Chiming Thirteen
Title: Chiming Thirteen
Date posted: reposted with a commentary on 07-02-06
Fandom: Alias
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ.
Spoilers: Up to Season Four.
Notes: Pure crack fic.
Sydney is in her old house, wearing her Halloween costume from when Francie was alive, a blue dress and a white apron, Alice in Wonderland. She has a blonde wig on that feels attached to her head. She even has patent leather Mary Janes on.
It's the house she grew up in, back when her mother was alive. In the green bowl on the counter there is a bowl of small round pebbles. "Eat Me," it says, and the pebble is sugary-sweet and Sydney feels very small.
Sloane is standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her.
"You're not supposed to be here!" Sydney exclaims, smaller than she used to be, and with braids, now brown, on either side of her head.
"I'm here to guide you," he replies, his voice smooth as oil, and he takes her hand to lead her upstairs.
When they arrive, they are no longer in her house, but instead in a museum. There are old things- a dead, stuffed tiger with marble eyes; tribal masks of wood from Africa; a Faberge egg with pink enamel and flowers that crawl up and three pictures of royalty with a crown on the top. Sloane explains: "This is a tiger from the jungles of India, Sydney. The masks come from a tribe in Africa that uses them to scare away beasts so they wouldn't eat their livestock. And this egg is misplaced."
Sloane picks up the egg. "This is an heirloom, Sydney. A Romanov Faberge egg, made for the royal family." He leaves his finger prints on the pink enameled egg, and Sydney can feel the ridges of his fingertips on her hand.
Next there is a hallway of portraits, one of which is her father. "That's Daddy!" Sydney exclaims in surprise, and Sloane agrees amiably. "Would you like me to read the inscription?"
Sydney is possessed to say yes.
"Odysseus," says Sloane, and that's all wrong, because it's definitely her father, "the man who taunted the gods and could never come home again."
"That's not true," Sydney says, and stomps a small foot, "That's my father."
"Plaques beneath paintings always tell the truth, Sydney," says Sloane, and it does say so beneath the painting, "As do I."
They walk through an archway, and Sydney looks down to see ruby slippers. She looks up at Sloane questioningly, but he is looking at the statues. "Look," Sloane says, "there is your mother."
The statue has a coolly beautiful face, with smooth cheeks and horribly vacant eyes.
"'Irina, Blind Justice,'" Sloane reads, and he smiles appreciatively, and Sydney squawks in protest. "She is not blind!"
"Look at her eyes," Sloane says equably, "She can't see a thing!"
"She can, too, she can see me," And it's true, the statue has just blinked at Sydney. She's as sure of it as she is of the blue ribbons in her hair and the gingham of her dress. "She winked at me."
"A trick of the light, Sydney. Why would she do that?" Sloane goes up to a buffet, set between David and Venus de Milo. He pours pink tea into a glass teacup and drinks it. "Come, Sydney, have some refreshment."
Sydney looks back to the statue, which is staring ahead blindly, and walks over slowly. There is a blue pitcher that says "Drink me," and so Sydney does. It's thick and green and looks vile, but Sydney drinks it anyway. It tastes like maple syrup.
The next thing she knows she has broken through the roof and is much taller than the house.
"That was a very foolish thing to do, Sydney!" She can just barely hear Sloane's tinny little voice, and he is standing next to her enormous red shoes, "Now you'll never get back home!"
She imagines squashing him, but thinks it would make a mess, and so she refrains. She scans over the tops of the houses surrounding her and steps out of the house. The world lies before her, the countries the same colors they are in the atlas her father bought her, AMERICA is pink, CANADA is blue, MEXICO orange, and their names are written across in capital letters. When she steps out (to walk down the PACIFIC,) the ocean is hard and blue, with small white ridges like Sloane's fingerprints. Over in green ARGENTINA, Buenos Aires is lit up. She is now small again, her regular height, but she still has the ruby slippers on. Her sister is wearing a shirt with a cartoon on it, and her hair is short and sleek. She is frozen mid-run.
"Nadia?" she asks, and frozen Nadia doesn't move.
"She can't hear you," she hears, and Sydney turns to see an old man in what looks like a robe. He strides towards her, and he has a pointed beard. Sydney places herself between this man and her sister.
"Who are you?" she asks, and the man laughs. He has very even teeth.
"I am responsible for this all. I created this."
"What?"
She looks up, and she is now in a field behind a large house. A large rosebush is growing in the middle of the grass, and stone beneath it reads "Emily, the sacrifice." Two yellow orchids flank it on either side.
Sydney looks back up at the man. "You're him, aren't you?"
He nods slowly, staring across the field. He looks tired, and there are worry lines all around his eyes. "Why did you do all this?" she asked, and she means the drawings and the inventions and the solutions and the riddles.
"It seemed like a good idea."
"But you were wrong."
He looks at her, and behind him Sydney can see his body being burned for heresy. "I was very wrong."
"Fix it."
He sighs, a haunted, heavy sound. "I can't do that."
"But you can do everything." When he makes no reply, she pressed forward. "Tell me how to, then."
He studies her face for a minute, and from a desk next to him in the green grass, he pulls out a sketch of her face. "Follow this."
She looks at her own face. "This isn't a map."
"Go back the way you came, then." And with that, he is gone.
Sydney walks back to the rosebush, which withers and dies as she approaches. When she returns to Buenos Aires, time has sped up again, and Nadia has run off. She walks up the Pacific, which is now slick like ice, and back to through the now-empty museum, until she walks downstairs into her old kitchen, where Sloane is drinking his pink tea.
"Ah, Sydney," he says from the head of the table, "You made it. We were waiting for you."
He sits at the head of the table, and her father is at the other end, reading the newspaper and sipping coffee. Her mother is standing at the stove, scrambling eggs. Nadia, her hair a shiny black bob, sits at the table, reading the comics and munching on toast. In her glass is a green liquid. On the table besides her plate rests a teabag.
Her father folds the paper. "Sit down, Sydney," he says, "And eat your breakfast."
Sydney sits down. "Don't kick!" Nadia says sharply, "You can have the comics when I'm done."
"Now, girls," her mother says smoothly, "Behave." She comes over and puts a box of cereal in front of Sydney. "I got your favorite," her mother whispers conspiratorially, "St. Aidan's flakes. It was hard to find."
Sydney pours the cereal into a red dish. The clock with the golden disk is in the middle of the table, and it chimed thirteen.
Date posted: reposted with a commentary on 07-02-06
Fandom: Alias
Disclaimer: Alias belongs to JJ.
Spoilers: Up to Season Four.
Notes: Pure crack fic.
Sydney is in her old house, wearing her Halloween costume from when Francie was alive, a blue dress and a white apron, Alice in Wonderland. She has a blonde wig on that feels attached to her head. She even has patent leather Mary Janes on.
It's the house she grew up in, back when her mother was alive. In the green bowl on the counter there is a bowl of small round pebbles. "Eat Me," it says, and the pebble is sugary-sweet and Sydney feels very small.
Sloane is standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her.
"You're not supposed to be here!" Sydney exclaims, smaller than she used to be, and with braids, now brown, on either side of her head.
"I'm here to guide you," he replies, his voice smooth as oil, and he takes her hand to lead her upstairs.
When they arrive, they are no longer in her house, but instead in a museum. There are old things- a dead, stuffed tiger with marble eyes; tribal masks of wood from Africa; a Faberge egg with pink enamel and flowers that crawl up and three pictures of royalty with a crown on the top. Sloane explains: "This is a tiger from the jungles of India, Sydney. The masks come from a tribe in Africa that uses them to scare away beasts so they wouldn't eat their livestock. And this egg is misplaced."
Sloane picks up the egg. "This is an heirloom, Sydney. A Romanov Faberge egg, made for the royal family." He leaves his finger prints on the pink enameled egg, and Sydney can feel the ridges of his fingertips on her hand.
Next there is a hallway of portraits, one of which is her father. "That's Daddy!" Sydney exclaims in surprise, and Sloane agrees amiably. "Would you like me to read the inscription?"
Sydney is possessed to say yes.
"Odysseus," says Sloane, and that's all wrong, because it's definitely her father, "the man who taunted the gods and could never come home again."
"That's not true," Sydney says, and stomps a small foot, "That's my father."
"Plaques beneath paintings always tell the truth, Sydney," says Sloane, and it does say so beneath the painting, "As do I."
They walk through an archway, and Sydney looks down to see ruby slippers. She looks up at Sloane questioningly, but he is looking at the statues. "Look," Sloane says, "there is your mother."
The statue has a coolly beautiful face, with smooth cheeks and horribly vacant eyes.
"'Irina, Blind Justice,'" Sloane reads, and he smiles appreciatively, and Sydney squawks in protest. "She is not blind!"
"Look at her eyes," Sloane says equably, "She can't see a thing!"
"She can, too, she can see me," And it's true, the statue has just blinked at Sydney. She's as sure of it as she is of the blue ribbons in her hair and the gingham of her dress. "She winked at me."
"A trick of the light, Sydney. Why would she do that?" Sloane goes up to a buffet, set between David and Venus de Milo. He pours pink tea into a glass teacup and drinks it. "Come, Sydney, have some refreshment."
Sydney looks back to the statue, which is staring ahead blindly, and walks over slowly. There is a blue pitcher that says "Drink me," and so Sydney does. It's thick and green and looks vile, but Sydney drinks it anyway. It tastes like maple syrup.
The next thing she knows she has broken through the roof and is much taller than the house.
"That was a very foolish thing to do, Sydney!" She can just barely hear Sloane's tinny little voice, and he is standing next to her enormous red shoes, "Now you'll never get back home!"
She imagines squashing him, but thinks it would make a mess, and so she refrains. She scans over the tops of the houses surrounding her and steps out of the house. The world lies before her, the countries the same colors they are in the atlas her father bought her, AMERICA is pink, CANADA is blue, MEXICO orange, and their names are written across in capital letters. When she steps out (to walk down the PACIFIC,) the ocean is hard and blue, with small white ridges like Sloane's fingerprints. Over in green ARGENTINA, Buenos Aires is lit up. She is now small again, her regular height, but she still has the ruby slippers on. Her sister is wearing a shirt with a cartoon on it, and her hair is short and sleek. She is frozen mid-run.
"Nadia?" she asks, and frozen Nadia doesn't move.
"She can't hear you," she hears, and Sydney turns to see an old man in what looks like a robe. He strides towards her, and he has a pointed beard. Sydney places herself between this man and her sister.
"Who are you?" she asks, and the man laughs. He has very even teeth.
"I am responsible for this all. I created this."
"What?"
She looks up, and she is now in a field behind a large house. A large rosebush is growing in the middle of the grass, and stone beneath it reads "Emily, the sacrifice." Two yellow orchids flank it on either side.
Sydney looks back up at the man. "You're him, aren't you?"
He nods slowly, staring across the field. He looks tired, and there are worry lines all around his eyes. "Why did you do all this?" she asked, and she means the drawings and the inventions and the solutions and the riddles.
"It seemed like a good idea."
"But you were wrong."
He looks at her, and behind him Sydney can see his body being burned for heresy. "I was very wrong."
"Fix it."
He sighs, a haunted, heavy sound. "I can't do that."
"But you can do everything." When he makes no reply, she pressed forward. "Tell me how to, then."
He studies her face for a minute, and from a desk next to him in the green grass, he pulls out a sketch of her face. "Follow this."
She looks at her own face. "This isn't a map."
"Go back the way you came, then." And with that, he is gone.
Sydney walks back to the rosebush, which withers and dies as she approaches. When she returns to Buenos Aires, time has sped up again, and Nadia has run off. She walks up the Pacific, which is now slick like ice, and back to through the now-empty museum, until she walks downstairs into her old kitchen, where Sloane is drinking his pink tea.
"Ah, Sydney," he says from the head of the table, "You made it. We were waiting for you."
He sits at the head of the table, and her father is at the other end, reading the newspaper and sipping coffee. Her mother is standing at the stove, scrambling eggs. Nadia, her hair a shiny black bob, sits at the table, reading the comics and munching on toast. In her glass is a green liquid. On the table besides her plate rests a teabag.
Her father folds the paper. "Sit down, Sydney," he says, "And eat your breakfast."
Sydney sits down. "Don't kick!" Nadia says sharply, "You can have the comics when I'm done."
"Now, girls," her mother says smoothly, "Behave." She comes over and puts a box of cereal in front of Sydney. "I got your favorite," her mother whispers conspiratorially, "St. Aidan's flakes. It was hard to find."
Sydney pours the cereal into a red dish. The clock with the golden disk is in the middle of the table, and it chimed thirteen.