PRELUDE

’Warwickshire in February,’ the old bard thought, looked up from his desk and out of the window overlooking the garden of 'New Place'. ‘Tranquil, slow, cold, lovely... and infernal.’
The oil lamp's steady glow beside him was now almost stronger than the day's last light outside. Tiredly he rubbed the bridge of his nose and watched the oil flame’s echo behind closed lids.
‘Infernal...’
His working hours fell shorter by the day.
‘... weariness.’
He stuck the quill back into its well. Words had long ceased to flow as lightly and carelessly as in brighter, younger days. He wouldn’t have minded, since uphill paths forced closer looks on things usually overlooked, but over this Winter something else had begun to cast its shadow on his spirits – tied lead to each move of limb as well as thought. For want of better words, even by him, he called it weariness. Sometimes he called it tiredness, sometimes age before old age, but none seemed to give it the ring it needed to ban his deeper fears.
“Ah... stop wiping your ass when you’ve got none to shite and pull yourself together! Just a little breather is all it takes.”
So he took a moment's aimless gazing upon the evening outside, chin resting on folded knuckles. The woods bordering the garden seemed almost black now. A pale white fog ascended from them, creeping across the lawn. England's heavy Winter's air.
It began to snow.
A figure came with the fog towards the house, cloaked and hooded, head tucked firmly between raised shoulders.
The old bard smiled. "Like winter's ruffled crow."
He reached for the bell.
"Dawkers! Visitor!"
But then he remembered that the maid had gone to town to suffer the insufferable moods of her passionately bed-ridden mother. So he rose with a resigning grunt.
Even before he had reached the back door and unbolted it, there was an apprehensive knock, almost as if someone didn't really want to knock... or hardly dared to.
Cold and wet air billowed inside and made the bard feel his bones as the door swung open.
"Master Shakespeare?" enquired a woman's voice from the hood's shade.
"The same," he said and felt a shiver liven up his spine. It wasn't the cold, he knew, because there are voices and voices, and hers - laced with blackest smoke and crimson power - definitely was one to raise his interest.
"... And you are?"
The tall figure bowed and threw her hood back. Jet black hair spilled forth, framing a face so obviously from distant sun-drenched shores that her northern blue eyes seemed like a contradiction as well as a riddle.
She gave a hint of a smile. "Forgive me for keeping that a secret... for now." Her smile broadened slightly. "I depend upon your trust and my assurance to you that I bear no malice in that. All I further ask is an hour of your open ear and mind."
He looked up into her steady, earnest eyes. The smile was gone, and he was almost worried that he didn't even consider sending her away. He moved from the door and she stepped inside with another slight bow.
Her cloak swooshed back and off in a wide circle, spraying snow and water pearls across the hall, revealing a black leather and satin jerkin, silver studding, tight leather leggings and high boots. Like a Spanish Grande..., except that she wore no Gentleman's rapier but a sheathed sabre fit to grace a Saracen.
Women in men's clothing were certainly not new to him, as far as his plays went, but this woman threw a temptingly wicked bridge into the reality of stifling custom. He could see that these clothes weren't just the fancy of a bored mind. She wore them like a necessity of profession, which - oddly enough - made them look like not a man's clothes at all. They were as much hers as her skin.
The old bard caught himself smiling as he watched her hang cloak and sabre on one of the hall stand's hooks, and he made an inviting gesture towards the study.
"The fire's still good for an hour's talk. I think I can bear to spend it with a nameless spirit."
For a second she froze. Her intense gaze probed him as if he had said something more fitting to the situation than he could know. But quickly her shoulders relaxed again and she passed him into the study with another smile and a bow.
Two different but equally comfortable looking high chairs flanked the fireplace, but she seemed to know exactly which one was for visitors and which one was used to its master's regular fancy. Before he could gesture her towards the visitor's chair, she already sat down, looking up to him and inviting him to do the same.
"This hour will be short. There is much to go into it, Master Shakespeare."
"Hence your lack of ceremony, eh?" he asked and fetched a bottle and two glasses from a cupboard, placing them on a small side table between the chairs.
"Indeed," she said with a hint of self irony and watched him fill her glass first.
“Humour me..., Mylady?”
"Well...," ignoring the subtle enquiry she accepted the offered glass, "A bit of ceremony won't harm, I guess."
"Indeed," he said and raised his glass as well.
They drank, and her right brow arched in surprised appreciation. "Mmh... Spanish? From a crate that didn't make it to the colonies?"
"Sir Walter was a very resourceful man."
He relished her dark chuckle and the intelligent fire in her eyes. This hour grew closer to his heart by the minute. He even began to consider topping up the firewood to stretch it.
Yet, something seemed to keep the many questions he had from spilling out. Where did she come from? Why did she speak his tongue without a hint of any recognisable accent – not even an English one, yet bore herself as foreign as an olive on an oaken branch? Why did she move like he had never seen a woman move before? What unnamed power oozed from her that made him think of silent predators as well as running deer?
A subtle spell was lying on the scene which kept him from asking any such questions.
“Never touch a unicorn,” he murmured and consoled himself with another sip of brandy.
She looked up. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said with an excusing smile.
The prelude was over. She put down her glass and forced his eyes into hers.
"I will tell you my story, now, and I beg you to listen without questions until the last word is said."
"What makes you think I wouldn't?"
"Because you won't believe me."
"You seem to be very sure of that."
"I am."
"So why tell me?"
"You are able to see the truth behind all camouflage."
"Even if I won't believe it?"
She took another sip and her eyes glinted full of challenge: "Precisely."
"Where will all this lead?"
"To my rest, Master Shakespeare. I want you to save me."

And so the longest hour stretched itself far into the night... until dawn began to rival the light from the study's windows.
An ancient legacy was passed on, and the next day grew into something far beyond just another day in the closing chapters of the old bard's life.

*****

Heh... this lil prologue to a crossover fanfic is the result of tonight's insommnia, and I'm not even sure if I'll be able to turn this quirky bit into a proper story, but I thought it might be worth a try.

reckless
The Xenatizer

[ June 27, 2002, 01:35 AM: Message edited by: The Xenatizer ]

Xena meets THE bard...? yay. if you finish it, you must share the rest!

You must finish this!!! I'm hooked!!!

i simply LOVED this. i would more than love to read any additions to it... intiguing, descriptive, just well written. loved it. thanks.

mons

Ulrich,
Your story already comes accross as a very polished piece. It's surprizing that it came to you in one night. I hope that you find a way to fill it up with an interesting plot and surprise.

I really like the long build up. We get a full sense of the bard with all his quirks and the age that has brought him new wisdom.

Some other lines that ring well are:

"The tall figure bowed and threw her hood back. Jet black hair spilled forth, framing a face so obviously from distant sun-drenched shores that her northern blue eyes seemed like a contradiction as well as a riddle."

And

"Her cloak swooshed back and off in a wide circle, spraying snow and water pearls across the hall,"

And this one

"Why did she speak his tongue without a hint of any recognisable accent – not even an English one, yet bore herself as foreign as an olive on an oaken branch?"

Thanks for sharing this story. I'll be looking for more.

I'll be the first to admit that I don't always like everything you write.
But when i do, i generally love it..
And it always captivates me that you have a better hold over MY language than I do.

But this one is great Felix, as Nanzar said it is very polished and amazing you came up with it in one night.

If your trilogy (your up to the 3rd now aren't you?)-(which i can never read till you get it published cause they'll have to publish it in english after it gets translated..*EG* is as good as this, they will be best sellers for YEARS

why does it stop! I find myself waiting to know more and alot of things I read fail to capture my interests like that, but when they do I can't put them down. I am so impressed with the style and way that it is written every part is as interesting as the next. I hope you get a chance to write more of it I can't wait!!

Very Shakespeare In Love.

I enjoyed the read!