AN: a short, probably au take on re-education, featuring Sydney. Of course, I don't own Bloodlines.

Summary: She counts time by the periods of light and dark. (a re-education speculation/au)

Part I – Second Coming

263 days. Two hundred sixty three days since she was captured. 263.

But of course that's only relative. She counts by the periods of light and dark. They are never equal or constant, but it's the only thing she has to go on right now. There's no sun here, no moon; only time.

.

And even then she's unsure. How can you really measure time without a watch? How can you be sure that it exists? She tried to count by scratching lines into her skin but they made her stop. No more lines, no more time. No more.

-We could be sitting in eternity without even knowing it. We could live forever in a moment-

.

She's beginning to sound like Adrian.

That's not good, is it? No, probably not.

She's always been the logical one, the clinical one; the one in control. She still is, in a way.

Control your impulses; make them think you're a lamb. But you're not. You're the lion.

Don't use it yet. Keep it hidden. You'll need it one day, when they try to re-ink you. It' won't work.

It can't work.

(You were a firecracker in the beginning, snapping off short responses that would make Adrian proud. Not anymore. You realized early on that the only way to get out was to play along. Make the change believable, of course, but make the change.)

I'm ready to confess my sins.

And what a long list they make.

.

That's about all she controls.

The rest is them: the lights, the sound, the food, the drugs.

265, 266.

The cross in the wall taunts her, winking behind the glass, and she longs to touch it, to fasten it around her neck and feel the weight of the wood against her chest.

You can have it, they say, as a sign of our good will. And she says no, the first six times. (Seven's the charm.)

She thinks, because there's nothing else to do.

She thinks of Keith, and how he raped her sister. And how she made a deal with the devil for vengeance (revenge). And how he's now an empty body with a glass eye.

She thinks of Rose, the vampire (friend?) who she helped on the run. Rose, who killed a man. Rose, who dropped her like a hot potato when it was convenient. (Rose, who's probably helping Adrian tear the world apart looking for you. Probably. Probably?)

She thinks of Zoe, who turned her in. There is a pain in her chest that no words can describe.

267.

268.

She recites facts to dull the boredom.

The Coliseum has over 80 entrances and could accommodate around 50,000 spectators…

You mentioned to us in a previous session that he "dabbled."

Only once.

A man who only rapes once is still considered a rapist.

It's not the same.

How so?

He didn't mean to. He –they – were both drunk.

But that's only his word.

I guess.

Guess?

You're ready for the next level, they say, and she smiles but her heart spasms in fear. She knew it was going to get worse.

It does.

Many roman roads exist to this day, 2000 years after they were made. The exact recipe for roman concrete used in these roads has been lost…

She discovers that there are other things here, besides humans. There are vampires here too.

Some of them are Moroi, clinically and criminally insane.

Some of them are not.

She thinks of Adrian, and how he will come for her, break her out, somehow. How they'll run towards each other and embrace and he will never, ever let her go.

She thinks of Adrian, with his stylishly messy brown hair, with his striking features that remind her of a marble statue, a work of art.

She thinks of Adrian, with his re- no, no, green eyes, they were definitely green. Forest green, but bright with feverish inspiration. With love.

She can't remember what he smells like anymore.

She recites poetry too, when the facts get too monotonous. Poetry is emotion; poetry does not rely upon the facts. Poetry transcends the confines of reality and reaches into the recesses of the soul.

Or that's what he would say.

If he was here.

She hears his voice ringing in the hollow of her ears when the lights go out and thinks, maybe he is.

.

Where are you?

Looking for you, you know that. I would never stop looking for you, not if I had to go to the ends of the Earth. I will find you.

It's already been so long. 269 days.

Nay, my lady, tis but two months.

So little? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I'll have a suit of sables. O heavens! Die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year…

She watches Hamlet play out on the opposite wall and knows this can't possibly be a good sign but thinks at least it's something new.

There are mazes here. Or maybe just one large maze.

They have thick white walls made out of something smooth and hard. It's no use to try and climb them; the sides are free of any imperfections, any ridges that might be used as hand holds. Just run.

She catches sight of two burning red orbs cutting through the darkness, approaching at a terrifying pace, and run she does.

This vampire. He was a spirit user, correct?

Yes.

Can you describe for us what abilities a spirit user has?

Healing, compulsion, dream-walking, aura reading. And telekinesis, or something like that. I only saw it used once.

By him.

No, not by him. By others.

But he could do it. He could do everything you've just described if he wanted.

Well hypothetically, but each user has their own strengths and weaknesses.

Which ones are his strengths?

Dream-walking and aura reading, I guess. And compulsion. He can heal, but it doesn't come as easily for him as it does for Lissa.

Lissa?

Queen Vasilisa Dragomir.

I see. And did he ever use these…powers…on you?

Just the dream-walking and aura reading. That's all.

And how would you know that?

Sorry?

How do you know that he didn't use compulsion on you? You wouldn't remember if he did.

I know he wouldn't do that. I trust him.

Do you, Sydney? Or did he tell you to?

I-

-met a lady in the meads

Full beautiful – a faery's child

Her hair was long, her foot was light

And her eyes were wild.

Just a few more days, she tells herself, and cringes because it has already been years. She remembers so much of it, and so little. It floats out of her grasp, the echoes of smoke from birthday candles blown out too hastily. (Let me just rephrase that wish, please.) She wonders what she would wish for now.

As much as she doesn't remember from this life, and the last, she remembers so much in words. They twist in circles and dance in her head, knotting into an endless loop, and isn't it funny that I had to come down here to realize how skilled I am with them, how much they seem to live on the tip of my tongue and in the crooks of my skin? And I thought only he was the artist. We dance a tumbled, twisted knot/our feet in rusted circuitry/the clock strikes what it once begot/this mask, my new identity…

Day twists into night twists into day, and she goes on.

270.

This is the last phase, they say, with kind smiles and cold eyes. You're to be commended, Sydney, for your excellent recovery. But remember, you still have much to atone for. You must continue to fight the darkness from retaking your soul as you do our work.

She watches their calculating faces, the chair that she will soon sit in, with a mixture of anticipation and horror. This is it. This is it. Don't mess it up here.

I am ready to have the darkness purged, she says with just the right mixture of automaton and walking corpse. Their smiles get impossibly boarder, each one stretching into a rubber rictus.

Have a seat, Sydney, one says, this will all be over in a minute.

Oh yes it will be.

Because this might not work. She was never sealed, there was never enough time, and now there's no time. She has to trust her magic. Her magic that she kept hidden, her magic that they know nothing about. She has to believe it will save her.

She walks to the chair on wooden legs. Sitting down ramps up the edginess to her frame by a thousand and she can feel the nervous energy vibrate in her being. She contains it and exhales out slowly. This will work, this has to work, her human magic will conquer the vampire compulsion.

Unless…

Unless they aren't going to use vampire magic. Unless they somehow found out and the magic they're going to use is human.

Her heart stutters and then picks up double time, and behind the solid mask she wears the fear is bubbling, looking for a way out. She never considered that, not in all the time she had to think here. All of this could end, all for nothing, right now, because she was careless enough to not account for all the variables. Logical and rational are you, Sage?

The hierophant has finished preparations and brings the needle to her cheek. And this could be the last time that Sydney Sage lives, thinks, draws breath, right here in this chair surrounded by wolves, while she may or may not be the lion. This could be it.

No. The center will hold. Believe it, she thinks, and gasps when the needle hits home.

It's funny, but she can't quite remember what that means anymore.

(and what rough beast, it's hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?)

Poems Used: The Second Coming by Yeats, La Bella Dame Sans Merci by Keats, and one I made up.

Plays: The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark by Shakespeare

Part II is coming soon.