paradisalogs | no more dreaming of the dead, as if death itself was undone

Who: Elizabeth Tudor and whoever feels like straying in here.
What: Nightmare plot, which in this case is just how awful the 16th century is to hapless queens.
When: All through the plot.
Where: The back pages of her mind.
Rating: R, for blood, beheading, death, sex, death and beheading.

[Elizabeth herself has fallen at her table, reading a book. A nice enough book for that matter, something silly and senseless.

Nothing at all that reflects what her dreams are about. Welcome to court, ladies and gentleman. 'Tis a merry occasion it seems.

For those taken into this part of dream -- it's not so bad at all, or at least not to start with. In fact the whole of court appears to have come out to this event, the great hall of Hampton is teeming with people. The gold and silver tapestry glitter like fairies wings in the candle light, the clothing of the courtiers is bright with colour, and their extravagant jewels shine so brilliantly. Something not unlike the Masquerade Ball so recently. The ladies with their perfectly made up faces, the men with their elegant manners. There is music playing in the background, and for the most part, it seems to be such a happy and lively place. Banners hang with the emblem of the royal family, the double rose in red and white. It's sewn into the servants clothing, it hangs around the neck of some men and women, carved into the stone and wood in some places, a mark of the gracious hospitality of the host. But what stands out most is they all seem to adore you, bowing to you as you pass as you make your way to whatever is in the centre.

It seems beautiful -- too beautiful. For there is something off with almost off with all of it. Behind their pretty laughter of the women, it sounds so subtly like a snake's hiss. The men smile and their teeth look like the fangs of a wolf. The back of your neck seems to prickle as you make your way through your crowd.

But come, stay a little while? Surely it cannot be so bad? It's just so lovely.]

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[It's against his nature, to linger in a room so full of people doing so very little. The blatant and excessive attention makes his skin crawl. (Never could appreciate his public spotlight.)

He can't remember his reason for coming, can't remember if he even had one, so he turns away to find a door, an exit, anything that might be even the slightest bit more engaging.]

[The minute he walks through that door, it's a completely different room. In fact, it seems to have nothing in common with the room behind him.

This room is lined with men dressed in black. Everything about them is immovable, stone faced, with harsh eyes and harsh mouths that say nothing but cruelty. To the far end of the room, another set of men are sat at a long table, a rank above the rest, marked by the gold chains around their necks. In front of them however, a woman is knelt. The long red hair is a give away though she doesn't look a day over twenty when she turns back when she hears the door open, but she doesn't say anything.

The man to the right of the line bangs a long staff on the floor before he speaks. ]

The Prisoner has entered the chamber!

[Yes, this is better.

He hovers by the door, not allowing any shift in his expression. His eyes slide along the men at the table, lingering for a moment on the man with the staff before snapping to her and staying there.

He folds his hands behind his back and steps forward into the room, silently. (There's not anything to say.) He's apparently meant to be here, so he might as well fulfill his role.]

[The eyes of the men follow him, whispering amongst themselves as the speak continues, reading out from a scroll.]

You are accused of conspiring with Sir Thomas Wyatt and others against their sovereign Majesties, Queen Mary and King Phillip to raise the Lady Elizabeth to the throne.

[Their eyes turn to Elizabeth again, and her hands are clasped tightly together, and she tries, oh she tries.]

For the last time, my lords, I did nothing. I am a faithful subject. I love my sist--

[One of the men rise, slamming his hands against the table, shouting so loudly it echoes off the walls.] Silence, woman! [Elizabeth recoiled, head dropping again. The room regards her silently before looking back up at Sherlock, waiting for his reply to the charges laid against him.]

[His gaze lingers on Elizabeth a few seconds longer, and then it rises to meet the speaker.

He sets his shoulders back and breathes in so he can project to the entire room.]

I have no idea what you're talking about.

[Calm and collected. It's the truth, after all.]

[the men scoff, and they stare him down again.]

Don't lie! We know you are party to it. It's to your advantage.

[they clear their throats and whisper amongst themselves. Before another man rises.]

If you speak of what you know, we may be inclined to show... leniency.

[Sherlock folds his hands and tilts his head, considering. He is ever himself, even displaced.]

Skip the torture and go straight to the execution? Not the the most compelling argument I've ever heard, you'll have to do better.

[there's a sneer.]

No, you idiot, your life will be spared completely! But if death is what you prefer, we suppose that can be arranged... after all, we've got one organised.

[they all stare down at Elizabeth and it's clear. They've no intention of letting her go. They don't care about the truth. They just need a few words to condemn her out loud, that's all.]

[Sherlock glances back down to her as well.]

Never liked giving testimony anyway. Barrister never asks the right questions.

[The man snarls at the refusal.]

Very well, if that's your final answer. Take them both!

[The guards move forward to seize him immediately, another set to take Elizabeth, dragging them through a side door to a darker set of passages. The smell of blood is choking, rotting flesh and somewhere, far off, someone is screaming in pain.

But really, it's nothing to the severed heads tat line the walls. Somewhere a long the line, Elizabeth finds herself next to him. Still just as scared, but she's holding herself together outwardly well.]

Sir, you've done yourself no favour...

There wasn't anything to tell.

[He's not looking at her when he speaks, giving special attention to the floor, the walls (the heads). Except there's no satisfaction for him here, no puzzle to solve -- just the smell of blood burning in the back of his throat.

(Nothing quite so barbaric or disappointing as humanity's long history of politically-sanctioned murder.)]

Though, if you were trying to usurp the throne, you could have gone about it better.

We're both going to die, you realise.

[Her voice is quiet, but resolved. She's been preparing for this for a long time. Since word of the rebellion broke out. It was only a matter of time.

His words make her glare sharply though.]

That would only imply if I was trying to usurp it at all. I don't want the blasted position. It's just blood and death. [The guards stop in front of a cell in time, and the both of them are thrown into it together. It's freezing in their, bone chilling cold.]

[He stares at her for a long moment, and then he nods.]

I believe you. Just checking.

[He conducts himself was as much grace as one can when you're being thrown into holding to wait your own execution. He resists the cold (shut it off, shut it down, body's only transport) and turns his gaze to the room, absorbing information.

Dryly, after a minute or two:]

Though you've gotten plenty of blood and death without it.

[Her hands are held in front of her defensively. She's too highly strung, but when you're so close to death, it's hardly unexpected.]

That's because I am next in line. Even though I did nothing my would be allies still decided to rise in my name. Now they've doomed us all.

[She studies the walls, counts the minutes. It's not the first time she's done this, after all.]

... I'm sorry you've been dragged into this. I don't know how you became part of it...

[He shrugs, like he somehow doesn't care. He doesn't meet her eyes, or even look in her direction.]

Not anything to be done about it now.

[She doesn't say anything to that, because he's right. Her head drops, and she murmurs in Latin to herself, asking for deliverance. It's all she has left, by this point. The minutes stretch on and on. Distantly water drips, and someone starts to scream.

Eventually the guards come back. Snatching them both back up again. ]

Her, first. She's of blood, Her Majesty insisted. [one guard drags her out. She's still not fighting. The remaining guards turn on Sherlock, grinning with it.]

Let's have no fight lad, we can make this nice and simple, clean death and all.

no more dreaming of the dead, as if death itself was undone

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so sorry this took so long!