour or so," the Druid replied, glancing at Pandora.  "I was
just contemplating going home to help Mary with the kids' baths."

Pandora laughed.  "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay for another
cup of tea?"  She looked brighter and more relaxed than she had
when Michael had first arrived, her eyes once again clear and focused.

"Now, that's tempting..." Michael grinned.  "But Mary's had a long day,
so, I should be going.  Besides, I'm the only one who can make boat
sounds for Galen," he laughed ruefully.  "No, don't get up," he added
hastily when Nicholas started to rise.  "I know where I'm going.  I'll
be in touch, Niamh," he added before leaving.

A more wordless communication passed between the Archdruid and his best
friend, and Nicholas had the grace to hang his head as Michael left.

"How are you feeling?" Pandora turned to Nicholas, frowning slightly.
She suspected he had been nursing something of a hangover all day.

"Mmmm, better now," the bard responded, putting his arms around her
and pulling her close.  She leaned her head against his shoulder and
relaxed into his embrace gratefully.  "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"It's okay," she said quickly, her voice muffled against his shirt.
"We all need to let off steam sometimes.  But next time bring the bottle
home why don't you?" she looked up at him and smiled.

Nicholas laughed and gave her a squeeze.  "I miss you at the club these
days, love.  It seems so long since you've come to hear us play..."

"I know.  I miss it, too, but lately--"

"I know," Nicholas interrupted hastily.  He opened his mouth to speak
further, but closed it, seeming to decide against whatever he had
been about to say.  Instead he shifted in his seat and snuggled closer to
his wife, stroking her hair with his nimble fingers, enjoying the silence.

"No phone calls?" he asked finally, hoping that tonight they might spend
some uninterrupted time together.

"No phone calls," Pandora asserted.  "Except for Tadg's visit, it's
been quiet."

"Will it last..." Nicholas sighed.

"Let's forget about everyone else tonight," Pandora suggested.  "Now,
is there anything I can do to help you feel better?"

"Mmm, maybe a backrub...?" he asked, his voice lilting hopefully.

Pandora laughed softly and hugged him.  "Just a backrub?" she murmured
suggestively, nuzzling his throat.

"Oh, never *just* a backrub," he responded huskily, lifting
her chin so he could kiss her lips.  As their eyes met Pandora noted
a slight shadow that always seemed to be present these days.  She
flinched inwardly, knowing the cause of that shadow, but knowing at
the same time that she was powerless to eradicate it.  All she could do
was love him the best way she could and hope that would be enough.

* * *


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