Bad Eurotrip, Chapter 5
Jul. 2nd, 2004 11:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thedeadlyhookAt long last, the much-hinted-at very special ILLUSTRATED chapter of "Bad Eurotrip." Get ready for pictorial fun and meta-commentary on the fluidity of story construction. Whee! Images by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
toysdream, text by our dynamic duo.
Previous chapters here
Original story, "Bad Trip," here
ACT FIVE: ONCE UPON A DREAM
Xander Harris spent the rest of the day in search of something to do. With Dawn having vanished into the study to work on her translations, and everyone else away on their own errands, he found himself at a loose end.
So first he'd explored the place--the attic could seriously use more insulation; he made a mental note to mention that to Miss Harkness--and checked out the options on TV--boy, Dawn certainly hadn't been kidding about the two-and-a-half channels--but by late afternoon, he'd been forced to admit that there was nothing more to do in the house. So he'd taken off for a walk, hoping that a change of scenery might distract him from the thoughts that circled his head.
Setting a brisk pace, he cut across the Wiltshire landscape, following the road over rolling hills. From a breezy hilltop, he studied the land spread out below--open space, small clusters of houses, snaky trails of footpaths over the hills, and the leading edge of a forested area not too far away. A pair of horses and riders galloped across the valley, tiny as dolls.
The wind tugged at his hair as he stood there and he shivered, suddenly caught up in the memory of another grassy hill in another place, beneath the spreading brances of an impossibly tall tree, with a pale demon standing at his side.
He started walking again, but the thoughts wouldn't leave him alone.
His conversation with Dawn that morning still weighed heavily on his mind. He'd only really meant to apologize, not revisit the subject of Buffy and Spike--god, even thinking of the two of them with their names connected like that was still an adjustment. Never mind what Giles thought, never mind what Dawn said herself. Some things just weren't right in any sense of the word.
Like the story he'd told Dawn to explain his own half-baked ideas about love.
Although it had been a good story, he had to admit that. The army-man metaphor sounded right to him--that was just how it had been with Anya, and the others before her. Like an accident that just happened and kept happening, and in the end you had to go along with it. Complete with marching orders and KP and dishonorable discharge at the end...
Anya probably would have told it different, though. Her version probably would have been more like a romance novel, albeit one gone horribly wrong--demon turns human, finds love, loses it and dies. Or maybe a screwball comedy, with its two madcap protagonists capering their way toward an unhappy ending, one where the murder doesn't get solved and the heroine gets killed instead of saved. Or a fairytale where the prince turns back into a frog and leaves the heroine crying at the altar.
He wondered what Buffy and Spike's story might have been like.
Xander plodded along the side of the road, only dimly aware of the dark clouds massing overhead. As the first drops of rain fell he barely registered them.
He had his own version, of course. In his story, Buffy was always the hero, brave and shining and good. And Spike was... well, something occasionally tolerable but always evil. Always the one in the wrong. Good guy and bad guy, hero and villain. Opposite sides of the big, eternal coin. And the good guy always wins.
Because that was how the world worked, right?
They'd never talked about it. When it came right down to it, none of them had wanted to know what had really happened between their friend the hero, and the monster she'd been foolish enough to mistake for a man. They'd made up their own story instead. But was that the truth, or just a version of it?
It was raining harder now.
If he was honest with himself, he had to admit he wasn't sure what he could believe anymore. His own memories had begun playing tricks on him, teasing him, changing shape. He remembered Buffy in her bathroom the year before, teary-eyed and trembling, her robe clutched tight around her neck, like an abused woman out of a Lifetime TV movie... but he hadn't actually seen what happened, had he? And she'd certainly never talked about it. Everything he thought that he knew, everything he was sure of, was because his brain had taken that image and filled in the rest.
He'd just assumed.
The rain had become a downpour now, the water cascading down in sheets. He jammed his hands into his pockets and turned about to head back.
It had been raining like this the day he'd walked out of his wedding. He'd been lost then, deep in his own fears, terrified of making a mistake. And somehow, although the last thing he'd wanted was to hurt Anya, hurt the woman he loved, it had never occurred to him how much he'd hurt her by walking away.
Or had it?
Maybe it wasn't exactly that simple. It could be that he'd just hoped he'd be able to explain it all to her, make her see things his way, make it right again--his own memories of that day were hazy. Both versions sounded plausible. Perhaps they were both true.
Not that it so much mattered now.
He couldn't help but wonder again if Anya was in hell. It was like an itch he had to keep scratching, a scab he couldn't stop picking at.
She'd been a demon for a thousand years, but she'd been human when it counted. When the bill came due, as Spike had said. And maybe it really was as simple as that--your accounts got tallied and if they came up negative, off you went, like someone caught standing when the song stopped in musical chairs. Maybe Anya and Spike were even together there, keeping each other company in a lake of fire or whatever, tormenting the pitchfork-wielding imps with withering sarcasm. A part of him liked that idea better than her being there alone.
Head low, he walked through the rain back toward the witch house.
...........
It rained steadily throughout the night and the following day. By the time Giles returned from his errands, with Sharon Fleet Foster and their two Slayer bodyguards in tow, the ground around Miss Harkness's house was well on its way to becoming mud.
Miss Harkness, waiting just inside the back door, watched with more than a hint of amusement as they clambered out of the Land Rover and stumbled across the muddy garden. Giles led the way, holding his umbrella over Sharon's head and guiding the blind seer around the largest of the puddles. Then came Greta and Dominique, doing their best to keep their elegant footwear out of the muck. "Temps horrible de l'anglais," Dominique wailed as her foot slid almost up to its ankle into a soggy patch of ground. "I curse you ten thousand times!"
"Welcome back," Miss Harkness said as Giles and Sharon pried off their muddy shoes. "Any news from Devon?"
"Well," Sharon replied, "we consulted with my coven, and they say we should be relatively safe here in England. Rupert's lot have three Slayers under their supervision back in London, and Buffy Summers seems to have gathered a similar number with her before leaving for Europe..." She tugged at her black dress, which the rain had plastered to her slender body. "Good heavens, I'm absolutely sopping wet. Excuse me a minute."
Giles watched for a minute as Sharon made her way down the hallway to her room, her wet skirt clinging to her thighs, fingertips brushing along the wall to orient herself. Then the heat of the house fogged his glasses, and he took them off with a sigh and set about wiping the lenses clean.
"So we needn't worry about an enemy attack, then," Miss Harkness prompted him. "The safeguards we have in place should be effective against anything short of a Slayer. Or Slayers, God forbid."
"Yes, I believe so. All of Britain's Slayers appear to be accounted for, and the potentially dangerous ones are now on the mainland." Giles's mouth twisted into an ironic smile. "We can only hope that England's geographic isolation proves as effective against the enemy's agents as it is against rabies."
"Was?" Greta inquired from over his shoulder. "Did you just compare the Slayers to the rabid dog?"
"How unkind," Dominique pouted. "Watch out, Mister Giles! Je suis un chien fou!" She barked for dramatic effect, and then the two Slayers dissolved into giggling laughter and romped away down the hall.
The two adults ignored this and continued their discussion. "Young Dawn Summers has been hiding in the study with Miss Carter," Miss Harkness reported calmly. "They've been translating the documents you brought back from London, and cross-referencing them with materials from our own archive. They've made amazing progress, actually. I believe they'll be ready to present some of their findings tonight."
"Excellent," Giles nodded. He shrugged off his dripping trenchcoat and draped it over the coat stand at the end of the hallway. "They're working on the mythological passage from the Abyssinian Codex, correct?"
"Indeed. From what Miss Carter tells me, they should have quite a story to tell us."
...........
Later that evening, well after nightfall, Miss Harkness summoned her guests to the study to hear the results of this research. Milly Carter sat ready at the writing desk, a pile of handwritten notes and annotations in front of her, and precarious stacks of manuscripts and leather-bound journals piled by her side. Dawn was curled up on one of the couches, a tumble of dictionaries scattered on the floor around her.
"Hey, guys," Dawn yawned as the others filed in. "Sorry if I'm kinda sleepy. Been up all night translating and stuff."
"That's okay, Dawn," Milly assured her. "I can take it from here."
"You heard the lady, Dawnster," Xander smiled. "You should get some rest. I want those feet up on that couch pronto, you got me? If, uh, that's okay, that is," he amended quickly, shooting Miss Harkness an apologetic look.
Miss Harkness nodded her approval, and Dawn stretched out on the couch. She rested her slippered feet on one of the armrests, and found herself suprisingly comfortable.
Milly coughed politely. "The, ah, Abyssinian Codex," she began, "contains fragments of an ancient legend concerning the creation of the world, and the overthrow of the demonic beings who once ruled it."
"That's right," Willow said. "That guy Sirk, at Wolfram & Hart, said it was an allegory about the Old Ones. And there was some kind of framing device, right? A story within a story?"
"Uh, yes. But we haven't finished translating that part yet." Milly flipped the pages of her notebook, sounding slightly flustered. "It's about a king who visits the, ah, dweller on the threshold--the gatekeeper to the underworld--and asks him to restore the life of his dead companion..."
"Negus," Dawn mumbled, raising one drowsy eyelid. "That was his name... Not the gatekeeper, the other guy. It's the Ethiopian word for 'king'."
Giles frowned, settling deeper into his chair. "Negus... The word does mean 'king,' yes. But I believe it's originally derived from the name of an individual, as with Caesar." He thought for a moment, searching his memory. "I believe there's an Abyssinian relic in the British Museum, a sarcophagus of some kind, consecrated to a ruler named Negus. Perhaps it has some bearing on this story."
"Ooh, a museum field trip," Xander said, a little too enthusiastically to be taken as sincere. "Maybe we can visit some nice libraries while we're at it. Because, hey, still haven't had enough of that exciting research over here."
"The gatekeeper then tells his own story," Milly continued, voice raised in slight irritation at the interruption, "which is the part we've been working on. We also found some related accounts in the coven's own archives. Most of this was passed down between the generations as part of an oral tradition..." Willow giggled, and the young witch paused to shoot her a nasty look. "They're really little more than fairytales, I'm afraid."
"Yeah, but even fairytales are based in some kind of truth, right?" Kennedy asked, her hand surreptitiously squeezing Willow's knee. "That's what Sirk said, anyway."
"Well, Dawn seemed to think that--" Milly glanced over at the couch, and saw that Dawn had already dozed off, head slumped onto her chest and one arm dangling onto the carpeted floor.
"Oh-oh," Willow sighed. "Should I wake her up again?"
"It's okay, really," Milly said. "I have all her notes right here. And she's been over this story so many times now that she could probably tell it in her sleep."
...........
In her sleep...
In her sleep, Dawn dreamed. She walked across a moonlit meadow towards a withered, almost leafless tree. She noted without surprise that a door was set into its trunk.
She knelt before the low door, hitching up her frock so as not to get it dirty. The door was locked, and she studied the keyhole with dismay. How would she ever get it open? But as Dawn reached out to touch it, the door swung open, and after a moment's hesitation she crawled through into the tree's interior.
"We are well met, my lady." A man stepped forward from the shadows and bowed deeply. "As the guardian of this place, I bid you welcome." He was long-haired and plainly dressed, and there was an air of calm strength about him that Dawn instinctively trusted. He held a lit torch in his left hand, and with his other hand he beckoned her to follow him.
They came to a wooden bridge, which spanned a vast and bottomless pit. The pit was filled with stacks of books, which extended as far down as Dawn could see. As she stared, a gust of wind rose from the pit, and the stacked books swayed uneasily, their leather bindings groaning. "What is this place?" she asked.
"A burial ground," the man answered. "A resting place for forgotten stories. But stories do not die as we do." He turned to Dawn, and in his arms he held an ancient book, its pages yellowed and tattered. "This is one of the oldest, perhaps the first story of all. And look! Now it is awakening."
Dawn took the book from his hands, and its pages fell open to a colorful full-page illustration. The figures in the picture moved as she watched them--a legion of armored figures swarming over the body of an immense serpent, stabbing at it with spears and swords, tearing its body apart.
"I know this one," she murmured.
"Of course," the man replied. "You are the key that has unlocked this story. But this is merely the first page."
In the beginning there was only the void of Chaos, which was substance without form.
Then, into the shapeless darkness, came the Old Ones.
They were a race of great beings who walked between worlds and shaped them to their whim. Some called them demons, and some called them gods.
Together the Old Ones subdued the worm named Chaos. From the raw substance of its body, they made the world we know.
Stripped of its substance, formless Chaos was cast into the pit beneath the world. Here it remains, the First and Last of all things, whispering in the darkness as it gnaws the bones of the dead.
A chill ran down Dawn's spine, and she turned quickly to the second page.
Then began the time of the Old Ones, an age of demons and magic.
For countless eons, great beings walked the earth. Untold power emanated from all quarters, and the seeds of good and evil were sown.
The mightiest of the Old Ones was the King of the River. When he walked, his feet were on the ground and his head was in the skies, and his eyes were the sun and the moon.
The River King was powerful and wise, and his land was prosperous and fruitful.
"Hey," Dawn asked, "why does the River King look like Buffy?"
The man smiled. "A single story may take many forms, my lady, and perhaps this is yours. Let us see what lies on the third page."
Few among the Old Ones could rival the River King. One such was the Prince of Storms, the spirit of the desert wind.
The Storm Prince was a cunning sorceror, a master of powerful magics.
Wielding fire and lightning, he raged in the wilderness. His domain gave forth no grain and yielded no fruit.
But the River King was his brother, and his comrade in arms. And so the Storm Prince was not jealous of his brother's domain.
"I have a feeling that's not going to last," Dawn sighed. She turned to the fourth page.
And what of the worm of Chaos, which coiled beneath the world and gnawed the bones of the dead?
Over time, the world had given birth to new creatures, mortal animals who lived and died and returned to the earth. The worm devoured them, and it grew strong.
When the worm was strong enough, it entered the dreams of the Prince of Storms. For three nights, the worm whispered in his ear.
Soon the prince's heart was filled with envy, and he decided to rise up against his brother.
Dawn frowned. "It keeps saying he, but in the pictures they're all women."
"Perhaps they were neither," the man replied, motioning her to turn the fifth page.
Through magic and treachery, the Storm Prince and his followers overcame the King of the River.
The River King could not be slain outright, for the Old Ones did not die as mortals do. Instead, they sealed him in a tomb and buried him deep beneath the earth.
The Prince of Storms took his brother's throne, but he did not rule wisely or well.
Soon the Old Ones began to war against each other, shaking the world with the force of their struggles.
"That's demons for you, I guess. Any excuse for a fight." Dawn continued on to the sixth page.
It was a time of darkness, when gods and demons battled in the skies.
There was drought and famine, and fruit withered on the vine. The very elements warred amongst themselves.
Seeing this, mortal men and women could only tremble in fear.
Dawn watched the tiny figures move, clinging tighter as the elements raged about them. "Poor Mom," she mused. "I hope she wasn't scared. I hope... I hope it was all over quickly."
"The story does not end here," the man reminded her. "There is still the seventh page."
Among the mortal men and women, there were a few who possessed great knowledge.
These were the first witches, guardians of their people.
In time, there appeared two witches of unmatched power and wisdom. One knew the secrets of life, of birth and healing and creation. And the other knew all the secrets of death.
Together they sought the tomb of the River King, that they might use their arts to restore the fallen monarch and end the suffering of their people.
Dawn giggled. "Witches? That's an unusual bit of casting."
The man shrugged. "I do not know these men. But you are the shaper of this story." He watched as Dawn continued on to the eighth page.
Because they understood the secrets of life and death, the two witches knew that all things return at last to their beginning.
So it was that they sought the king's tomb at the source of the river, where they found a great tree.
Beneath the roots of the tree was the cavern where the River King lay entombed, neither alive nor dead.
"The source of the river," Dawn echoed. "The cavern beneath the tree... That seems to be coming up a lot. I wonder if it means something?"
But the man didn't answer, and so she quietly turned to the ninth page.
But for all their arts, the witches were unable to awaken the River King to life.
In their despair, they cried out for help, and it was the worm of Chaos who answered their call.
The worm told them to draw forth the blood of the sleeping king. Where the blood was spilled, a child grew.
This child will be your champion, the worm said, and mine also. Thus do I give it a portion of my strength.
The picture moved as Dawn watched, the form of an newborn baby emerging from the demon king's spilled blood. "Yuck," she said, and moved on to the tenth page.
The child grew into a mighty warrior, a champion of the people.
The two witches raised the child as their own, teaching it their arts of life and death. They named it Destroyer, slayer of demons and gods.
A weapon was given to this child as its birthright, a spear forged in the dark heart of the earth.
The name of the weapon was Divider. It was made to cleave the living from the dead, and deliver all to feed the worm.
"Hey, that's me!" Dawn peered into the picture, watching herself grow older and taller. The rose in the figure's hand bloomed and withered, its petals dropping away as she looked.
With some effort, she tore her eyes away and turned to the eleventh page.
Soon the Destroyer came of age, and went forth to do battle with the Storm Prince and his followers.
Neither demon nor mortal, the Destroyer walked between the worlds of night and day, hunting the creatures of darkness. One by one, they fell to the Divider's blade.
After long eons of warring amongst themselves, the Old Ones had become weak. But they were still too proud to fear the Destroyer.
Their pride was to be their downfall. So has it ever been.
"I like this part," Dawn grinned.
The man chuckled. "I can see why. But our time here is short, and we must hurry on to the twelfth page."
For many years, the Destroyer hunted the creatures of darkness and drove them from this world.
At last the Prince of Storms felt the blade of the Divider, and suffered a grievous wound. Thus was the desert wind stilled.
Now the Old Ones found they had lost their purchase on our world. A third were cast into the pit, and a third fled into the wasteland. Only vestiges of their power remained.
So it was that the time of gods and demons came to an end, and the age of mortal men and women began.
Dawn pouted. "We don't get to see the final battle? That seems like a cheat."
"That is another story," the man said. "Perhaps it too will be unlocked in time. But for now, there remains only the final page."
One question remains. What became of the River King, wisest and most powerful of the Old Ones, who the witches tried in vain to awaken?
He dwells now on the threshold between the world of the living and the world of the dead. He rules no kingdom and wears no crown.
You may find him at the source of the river, in the cavern beneath the tree.
It is said that he grants favors to those who pass his tests. For he alone has the power to open the gates of the underworld.
But if you seek the keeper of the gate, beware his anger. For he has waited at the threshold for a very long time, with the laughter of the worm ringing in his ears.
The man closed the book. "That is all, my lady. There are no more pages."
Dawn stood on the bridge, the ancient book clutched to her chest. "I guess this is the part where I wake up," she said. "Do I get to take this with me?"
The man nodded. "Of course. It is your story now."
The wind rose again, rushing up from the pit, and the stacked books swayed and creaked. The world began to spin around her, and the light slowly faded to darkness, and a gentle hand was shaking her shoulder as she woke from her dream.
...........
In a small town near Carcassonne, roughly four hundred miles south of Paris, Jeanne Darcy dreamed of an angel who came to her in the night. The angel took the form of a woman, small and blonde, and dressed in flowing robes of shimmering white.
"Hello again," the angel said, inspecting her fingernails. "How's it going, Jeanne?" She was speaking English, not French, but since this was a dream Jeanne understood her regardless.
"I have done as you instructed, most holy--"
"Please. Just plain Buffy is fine."
"Yes, uh, Buffy." Jeanne knelt before the angel and bowed her head humbly. "I have hunted the demons and the outsiders, and I have made the signs, so that all might see them and know that the great day draws near." She peeked up shyly at the angel's luminous face. "Have I done well?"
"Yeah, yeah. You're a real trooper. Definite merit badge material." The angel crouched and looked her in the eye. "But listen up, Jeanne. There's been a slight change of plans. I, uh, we have a new mission for you." She paused dramatically. "How are you on witches?"
Jeanne frowned. "Well... I suppose they're wicked, aren't they?" The angel nodded encouragingly. "They worship the devil, and conjure demons, and, and..."
"That's my girl. So you know what needs to be done about them, right?"
"Yes, but..." Tears began to well up in the girl's eyes. "Killing demons was frightening, but I never doubted it was right. Killing people, though? Even wicked people? I don't know if I can carry out this task."
"Oh, for heaven's sake. Don't be such a martyr, Jeanne." The angel rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Look, I'll tell you what. Just go out there and do the legwork, and if you find you need a little help with the actual slaying part, then just invoke me and I'll give you a little push. Like I did that first time, remember?"
"Je suis l'oeil observant," Jeanne recited reverently. "Je suis l'oreille d'écoute."
"...I am the finger that picks the nose. Hah hah, just kidding." The angel rose to her feet again, absentmindedly smoothing her robes. "Okay, great. Now let's talk targets. First we have this coven in Toulouse..."
She began rattling off a list of names, descriptions, tactical suggestions. Jeanne tried to keep up, but soon it was more than she could take in, and she waved her hands in protest.
"Don't worry, kiddo," the angel smiled. "I'm writing this down for you as we speak. Or rather, you are."
"Most holy--uh, Buffy. I'm sorry, I don't understand."
"You're sleepwalking, Jeanne. You're standing over your little writing desk, pencil in hand. You're making a list." The angel's eyes took on a faraway look, as if regarding something Jeanne could not see. "It's beautiful outside. There's a little sliver of moon peeking through your window, and then the rest is darkness... Soon it will all be darkness, Jeanne. Very soon now."
Jeanne shivered, but she said nothing. She was a good girl, after all, and she always did what the angels told her.
toysdream, text by our dynamic duo. Previous chapters here
Original story, "Bad Trip," here
ACT FIVE: ONCE UPON A DREAM
Xander Harris spent the rest of the day in search of something to do. With Dawn having vanished into the study to work on her translations, and everyone else away on their own errands, he found himself at a loose end.
So first he'd explored the place--the attic could seriously use more insulation; he made a mental note to mention that to Miss Harkness--and checked out the options on TV--boy, Dawn certainly hadn't been kidding about the two-and-a-half channels--but by late afternoon, he'd been forced to admit that there was nothing more to do in the house. So he'd taken off for a walk, hoping that a change of scenery might distract him from the thoughts that circled his head.
Setting a brisk pace, he cut across the Wiltshire landscape, following the road over rolling hills. From a breezy hilltop, he studied the land spread out below--open space, small clusters of houses, snaky trails of footpaths over the hills, and the leading edge of a forested area not too far away. A pair of horses and riders galloped across the valley, tiny as dolls.
The wind tugged at his hair as he stood there and he shivered, suddenly caught up in the memory of another grassy hill in another place, beneath the spreading brances of an impossibly tall tree, with a pale demon standing at his side.
He started walking again, but the thoughts wouldn't leave him alone.
His conversation with Dawn that morning still weighed heavily on his mind. He'd only really meant to apologize, not revisit the subject of Buffy and Spike--god, even thinking of the two of them with their names connected like that was still an adjustment. Never mind what Giles thought, never mind what Dawn said herself. Some things just weren't right in any sense of the word.
Like the story he'd told Dawn to explain his own half-baked ideas about love.
Although it had been a good story, he had to admit that. The army-man metaphor sounded right to him--that was just how it had been with Anya, and the others before her. Like an accident that just happened and kept happening, and in the end you had to go along with it. Complete with marching orders and KP and dishonorable discharge at the end...
Anya probably would have told it different, though. Her version probably would have been more like a romance novel, albeit one gone horribly wrong--demon turns human, finds love, loses it and dies. Or maybe a screwball comedy, with its two madcap protagonists capering their way toward an unhappy ending, one where the murder doesn't get solved and the heroine gets killed instead of saved. Or a fairytale where the prince turns back into a frog and leaves the heroine crying at the altar.
He wondered what Buffy and Spike's story might have been like.
Xander plodded along the side of the road, only dimly aware of the dark clouds massing overhead. As the first drops of rain fell he barely registered them.
He had his own version, of course. In his story, Buffy was always the hero, brave and shining and good. And Spike was... well, something occasionally tolerable but always evil. Always the one in the wrong. Good guy and bad guy, hero and villain. Opposite sides of the big, eternal coin. And the good guy always wins.
Because that was how the world worked, right?
They'd never talked about it. When it came right down to it, none of them had wanted to know what had really happened between their friend the hero, and the monster she'd been foolish enough to mistake for a man. They'd made up their own story instead. But was that the truth, or just a version of it?
It was raining harder now.
If he was honest with himself, he had to admit he wasn't sure what he could believe anymore. His own memories had begun playing tricks on him, teasing him, changing shape. He remembered Buffy in her bathroom the year before, teary-eyed and trembling, her robe clutched tight around her neck, like an abused woman out of a Lifetime TV movie... but he hadn't actually seen what happened, had he? And she'd certainly never talked about it. Everything he thought that he knew, everything he was sure of, was because his brain had taken that image and filled in the rest.
He'd just assumed.
The rain had become a downpour now, the water cascading down in sheets. He jammed his hands into his pockets and turned about to head back.
It had been raining like this the day he'd walked out of his wedding. He'd been lost then, deep in his own fears, terrified of making a mistake. And somehow, although the last thing he'd wanted was to hurt Anya, hurt the woman he loved, it had never occurred to him how much he'd hurt her by walking away.
Or had it?
Maybe it wasn't exactly that simple. It could be that he'd just hoped he'd be able to explain it all to her, make her see things his way, make it right again--his own memories of that day were hazy. Both versions sounded plausible. Perhaps they were both true.
Not that it so much mattered now.
He couldn't help but wonder again if Anya was in hell. It was like an itch he had to keep scratching, a scab he couldn't stop picking at.
She'd been a demon for a thousand years, but she'd been human when it counted. When the bill came due, as Spike had said. And maybe it really was as simple as that--your accounts got tallied and if they came up negative, off you went, like someone caught standing when the song stopped in musical chairs. Maybe Anya and Spike were even together there, keeping each other company in a lake of fire or whatever, tormenting the pitchfork-wielding imps with withering sarcasm. A part of him liked that idea better than her being there alone.
Head low, he walked through the rain back toward the witch house.
...........
It rained steadily throughout the night and the following day. By the time Giles returned from his errands, with Sharon Fleet Foster and their two Slayer bodyguards in tow, the ground around Miss Harkness's house was well on its way to becoming mud.
Miss Harkness, waiting just inside the back door, watched with more than a hint of amusement as they clambered out of the Land Rover and stumbled across the muddy garden. Giles led the way, holding his umbrella over Sharon's head and guiding the blind seer around the largest of the puddles. Then came Greta and Dominique, doing their best to keep their elegant footwear out of the muck. "Temps horrible de l'anglais," Dominique wailed as her foot slid almost up to its ankle into a soggy patch of ground. "I curse you ten thousand times!"
"Welcome back," Miss Harkness said as Giles and Sharon pried off their muddy shoes. "Any news from Devon?"
"Well," Sharon replied, "we consulted with my coven, and they say we should be relatively safe here in England. Rupert's lot have three Slayers under their supervision back in London, and Buffy Summers seems to have gathered a similar number with her before leaving for Europe..." She tugged at her black dress, which the rain had plastered to her slender body. "Good heavens, I'm absolutely sopping wet. Excuse me a minute."
Giles watched for a minute as Sharon made her way down the hallway to her room, her wet skirt clinging to her thighs, fingertips brushing along the wall to orient herself. Then the heat of the house fogged his glasses, and he took them off with a sigh and set about wiping the lenses clean.
"So we needn't worry about an enemy attack, then," Miss Harkness prompted him. "The safeguards we have in place should be effective against anything short of a Slayer. Or Slayers, God forbid."
"Yes, I believe so. All of Britain's Slayers appear to be accounted for, and the potentially dangerous ones are now on the mainland." Giles's mouth twisted into an ironic smile. "We can only hope that England's geographic isolation proves as effective against the enemy's agents as it is against rabies."
"Was?" Greta inquired from over his shoulder. "Did you just compare the Slayers to the rabid dog?"
"How unkind," Dominique pouted. "Watch out, Mister Giles! Je suis un chien fou!" She barked for dramatic effect, and then the two Slayers dissolved into giggling laughter and romped away down the hall.
The two adults ignored this and continued their discussion. "Young Dawn Summers has been hiding in the study with Miss Carter," Miss Harkness reported calmly. "They've been translating the documents you brought back from London, and cross-referencing them with materials from our own archive. They've made amazing progress, actually. I believe they'll be ready to present some of their findings tonight."
"Excellent," Giles nodded. He shrugged off his dripping trenchcoat and draped it over the coat stand at the end of the hallway. "They're working on the mythological passage from the Abyssinian Codex, correct?"
"Indeed. From what Miss Carter tells me, they should have quite a story to tell us."
...........
Later that evening, well after nightfall, Miss Harkness summoned her guests to the study to hear the results of this research. Milly Carter sat ready at the writing desk, a pile of handwritten notes and annotations in front of her, and precarious stacks of manuscripts and leather-bound journals piled by her side. Dawn was curled up on one of the couches, a tumble of dictionaries scattered on the floor around her.
"Hey, guys," Dawn yawned as the others filed in. "Sorry if I'm kinda sleepy. Been up all night translating and stuff."
"That's okay, Dawn," Milly assured her. "I can take it from here."
"You heard the lady, Dawnster," Xander smiled. "You should get some rest. I want those feet up on that couch pronto, you got me? If, uh, that's okay, that is," he amended quickly, shooting Miss Harkness an apologetic look.
Miss Harkness nodded her approval, and Dawn stretched out on the couch. She rested her slippered feet on one of the armrests, and found herself suprisingly comfortable.
Milly coughed politely. "The, ah, Abyssinian Codex," she began, "contains fragments of an ancient legend concerning the creation of the world, and the overthrow of the demonic beings who once ruled it."
"That's right," Willow said. "That guy Sirk, at Wolfram & Hart, said it was an allegory about the Old Ones. And there was some kind of framing device, right? A story within a story?"
"Uh, yes. But we haven't finished translating that part yet." Milly flipped the pages of her notebook, sounding slightly flustered. "It's about a king who visits the, ah, dweller on the threshold--the gatekeeper to the underworld--and asks him to restore the life of his dead companion..."
"Negus," Dawn mumbled, raising one drowsy eyelid. "That was his name... Not the gatekeeper, the other guy. It's the Ethiopian word for 'king'."
Giles frowned, settling deeper into his chair. "Negus... The word does mean 'king,' yes. But I believe it's originally derived from the name of an individual, as with Caesar." He thought for a moment, searching his memory. "I believe there's an Abyssinian relic in the British Museum, a sarcophagus of some kind, consecrated to a ruler named Negus. Perhaps it has some bearing on this story."
"Ooh, a museum field trip," Xander said, a little too enthusiastically to be taken as sincere. "Maybe we can visit some nice libraries while we're at it. Because, hey, still haven't had enough of that exciting research over here."
"The gatekeeper then tells his own story," Milly continued, voice raised in slight irritation at the interruption, "which is the part we've been working on. We also found some related accounts in the coven's own archives. Most of this was passed down between the generations as part of an oral tradition..." Willow giggled, and the young witch paused to shoot her a nasty look. "They're really little more than fairytales, I'm afraid."
"Yeah, but even fairytales are based in some kind of truth, right?" Kennedy asked, her hand surreptitiously squeezing Willow's knee. "That's what Sirk said, anyway."
"Well, Dawn seemed to think that--" Milly glanced over at the couch, and saw that Dawn had already dozed off, head slumped onto her chest and one arm dangling onto the carpeted floor.
"Oh-oh," Willow sighed. "Should I wake her up again?"
"It's okay, really," Milly said. "I have all her notes right here. And she's been over this story so many times now that she could probably tell it in her sleep."
...........
In her sleep...
In her sleep, Dawn dreamed. She walked across a moonlit meadow towards a withered, almost leafless tree. She noted without surprise that a door was set into its trunk.
She knelt before the low door, hitching up her frock so as not to get it dirty. The door was locked, and she studied the keyhole with dismay. How would she ever get it open? But as Dawn reached out to touch it, the door swung open, and after a moment's hesitation she crawled through into the tree's interior.
"We are well met, my lady." A man stepped forward from the shadows and bowed deeply. "As the guardian of this place, I bid you welcome." He was long-haired and plainly dressed, and there was an air of calm strength about him that Dawn instinctively trusted. He held a lit torch in his left hand, and with his other hand he beckoned her to follow him.
They came to a wooden bridge, which spanned a vast and bottomless pit. The pit was filled with stacks of books, which extended as far down as Dawn could see. As she stared, a gust of wind rose from the pit, and the stacked books swayed uneasily, their leather bindings groaning. "What is this place?" she asked.
"A burial ground," the man answered. "A resting place for forgotten stories. But stories do not die as we do." He turned to Dawn, and in his arms he held an ancient book, its pages yellowed and tattered. "This is one of the oldest, perhaps the first story of all. And look! Now it is awakening."
Dawn took the book from his hands, and its pages fell open to a colorful full-page illustration. The figures in the picture moved as she watched them--a legion of armored figures swarming over the body of an immense serpent, stabbing at it with spears and swords, tearing its body apart.
"I know this one," she murmured.
"Of course," the man replied. "You are the key that has unlocked this story. But this is merely the first page."
In the beginning there was only the void of Chaos, which was substance without form.Then, into the shapeless darkness, came the Old Ones.
They were a race of great beings who walked between worlds and shaped them to their whim. Some called them demons, and some called them gods.
Together the Old Ones subdued the worm named Chaos. From the raw substance of its body, they made the world we know.
Stripped of its substance, formless Chaos was cast into the pit beneath the world. Here it remains, the First and Last of all things, whispering in the darkness as it gnaws the bones of the dead.
A chill ran down Dawn's spine, and she turned quickly to the second page.
Then began the time of the Old Ones, an age of demons and magic.For countless eons, great beings walked the earth. Untold power emanated from all quarters, and the seeds of good and evil were sown.
The mightiest of the Old Ones was the King of the River. When he walked, his feet were on the ground and his head was in the skies, and his eyes were the sun and the moon.
The River King was powerful and wise, and his land was prosperous and fruitful.
"Hey," Dawn asked, "why does the River King look like Buffy?"
The man smiled. "A single story may take many forms, my lady, and perhaps this is yours. Let us see what lies on the third page."
Few among the Old Ones could rival the River King. One such was the Prince of Storms, the spirit of the desert wind.The Storm Prince was a cunning sorceror, a master of powerful magics.
Wielding fire and lightning, he raged in the wilderness. His domain gave forth no grain and yielded no fruit.
But the River King was his brother, and his comrade in arms. And so the Storm Prince was not jealous of his brother's domain.
"I have a feeling that's not going to last," Dawn sighed. She turned to the fourth page.
And what of the worm of Chaos, which coiled beneath the world and gnawed the bones of the dead?Over time, the world had given birth to new creatures, mortal animals who lived and died and returned to the earth. The worm devoured them, and it grew strong.
When the worm was strong enough, it entered the dreams of the Prince of Storms. For three nights, the worm whispered in his ear.
Soon the prince's heart was filled with envy, and he decided to rise up against his brother.
Dawn frowned. "It keeps saying he, but in the pictures they're all women."
"Perhaps they were neither," the man replied, motioning her to turn the fifth page.
Through magic and treachery, the Storm Prince and his followers overcame the King of the River.The River King could not be slain outright, for the Old Ones did not die as mortals do. Instead, they sealed him in a tomb and buried him deep beneath the earth.
The Prince of Storms took his brother's throne, but he did not rule wisely or well.
Soon the Old Ones began to war against each other, shaking the world with the force of their struggles.
"That's demons for you, I guess. Any excuse for a fight." Dawn continued on to the sixth page.
It was a time of darkness, when gods and demons battled in the skies.There was drought and famine, and fruit withered on the vine. The very elements warred amongst themselves.
Seeing this, mortal men and women could only tremble in fear.
Dawn watched the tiny figures move, clinging tighter as the elements raged about them. "Poor Mom," she mused. "I hope she wasn't scared. I hope... I hope it was all over quickly."
"The story does not end here," the man reminded her. "There is still the seventh page."
Among the mortal men and women, there were a few who possessed great knowledge.These were the first witches, guardians of their people.
In time, there appeared two witches of unmatched power and wisdom. One knew the secrets of life, of birth and healing and creation. And the other knew all the secrets of death.
Together they sought the tomb of the River King, that they might use their arts to restore the fallen monarch and end the suffering of their people.
Dawn giggled. "Witches? That's an unusual bit of casting."
The man shrugged. "I do not know these men. But you are the shaper of this story." He watched as Dawn continued on to the eighth page.
Because they understood the secrets of life and death, the two witches knew that all things return at last to their beginning.So it was that they sought the king's tomb at the source of the river, where they found a great tree.
Beneath the roots of the tree was the cavern where the River King lay entombed, neither alive nor dead.
"The source of the river," Dawn echoed. "The cavern beneath the tree... That seems to be coming up a lot. I wonder if it means something?"
But the man didn't answer, and so she quietly turned to the ninth page.
But for all their arts, the witches were unable to awaken the River King to life.In their despair, they cried out for help, and it was the worm of Chaos who answered their call.
The worm told them to draw forth the blood of the sleeping king. Where the blood was spilled, a child grew.
This child will be your champion, the worm said, and mine also. Thus do I give it a portion of my strength.
The picture moved as Dawn watched, the form of an newborn baby emerging from the demon king's spilled blood. "Yuck," she said, and moved on to the tenth page.
The child grew into a mighty warrior, a champion of the people.The two witches raised the child as their own, teaching it their arts of life and death. They named it Destroyer, slayer of demons and gods.
A weapon was given to this child as its birthright, a spear forged in the dark heart of the earth.
The name of the weapon was Divider. It was made to cleave the living from the dead, and deliver all to feed the worm.
"Hey, that's me!" Dawn peered into the picture, watching herself grow older and taller. The rose in the figure's hand bloomed and withered, its petals dropping away as she looked.
With some effort, she tore her eyes away and turned to the eleventh page.
Soon the Destroyer came of age, and went forth to do battle with the Storm Prince and his followers.Neither demon nor mortal, the Destroyer walked between the worlds of night and day, hunting the creatures of darkness. One by one, they fell to the Divider's blade.
After long eons of warring amongst themselves, the Old Ones had become weak. But they were still too proud to fear the Destroyer.
Their pride was to be their downfall. So has it ever been.
"I like this part," Dawn grinned.
The man chuckled. "I can see why. But our time here is short, and we must hurry on to the twelfth page."
For many years, the Destroyer hunted the creatures of darkness and drove them from this world.At last the Prince of Storms felt the blade of the Divider, and suffered a grievous wound. Thus was the desert wind stilled.
Now the Old Ones found they had lost their purchase on our world. A third were cast into the pit, and a third fled into the wasteland. Only vestiges of their power remained.
So it was that the time of gods and demons came to an end, and the age of mortal men and women began.
Dawn pouted. "We don't get to see the final battle? That seems like a cheat."
"That is another story," the man said. "Perhaps it too will be unlocked in time. But for now, there remains only the final page."
One question remains. What became of the River King, wisest and most powerful of the Old Ones, who the witches tried in vain to awaken?He dwells now on the threshold between the world of the living and the world of the dead. He rules no kingdom and wears no crown.
You may find him at the source of the river, in the cavern beneath the tree.
It is said that he grants favors to those who pass his tests. For he alone has the power to open the gates of the underworld.
But if you seek the keeper of the gate, beware his anger. For he has waited at the threshold for a very long time, with the laughter of the worm ringing in his ears.
The man closed the book. "That is all, my lady. There are no more pages."
Dawn stood on the bridge, the ancient book clutched to her chest. "I guess this is the part where I wake up," she said. "Do I get to take this with me?"
The man nodded. "Of course. It is your story now."
The wind rose again, rushing up from the pit, and the stacked books swayed and creaked. The world began to spin around her, and the light slowly faded to darkness, and a gentle hand was shaking her shoulder as she woke from her dream.
...........
In a small town near Carcassonne, roughly four hundred miles south of Paris, Jeanne Darcy dreamed of an angel who came to her in the night. The angel took the form of a woman, small and blonde, and dressed in flowing robes of shimmering white.
"Hello again," the angel said, inspecting her fingernails. "How's it going, Jeanne?" She was speaking English, not French, but since this was a dream Jeanne understood her regardless.
"I have done as you instructed, most holy--"
"Please. Just plain Buffy is fine."
"Yes, uh, Buffy." Jeanne knelt before the angel and bowed her head humbly. "I have hunted the demons and the outsiders, and I have made the signs, so that all might see them and know that the great day draws near." She peeked up shyly at the angel's luminous face. "Have I done well?"
"Yeah, yeah. You're a real trooper. Definite merit badge material." The angel crouched and looked her in the eye. "But listen up, Jeanne. There's been a slight change of plans. I, uh, we have a new mission for you." She paused dramatically. "How are you on witches?"
Jeanne frowned. "Well... I suppose they're wicked, aren't they?" The angel nodded encouragingly. "They worship the devil, and conjure demons, and, and..."
"That's my girl. So you know what needs to be done about them, right?"
"Yes, but..." Tears began to well up in the girl's eyes. "Killing demons was frightening, but I never doubted it was right. Killing people, though? Even wicked people? I don't know if I can carry out this task."
"Oh, for heaven's sake. Don't be such a martyr, Jeanne." The angel rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Look, I'll tell you what. Just go out there and do the legwork, and if you find you need a little help with the actual slaying part, then just invoke me and I'll give you a little push. Like I did that first time, remember?"
"Je suis l'oeil observant," Jeanne recited reverently. "Je suis l'oreille d'écoute."
"...I am the finger that picks the nose. Hah hah, just kidding." The angel rose to her feet again, absentmindedly smoothing her robes. "Okay, great. Now let's talk targets. First we have this coven in Toulouse..."
She began rattling off a list of names, descriptions, tactical suggestions. Jeanne tried to keep up, but soon it was more than she could take in, and she waved her hands in protest.
"Don't worry, kiddo," the angel smiled. "I'm writing this down for you as we speak. Or rather, you are."
"Most holy--uh, Buffy. I'm sorry, I don't understand."
"You're sleepwalking, Jeanne. You're standing over your little writing desk, pencil in hand. You're making a list." The angel's eyes took on a faraway look, as if regarding something Jeanne could not see. "It's beautiful outside. There's a little sliver of moon peeking through your window, and then the rest is darkness... Soon it will all be darkness, Jeanne. Very soon now."
Jeanne shivered, but she said nothing. She was a good girl, after all, and she always did what the angels told her.