Spikeid VIII
17 March 2011 20:05![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quinaraAnd so we continue! Book IX will be coming very soon, which is possibly the only excuse I have for the ever-so-slight cliffhanger ending of this one... Hope you enjoy!! Massive thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
brutti_ma_buoni and verity for their super-betaing. :D
As usual: Spuffy (as I always forget to say, not that it makes much impression here); PG-13; ~4000 words (~530 lines); warnings for the series of death and denied agency, with only brief mentions in this book. Extra note, though! The origin myth of the Watchers' Council sketched out in this book is very much dependent on a conversationbrutti_ma_buoni and I had a while ago, so credit needs to go at least half her way. (Said conversation may well make it to your screens in a less scattershot form at some point, by the way, so watch out!)
Willow tells her tale; Illyria is challenged.
[VII]
VIII
Although she always knew she’d have to tell
Her story, Willow wishes she could wait,
That she could bail and put it off until
Tomorrow, maybe, when she’s had some sleep.
But Buffy’s looking angry, disbelief
A threat and challenge in dry, hazel eyes.
It makes her want to cry, break down, shed tears,
The anger sawing at her fragile nerves.
It’s getting to her; everything these days
Can get to her – she’s tired all the time
And conflict’s never been where she excelled.
If only Buffy understood… “OK,”
Then Willow says, eyes glancing round the room.
Her audience is not so very large,
Just Buffy, Spike and Gunn, their closest friends:
Illyria, Rondell and Anne (with soup).
The younger trainee Slayers who perked up
When Buffy shouted? They’re all bored again,
Are chattering among themselves and with
Some people from the shelter gang. “OK,”
Now Willow starts. “So, first, I tried some spells,
Protection and more violent barriers,
But none of them were quite enough to help;
The Slayer spirit fought past all of them,
Got angrier the more I tried to hide.
By this time I’d lost maybe three nights’ sleep?
I didn’t think much of it, but now Ken
Was noticing and asking me, ‘what’s wrong?’.
And I was way embarrassed, so I tried
A little harder, thought instead of me
That I could do a spell to keep the First –
The Slayer trapped beyond this plane, but that,
Well, that went pretty wrong…” “Oh yeah, I’ll say,”
Then Kennedy butts in. “It put her out
For fifteen hours,” she explains, jaw firm.
“She told me she was gonna meditate
And if it looked weird, give her twenty-four
Before I called in help.” It’s been a year,
But Kennedy’s still holding some reproach
For going it alone so soon, when they’d
Been there together on the high school’s floor –
But it’s because of that she didn’t want
To say that something had gone wrong, hello...
But no, they haven’t time to start on this.
“I wasn’t running on all cylinders,”
Willow concedes. “So, yeah, I wasn’t safe;
I found her desert, but I wasn’t sure
That I was ever gonna find my way
Back out – she hunted me in circles, chased
And chased so there was no way I
Could get control or force her to stay out.”
Now Willow sees, as Buffy bites her lip,
That if she’d asked her friend, she would have known
What she knows now, that that was way too harsh
And not the way to calm the spirit down.
Her Kennedy, so argumentative,
She even asked, when Willow told her, ‘Don’t
You think that’s gonna make her angrier
For you to treat her like a demon? She’s
A girl, like me, with power – you reached out,
You used the scythe to draw her essence out,
Just like the way you did with mine. When you
Did that to me, you didn’t try a spell
To shut me up. We talked; you gave me time.’
Remembering Ken’s face, her earnest plea,
Now Willow’s glad that she did right by her.
“I guess I made things worse; I made mistakes –
But even then I didn’t want for you
To worry, so I thought we’d get away
And ask advice from the Devon coven, who,
I hoped, would have a better plan than me.
That’s where we went; I thought that we’d be done
In no time – then I’d find you guys again
And help out with the organisation – ‘cause
By then I hadn’t slept right in a week
And it was showing in my mood, my strength;
My brain was stuck in slug, I couldn’t lift
My suitcase when we landed at Heathrow.
There’s no way I’d have been of any help.
“But when I spoke Althenea, she –
She said they didn’t have an easy fix.
The spell had made the link between our minds,
Connecting me to all the Slayer line;
The spirit could decide to let me go,
But as the caster all that I could do
Was live with it or go back on the spell.
(Like thaumogenesis, I guess. Again.)
The only option, basically, I had
Was wait it out or else communicate
Inside my dreams, to talk things out with her.
I wasn’t feeling very talkative –
That was the problem, fear took hold of me
Each time I found myself inside the dream.
I had to prove myself and I who was –
But mostly that meant running, never fast
Enough, so then my soul got julienned…
A sister gave me tea to calm my mind,
To make my sleep more restful and controlled;
It didn’t really help, like, over much,
But that was all they had.” She still has some,
Tucked in her bag, could blend some more with ease;
The recipe is written in her hands:
The chamomile and lavender, in parts,
The yarrow and the sage and blessing prayer
To Caer Ibormeith. “But I was in
Denial, completely, so we stayed with them.
‘Cause I was sure we’d find an answer or
A workaround at least, and not the tea,
So I kept out of touch, worked Kennedy
So hard she almost left. It wouldn’t solve –
But, luckily, while I was chasing geese,
Mairéad was reading on the Slayer’s past
And all the myths surrounding her, the line.
She told me she had heard of ancient myths,
Had found some legends written down in books,
Which hadn’t been blown up and burned to ash,
About the Slayer’s origins, the men
Who first combined the demon with her soul?
There’d been three men, she told me, brothers made
Through ties of kinship, who had found a girl
And given her the strength and skill to fight
Etcetera, but didn’t think it through
That far. The girl could fight like anything –
Stalked through the villages and heard the tales,
Went out into the darkness of the plains
To hunt and slay the beast who’d been a scourge.
But she was off the charts on aptitude,
Way more than that community required,
So soon she had no demons left to slay.
At that point she abandoned home and fled,
Escaped from those three men and their commands.
And sorry, Ken, you’ve heard this all before,
But, obviously, they went after her,
‘Cause they were probably afraid she’d use
The power they had given her for more
Than they intended; help the world, not them.
They headed north, beyond the land they knew,
Were following the stories of the girl,
But then the trail went cold; the girl was gone.
I know this way too well, but then it goes –
The men made camp, uncertain what to do,
Debated for three days and nights, until
They all agreed they’d carry on their search.
Instead of travelling together, though,
The three decided they’d split up. The first,
He travelled north, continued on their path
Across the sands, endured as she endured.
He couldn’t find her, lived his life on watch,
But brought in others to the watching cause
And founded thus the Council that we know.
The second headed east, across the sea,
Far-seeing, travelling through night like her.
He couldn’t find her, but he traded news
Of demons, wrote the knowledge down in script,
Created networks we still use today.
The third man would have given up the search,
Sore missed his wife and daughters – but he knew
He’d come too far to go back home. And so
He turned towards the setting sun, alone
Like her, and headed west through land unknown.
He drifted through the villages and camps,
Frustrated in his search, lost far from home,
Until the point he threw himself upon
The hospitality of one old king.
He stayed with him and wed his daughter, like
You’d guess – but it was then the Slayer came,
Emerging from the night, aware that they
Had sought her, living in the shadows now
For years. She found the man and asked him, ‘Why
Did you stop looking?’ to which he replied,
‘There is no home we can return to, so
Why would I search, what could I do with you?’
She told him, on his throne, ‘You’ve found a home,’
Which he conceded to be true. He said,
Apologising for what they had done,
‘I’m changed from who I was, this home is new
And I would have you welcome here, to come
And go.’ He made a promise to her too,
‘Within my kingdom I’ll let you find peace,
No matter if my brothers’ search goes on.
No one may charge you here; this is your home.’
The Slayer left, not yet in need of rest –
But thanking him as she went on her way,
Accepting this man’s land as sacred home
Where she could leave the shadows for the light.
“So, that’s the tale Mairéad found in the books
And I was desperate enough to think
It had the answers – like myth usually does.
In hindsight, yeah, with slightly better sleep,
I probably was crazy, but I thought
If we went off to Africa, retraced
The Watchers’ steps, then we could find this place.
You always talked about the sacred sands,
So I thought maybe somewhere they were real;
The Slayer would be calmer there and I
Would find out what she needed me to do.
I took a copy of the story, then
We worked out where to go to start. You said
The Shadow Men, back when we did that spell –
The other one, the shadow puppet play –
Said something like ‘ndiyo’, meaning ‘yes’?
We managed to remember that, found out
That was Swahili, which, well, might have been
The spell appropriating modern words,
But started us with a clue anyway:
East Africa, like Tanzania and
Around. I thought that we could start out vague,
But there’s still oral culture, right? So we
Would ask around and find some similar myths,
Track down who knew them best and work out where
They led. Then I would get some sleep again.
“And so we went – and it took weeks and weeks.
We asked around and headed north on tips
We heard, which told us there were people there
Who knew more than whoever we had found.
We spoke to Council contacts, then their friends,
Their grandparents and cousins out of town.
We went through Kenya to Uganda, west
Along the coast of Lake Victoria,
Hooked up with tour groups bouncing down the roads.
And it was at that point – remember, Ken? –
That answers started getting pretty strange,
‘Cause it was like they’d been through this before,
I mean, the strangers hunting down a myth.
We figured anthropologists, but then,
Bizarrely, someone in the know asked us
If we were anything to do with this
Omweeru vampire who had come this way
Two years ago in search of help. I’m not
Quite sure who that was, but –
“Oh, hey, wait –”
They never worked out who that was, but now?
She’s sitting opposite the vampire who
Went off to Africa to find his soul,
Omweeru vampire with the bone-white hair.
She thinks she should have thought it earlier,
But she was too distracted by the time
They’d lost. She wonders if it needs be said –
But no. Spike’s got his scarred left eyebrow raised
And Buffy looks amused; she clearly knows.
Ah, frilly crap, she should have worked that out –
They could have tracked that cave and demon down;
She’s sure she’ll never get the chance again
To find out how the magic works with souls.
She’s meant to be an expert; she should know.
Annoyed by failing, Willow shakes her head
And then continues, gathering her words,
“Well, anyway, the trail was growing strong –
At last we found this town where people claimed
They lived in that old chiefdom, that third man’s.
Their version of the story didn’t go
The same way as what I had written down,
But still the girl was there, the monster and
The men, the ones who went adventuring
And then the last who settled down. I think
They said the Slayer was his wife,
That she became his wife. But anyhoo –
We found them. First I tried just sleeping there,
But that went how it always went before…
Grace Alice, who was who we’d found through links
And gossip, she was hosting us – she knew
The council through some wild and wacky way.
We told her what was going on, ashamed,
I think, a little that we’d come to her
As enemies inside the Slayer’s home.
But she had so much sympathy, told us
The women of the tribe had rituals,
Real ancient rituals to call upon
The Slayer – and if we could prove our cause
Then they would help. So we stayed there and worked
Where volunteers were needed, typed and mopped
The church – and even then it was a whole
New way of doing magic, while my mind
Had gone too dull to pick up new things quick,
So when they trusted us that still took time.
It gets a little private-secret after that,
But then, I guess, enough’s to say at last
I could communicate along the link
Between me and the Slayer. We did that,
Grace Alice mediating while we spoke,
With Kennedy supporting me as I
Apologised for not consulting her
Before we did the spell, explained it was
To help Potentials not be killed, instead
Of trying to control the Slayer more.
We spoke and reached an understanding, when
The Slayer told me it was pretty moot
In any case, ‘cause worse was happening
And I was needed back at home with you.
So –”
Willow pauses, still not processing
Completely what they told her when she went.
The dark black blood of grief feels cold like steel;
It flooded from her heart when she went home
And now she feels the power inching back…
She cannot look at Buffy, looks instead
At Fred’s pale, duck-egg skin – oh no, not her:
Illyria. Oh, goddess, save her now…
The god is staring, seeing something change.
Her eyes are curious, so like before,
But now she’s frowning as suspicion curls
Her lips. Uncertain, Willow stutters on,
Her eyes turned back to Buffy, “Then they said
That you’d come here, so, yeah.” With one waved hand
Now Willow finishes; her tongue is stuck,
Just like when she walked in the castle’s doors –
Too late to please the Slayer in her mind,
“We came to help you how we’re able to.”
She feels like she can’t look at anyone,
Just sinks into the sofa, staring down.
Beside her, Kennedy entwines their hands,
Which gives her strength as questions come. The words
Remain as mumbles in her throat, but Ken
Can field requests for details – and she does.
The night is drawing in, and Willow, yes,
Thinks she can feel the coldness of the moon,
No matter that the quality of light
Inside the room remains a steady glow.
Her silence brings the talking to a stop,
Eventually, when everyone goes off
To find some rest. She knows the Slayer’s there,
Just waiting for her dreams to show themselves,
Which makes her nervous, though she needs her sleep.
These last few nights have almost brought her rest,
No images remembered even though
She’s sure the link has not been severed yet,
So maybe worrying’s not sensible,
But as she sinks into the sofa’s hold,
Shuts close her eyes, she cannot stop her thoughts.
And, more than this, she knows Illyria
Is watching her.
There’s power in the witch.
The night falls dark and cold, the sleepers wrapped
In sleep, but still the God King sees its hold.
Observing from the stairs, no granted bed
This time, Illyria thinks back upon
The story told. The Slayer had control,
Could bid this witch and beat her into line –
And yet the body walks, and sits, and sleeps,
Its mortal blood still red and warm. What waste.
The dreams come swift tonight, soft glimmering
Across the room, limn sleeping forms in gold
And white – but this, tonight, this is the hour
Illyria steps onto feet to greet
Their insubstantial forms and flashing shapes.
The witch is lying on the frayed blue couch,
Her head at rest upon its padded arm.
And by her side? An image flickering,
Invisible then coming into being.
It’s there and it is watching her,
Illyria observing it in turn,
A crouching girl in sun-bleached cloth, her knees
Sharp angles, perpendicular, her head
Erect. And yes, though she is in her dreams,
The spirit lets the witch sleep on in peace,
Has freed the child from her attention, weak
With mercy.
She is unimpressive, small
And fragile on the floor. The god king sneers –
But that of course is when the image turns
Its head. “Illyria,” the Slayer says.
Her eyes are clear with sight; she rises up
And stands with careful steps on graceful feet,
Then looks with humour into cobalt eyes.
“It’s been a thousand ages since your time.”
Surprise is jarring, bold white desert storm;
The God-King stares, but then, as is the way
Of ages long since past, can recognise
The woken spirit who now speaks to her.
Unnerved she may be, but it does not show.
“It has, Sineya,” she replies, “and yet
I am returned to walk upon this world.”
She mocks, “Quite free outside another’s mind.”
A shrug directed at the witch below,
Sineya shakes her head. “Your kind has walked
Millennia, been bred of demon blood
By vampires, feeding on those I protect.”
The words bring brittle silence once again.
Unwilling to believe, the god looks down,
The shock like bile in her throat; she looks
At Spike, caught in repose beneath a sheet,
Immortal lying in old dust. Contempt
Fills her like breath, but yet she is not free
To watch him; sweet and sooty dreams cloud black
Her vision, claw their way inside until
A deep consuming sexuality
Begins to pulse like oil in her shell –
“The vampires are no children of mine,”
She says, withdrawing quickly from that swell,
Quite certain that this dream girl tells her wrong.
“They are the ooze that eats itself, corrupt.”
And yet how like a dream Sineya smirks:
Too bold – her words are merciless. “It’s true
That human lineage is strong in them,
But when your kinsman took a human host,
The very first, sun setting sanguine red
On demon sovereignty, he did not have
The time and preparation you required:
The being he created was a child,
Not quite an avatar, and he in turn
Produced imperfect children, brought your race
To what you see across this world today.”
Illyria does not know how to look
Upon the spirit as she speaks these words:
They settle in her mind with too much weight
And make her think of imperfection she
Too often finds oblique within herself.
For questions come as foreign as the doubt:
Her power drained and uncontainable,
How could she be the God-King she once was?
Was it correct to claim she walks here free?
How different can she really be from this,
This spirit: tamed, beholden to a dream?
“I have no need to hear these myths from you,”
She states with ancient firmness, steps away
From where the vampire sleeps and glares again
At the unwelcome apparition, who
Should not have found an audience with her –
And would not if her world had not been breached,
If human arrogance had stayed in check.
“How modern you’ve become!” Sineya laughs.
“Rejecting myth when myth it was that built
Our world, that kept your name so long alive…”
“Enough!” Illyria demands, a snarl
Across her features. “Do not dare mock me.
You may be in this age a spirit full
Of power, fearfully revered – but you
Are human mind, once watered human blood;
Your people wilted, snapped like blades of grass
Beneath my feet, defiled by pus and gore.
How dare you look upon me, dare you speak
Without the reverence your kind requires?”
Sineya laughs again; Illyria
Can feel the shameful damp approach of tears,
Another gross affliction come on her.
She swears again, uncertain of her name,
“You may not laugh at me – you may not laugh!”
With pity then the Slayer promises,
“This world has changed, Illyria; I may.”
They stand quite silent in the night. “Then why,”
Illyria now finds she asks, her voice
Unsuited, long unused to questioning,
“Why did you turn, why do you speak to me?”
Why did I watch and wait for you to come?
“I’m curious,” the Slayer then replies,
Slow, careful tread encircling the god;
Her voice lit light with no acknowledgement
Of how Illyria has just debased
Herself, continuing, “My daughters fight
Alone too often. Though I cannot say
I always care for their companions, or
The choices those companions make, I care
To oversee the fellowships they form –
And finding you among them? It appeals.”
She casts an eye across the room, at all
The figures caught in quiet sleep, until
Her gaze falls on the Slayer finding rest
Within a vampire’s arms. And then she turns,
Her dark eyes shrewd upon Illyria’s.
“There’s long been innovation in the line,
But Buffy is the first, I think, to bring
An Old One to the cause.” Illyria
Expected to be shamed, but she did not
Expect to find herself belittled so.
“I was not brought by Buffy, Slayer, you
Are there mistaken,” she ripostes with force.
“No, know you well that I was brought to this
By my desire alone, my mind and will
Assaulted by Wolf, Ram and Hart, my life
Made pawn by them in offering
Before the youth Osiris – pharaoh wretch,
Presuming to allow obscenity
As this unnatural portal to exist,
Which stretches, morphs my kingly mind
Like lava, molten then reformed by wind –”
“Do I then understand you mean to fight
Osiris?” interrupts Sineya, shocked.
“No matter that you know he cannot die?”
“I mean to set this world once more apart
And think within my mind made whole again.”
Reclaiming safety in her strength of words,
Illyria refuses to think back
To all the pain and grief found in the world
Before the portal gave her this excuse.
With petulance, however, words dart on,
“And if Osiris stands against my will,
Then I will find a way to banish hence
His influence, through otherwise or death –
For you may hold he is beyond the call
Of lost eternity, but life is naught
But mere stability of form. We too
In human understanding may not die,
Yet would not choose transferral as our end.”
At last appearing to appreciate
The condescension that Illyria
Is offering, Sineya nods. “You’re right.”
Denying that however, follow words:
“And yet he’ll never be removed:
His job is necessary, he has no
Replacement. If you try destroying him
The very fabric of the netherworlds
Will pull him back to his supremacy.”
Illyria can hear the nervousness
Which catches, snags the Slayer’s speech;
It seems too easy to interpret, so
She happily declares, “You cannot know
The truth of what you say.” Sineya flares
Her nostrils, though, in irritation, says,
“I know because I’ve seen it happening –”
The nervousness strikes sparks of angry fear –
“No matter if you think I’m ignorant,
The worlds and ages I have seen provide
More knowledge than resides and rots like leaves
Inside your memory. The Slayer walks
In realms beyond this world each time she dies,
If not before, and I have seen her walk
Those halls of death, have walked there by her side.”
The god refuses to accept this fear,
Bites back, replies, “This does not signify
You understand those worlds in which you walked.”
Spurred on by this belligerent challenge, then
The Slayer crosses floor to stand above
The eldest of her daughters, spreads her hand
Before her, gesturing. “This girl who does
Not lead you, look you on her dreams. You’ll see
Exactly what both she and I observed
When we walked through the stony halls of death.”
Sineya’s eyes are angry now, black glints
Of tempered steel surrounded by her mask
Of harsh and battle-ready white. She’s won,
They know; the god feels trepidation she
Should not, looks anxiously upon the form,
The woman sleeping – feels the claws of pain
And hard-won certainty that what she’s done
Is right, will save the world –
– and then she falls.
[IX]
brutti_ma_buoni and verity for their super-betaing. :DAs usual: Spuffy (as I always forget to say, not that it makes much impression here); PG-13; ~4000 words (~530 lines); warnings for the series of death and denied agency, with only brief mentions in this book. Extra note, though! The origin myth of the Watchers' Council sketched out in this book is very much dependent on a conversation
brutti_ma_buoni and I had a while ago, so credit needs to go at least half her way. (Said conversation may well make it to your screens in a less scattershot form at some point, by the way, so watch out!)Willow tells her tale; Illyria is challenged.
[VII]
VIII
Although she always knew she’d have to tell
Her story, Willow wishes she could wait,
That she could bail and put it off until
Tomorrow, maybe, when she’s had some sleep.
But Buffy’s looking angry, disbelief
A threat and challenge in dry, hazel eyes.
It makes her want to cry, break down, shed tears,
The anger sawing at her fragile nerves.
It’s getting to her; everything these days
Can get to her – she’s tired all the time
And conflict’s never been where she excelled.
If only Buffy understood… “OK,”
Then Willow says, eyes glancing round the room.
Her audience is not so very large,
Just Buffy, Spike and Gunn, their closest friends:
Illyria, Rondell and Anne (with soup).
The younger trainee Slayers who perked up
When Buffy shouted? They’re all bored again,
Are chattering among themselves and with
Some people from the shelter gang. “OK,”
Now Willow starts. “So, first, I tried some spells,
Protection and more violent barriers,
But none of them were quite enough to help;
The Slayer spirit fought past all of them,
Got angrier the more I tried to hide.
By this time I’d lost maybe three nights’ sleep?
I didn’t think much of it, but now Ken
Was noticing and asking me, ‘what’s wrong?’.
And I was way embarrassed, so I tried
A little harder, thought instead of me
That I could do a spell to keep the First –
The Slayer trapped beyond this plane, but that,
Well, that went pretty wrong…” “Oh yeah, I’ll say,”
Then Kennedy butts in. “It put her out
For fifteen hours,” she explains, jaw firm.
“She told me she was gonna meditate
And if it looked weird, give her twenty-four
Before I called in help.” It’s been a year,
But Kennedy’s still holding some reproach
For going it alone so soon, when they’d
Been there together on the high school’s floor –
But it’s because of that she didn’t want
To say that something had gone wrong, hello...
But no, they haven’t time to start on this.
“I wasn’t running on all cylinders,”
Willow concedes. “So, yeah, I wasn’t safe;
I found her desert, but I wasn’t sure
That I was ever gonna find my way
Back out – she hunted me in circles, chased
And chased so there was no way I
Could get control or force her to stay out.”
Now Willow sees, as Buffy bites her lip,
That if she’d asked her friend, she would have known
What she knows now, that that was way too harsh
And not the way to calm the spirit down.
Her Kennedy, so argumentative,
She even asked, when Willow told her, ‘Don’t
You think that’s gonna make her angrier
For you to treat her like a demon? She’s
A girl, like me, with power – you reached out,
You used the scythe to draw her essence out,
Just like the way you did with mine. When you
Did that to me, you didn’t try a spell
To shut me up. We talked; you gave me time.’
Remembering Ken’s face, her earnest plea,
Now Willow’s glad that she did right by her.
“I guess I made things worse; I made mistakes –
But even then I didn’t want for you
To worry, so I thought we’d get away
And ask advice from the Devon coven, who,
I hoped, would have a better plan than me.
That’s where we went; I thought that we’d be done
In no time – then I’d find you guys again
And help out with the organisation – ‘cause
By then I hadn’t slept right in a week
And it was showing in my mood, my strength;
My brain was stuck in slug, I couldn’t lift
My suitcase when we landed at Heathrow.
There’s no way I’d have been of any help.
“But when I spoke Althenea, she –
She said they didn’t have an easy fix.
The spell had made the link between our minds,
Connecting me to all the Slayer line;
The spirit could decide to let me go,
But as the caster all that I could do
Was live with it or go back on the spell.
(Like thaumogenesis, I guess. Again.)
The only option, basically, I had
Was wait it out or else communicate
Inside my dreams, to talk things out with her.
I wasn’t feeling very talkative –
That was the problem, fear took hold of me
Each time I found myself inside the dream.
I had to prove myself and I who was –
But mostly that meant running, never fast
Enough, so then my soul got julienned…
A sister gave me tea to calm my mind,
To make my sleep more restful and controlled;
It didn’t really help, like, over much,
But that was all they had.” She still has some,
Tucked in her bag, could blend some more with ease;
The recipe is written in her hands:
The chamomile and lavender, in parts,
The yarrow and the sage and blessing prayer
To Caer Ibormeith. “But I was in
Denial, completely, so we stayed with them.
‘Cause I was sure we’d find an answer or
A workaround at least, and not the tea,
So I kept out of touch, worked Kennedy
So hard she almost left. It wouldn’t solve –
But, luckily, while I was chasing geese,
Mairéad was reading on the Slayer’s past
And all the myths surrounding her, the line.
She told me she had heard of ancient myths,
Had found some legends written down in books,
Which hadn’t been blown up and burned to ash,
About the Slayer’s origins, the men
Who first combined the demon with her soul?
There’d been three men, she told me, brothers made
Through ties of kinship, who had found a girl
And given her the strength and skill to fight
Etcetera, but didn’t think it through
That far. The girl could fight like anything –
Stalked through the villages and heard the tales,
Went out into the darkness of the plains
To hunt and slay the beast who’d been a scourge.
But she was off the charts on aptitude,
Way more than that community required,
So soon she had no demons left to slay.
At that point she abandoned home and fled,
Escaped from those three men and their commands.
And sorry, Ken, you’ve heard this all before,
But, obviously, they went after her,
‘Cause they were probably afraid she’d use
The power they had given her for more
Than they intended; help the world, not them.
They headed north, beyond the land they knew,
Were following the stories of the girl,
But then the trail went cold; the girl was gone.
I know this way too well, but then it goes –
The men made camp, uncertain what to do,
Debated for three days and nights, until
They all agreed they’d carry on their search.
Instead of travelling together, though,
The three decided they’d split up. The first,
He travelled north, continued on their path
Across the sands, endured as she endured.
He couldn’t find her, lived his life on watch,
But brought in others to the watching cause
And founded thus the Council that we know.
The second headed east, across the sea,
Far-seeing, travelling through night like her.
He couldn’t find her, but he traded news
Of demons, wrote the knowledge down in script,
Created networks we still use today.
The third man would have given up the search,
Sore missed his wife and daughters – but he knew
He’d come too far to go back home. And so
He turned towards the setting sun, alone
Like her, and headed west through land unknown.
He drifted through the villages and camps,
Frustrated in his search, lost far from home,
Until the point he threw himself upon
The hospitality of one old king.
He stayed with him and wed his daughter, like
You’d guess – but it was then the Slayer came,
Emerging from the night, aware that they
Had sought her, living in the shadows now
For years. She found the man and asked him, ‘Why
Did you stop looking?’ to which he replied,
‘There is no home we can return to, so
Why would I search, what could I do with you?’
She told him, on his throne, ‘You’ve found a home,’
Which he conceded to be true. He said,
Apologising for what they had done,
‘I’m changed from who I was, this home is new
And I would have you welcome here, to come
And go.’ He made a promise to her too,
‘Within my kingdom I’ll let you find peace,
No matter if my brothers’ search goes on.
No one may charge you here; this is your home.’
The Slayer left, not yet in need of rest –
But thanking him as she went on her way,
Accepting this man’s land as sacred home
Where she could leave the shadows for the light.
“So, that’s the tale Mairéad found in the books
And I was desperate enough to think
It had the answers – like myth usually does.
In hindsight, yeah, with slightly better sleep,
I probably was crazy, but I thought
If we went off to Africa, retraced
The Watchers’ steps, then we could find this place.
You always talked about the sacred sands,
So I thought maybe somewhere they were real;
The Slayer would be calmer there and I
Would find out what she needed me to do.
I took a copy of the story, then
We worked out where to go to start. You said
The Shadow Men, back when we did that spell –
The other one, the shadow puppet play –
Said something like ‘ndiyo’, meaning ‘yes’?
We managed to remember that, found out
That was Swahili, which, well, might have been
The spell appropriating modern words,
But started us with a clue anyway:
East Africa, like Tanzania and
Around. I thought that we could start out vague,
But there’s still oral culture, right? So we
Would ask around and find some similar myths,
Track down who knew them best and work out where
They led. Then I would get some sleep again.
“And so we went – and it took weeks and weeks.
We asked around and headed north on tips
We heard, which told us there were people there
Who knew more than whoever we had found.
We spoke to Council contacts, then their friends,
Their grandparents and cousins out of town.
We went through Kenya to Uganda, west
Along the coast of Lake Victoria,
Hooked up with tour groups bouncing down the roads.
And it was at that point – remember, Ken? –
That answers started getting pretty strange,
‘Cause it was like they’d been through this before,
I mean, the strangers hunting down a myth.
We figured anthropologists, but then,
Bizarrely, someone in the know asked us
If we were anything to do with this
Omweeru vampire who had come this way
Two years ago in search of help. I’m not
Quite sure who that was, but –
“Oh, hey, wait –”
They never worked out who that was, but now?
She’s sitting opposite the vampire who
Went off to Africa to find his soul,
Omweeru vampire with the bone-white hair.
She thinks she should have thought it earlier,
But she was too distracted by the time
They’d lost. She wonders if it needs be said –
But no. Spike’s got his scarred left eyebrow raised
And Buffy looks amused; she clearly knows.
Ah, frilly crap, she should have worked that out –
They could have tracked that cave and demon down;
She’s sure she’ll never get the chance again
To find out how the magic works with souls.
She’s meant to be an expert; she should know.
Annoyed by failing, Willow shakes her head
And then continues, gathering her words,
“Well, anyway, the trail was growing strong –
At last we found this town where people claimed
They lived in that old chiefdom, that third man’s.
Their version of the story didn’t go
The same way as what I had written down,
But still the girl was there, the monster and
The men, the ones who went adventuring
And then the last who settled down. I think
They said the Slayer was his wife,
That she became his wife. But anyhoo –
We found them. First I tried just sleeping there,
But that went how it always went before…
Grace Alice, who was who we’d found through links
And gossip, she was hosting us – she knew
The council through some wild and wacky way.
We told her what was going on, ashamed,
I think, a little that we’d come to her
As enemies inside the Slayer’s home.
But she had so much sympathy, told us
The women of the tribe had rituals,
Real ancient rituals to call upon
The Slayer – and if we could prove our cause
Then they would help. So we stayed there and worked
Where volunteers were needed, typed and mopped
The church – and even then it was a whole
New way of doing magic, while my mind
Had gone too dull to pick up new things quick,
So when they trusted us that still took time.
It gets a little private-secret after that,
But then, I guess, enough’s to say at last
I could communicate along the link
Between me and the Slayer. We did that,
Grace Alice mediating while we spoke,
With Kennedy supporting me as I
Apologised for not consulting her
Before we did the spell, explained it was
To help Potentials not be killed, instead
Of trying to control the Slayer more.
We spoke and reached an understanding, when
The Slayer told me it was pretty moot
In any case, ‘cause worse was happening
And I was needed back at home with you.
So –”
Willow pauses, still not processing
Completely what they told her when she went.
The dark black blood of grief feels cold like steel;
It flooded from her heart when she went home
And now she feels the power inching back…
She cannot look at Buffy, looks instead
At Fred’s pale, duck-egg skin – oh no, not her:
Illyria. Oh, goddess, save her now…
The god is staring, seeing something change.
Her eyes are curious, so like before,
But now she’s frowning as suspicion curls
Her lips. Uncertain, Willow stutters on,
Her eyes turned back to Buffy, “Then they said
That you’d come here, so, yeah.” With one waved hand
Now Willow finishes; her tongue is stuck,
Just like when she walked in the castle’s doors –
Too late to please the Slayer in her mind,
“We came to help you how we’re able to.”
She feels like she can’t look at anyone,
Just sinks into the sofa, staring down.
Beside her, Kennedy entwines their hands,
Which gives her strength as questions come. The words
Remain as mumbles in her throat, but Ken
Can field requests for details – and she does.
The night is drawing in, and Willow, yes,
Thinks she can feel the coldness of the moon,
No matter that the quality of light
Inside the room remains a steady glow.
Her silence brings the talking to a stop,
Eventually, when everyone goes off
To find some rest. She knows the Slayer’s there,
Just waiting for her dreams to show themselves,
Which makes her nervous, though she needs her sleep.
These last few nights have almost brought her rest,
No images remembered even though
She’s sure the link has not been severed yet,
So maybe worrying’s not sensible,
But as she sinks into the sofa’s hold,
Shuts close her eyes, she cannot stop her thoughts.
And, more than this, she knows Illyria
Is watching her.
There’s power in the witch.
The night falls dark and cold, the sleepers wrapped
In sleep, but still the God King sees its hold.
Observing from the stairs, no granted bed
This time, Illyria thinks back upon
The story told. The Slayer had control,
Could bid this witch and beat her into line –
And yet the body walks, and sits, and sleeps,
Its mortal blood still red and warm. What waste.
The dreams come swift tonight, soft glimmering
Across the room, limn sleeping forms in gold
And white – but this, tonight, this is the hour
Illyria steps onto feet to greet
Their insubstantial forms and flashing shapes.
The witch is lying on the frayed blue couch,
Her head at rest upon its padded arm.
And by her side? An image flickering,
Invisible then coming into being.
It’s there and it is watching her,
Illyria observing it in turn,
A crouching girl in sun-bleached cloth, her knees
Sharp angles, perpendicular, her head
Erect. And yes, though she is in her dreams,
The spirit lets the witch sleep on in peace,
Has freed the child from her attention, weak
With mercy.
She is unimpressive, small
And fragile on the floor. The god king sneers –
But that of course is when the image turns
Its head. “Illyria,” the Slayer says.
Her eyes are clear with sight; she rises up
And stands with careful steps on graceful feet,
Then looks with humour into cobalt eyes.
“It’s been a thousand ages since your time.”
Surprise is jarring, bold white desert storm;
The God-King stares, but then, as is the way
Of ages long since past, can recognise
The woken spirit who now speaks to her.
Unnerved she may be, but it does not show.
“It has, Sineya,” she replies, “and yet
I am returned to walk upon this world.”
She mocks, “Quite free outside another’s mind.”
A shrug directed at the witch below,
Sineya shakes her head. “Your kind has walked
Millennia, been bred of demon blood
By vampires, feeding on those I protect.”
The words bring brittle silence once again.
Unwilling to believe, the god looks down,
The shock like bile in her throat; she looks
At Spike, caught in repose beneath a sheet,
Immortal lying in old dust. Contempt
Fills her like breath, but yet she is not free
To watch him; sweet and sooty dreams cloud black
Her vision, claw their way inside until
A deep consuming sexuality
Begins to pulse like oil in her shell –
“The vampires are no children of mine,”
She says, withdrawing quickly from that swell,
Quite certain that this dream girl tells her wrong.
“They are the ooze that eats itself, corrupt.”
And yet how like a dream Sineya smirks:
Too bold – her words are merciless. “It’s true
That human lineage is strong in them,
But when your kinsman took a human host,
The very first, sun setting sanguine red
On demon sovereignty, he did not have
The time and preparation you required:
The being he created was a child,
Not quite an avatar, and he in turn
Produced imperfect children, brought your race
To what you see across this world today.”
Illyria does not know how to look
Upon the spirit as she speaks these words:
They settle in her mind with too much weight
And make her think of imperfection she
Too often finds oblique within herself.
For questions come as foreign as the doubt:
Her power drained and uncontainable,
How could she be the God-King she once was?
Was it correct to claim she walks here free?
How different can she really be from this,
This spirit: tamed, beholden to a dream?
“I have no need to hear these myths from you,”
She states with ancient firmness, steps away
From where the vampire sleeps and glares again
At the unwelcome apparition, who
Should not have found an audience with her –
And would not if her world had not been breached,
If human arrogance had stayed in check.
“How modern you’ve become!” Sineya laughs.
“Rejecting myth when myth it was that built
Our world, that kept your name so long alive…”
“Enough!” Illyria demands, a snarl
Across her features. “Do not dare mock me.
You may be in this age a spirit full
Of power, fearfully revered – but you
Are human mind, once watered human blood;
Your people wilted, snapped like blades of grass
Beneath my feet, defiled by pus and gore.
How dare you look upon me, dare you speak
Without the reverence your kind requires?”
Sineya laughs again; Illyria
Can feel the shameful damp approach of tears,
Another gross affliction come on her.
She swears again, uncertain of her name,
“You may not laugh at me – you may not laugh!”
With pity then the Slayer promises,
“This world has changed, Illyria; I may.”
They stand quite silent in the night. “Then why,”
Illyria now finds she asks, her voice
Unsuited, long unused to questioning,
“Why did you turn, why do you speak to me?”
Why did I watch and wait for you to come?
“I’m curious,” the Slayer then replies,
Slow, careful tread encircling the god;
Her voice lit light with no acknowledgement
Of how Illyria has just debased
Herself, continuing, “My daughters fight
Alone too often. Though I cannot say
I always care for their companions, or
The choices those companions make, I care
To oversee the fellowships they form –
And finding you among them? It appeals.”
She casts an eye across the room, at all
The figures caught in quiet sleep, until
Her gaze falls on the Slayer finding rest
Within a vampire’s arms. And then she turns,
Her dark eyes shrewd upon Illyria’s.
“There’s long been innovation in the line,
But Buffy is the first, I think, to bring
An Old One to the cause.” Illyria
Expected to be shamed, but she did not
Expect to find herself belittled so.
“I was not brought by Buffy, Slayer, you
Are there mistaken,” she ripostes with force.
“No, know you well that I was brought to this
By my desire alone, my mind and will
Assaulted by Wolf, Ram and Hart, my life
Made pawn by them in offering
Before the youth Osiris – pharaoh wretch,
Presuming to allow obscenity
As this unnatural portal to exist,
Which stretches, morphs my kingly mind
Like lava, molten then reformed by wind –”
“Do I then understand you mean to fight
Osiris?” interrupts Sineya, shocked.
“No matter that you know he cannot die?”
“I mean to set this world once more apart
And think within my mind made whole again.”
Reclaiming safety in her strength of words,
Illyria refuses to think back
To all the pain and grief found in the world
Before the portal gave her this excuse.
With petulance, however, words dart on,
“And if Osiris stands against my will,
Then I will find a way to banish hence
His influence, through otherwise or death –
For you may hold he is beyond the call
Of lost eternity, but life is naught
But mere stability of form. We too
In human understanding may not die,
Yet would not choose transferral as our end.”
At last appearing to appreciate
The condescension that Illyria
Is offering, Sineya nods. “You’re right.”
Denying that however, follow words:
“And yet he’ll never be removed:
His job is necessary, he has no
Replacement. If you try destroying him
The very fabric of the netherworlds
Will pull him back to his supremacy.”
Illyria can hear the nervousness
Which catches, snags the Slayer’s speech;
It seems too easy to interpret, so
She happily declares, “You cannot know
The truth of what you say.” Sineya flares
Her nostrils, though, in irritation, says,
“I know because I’ve seen it happening –”
The nervousness strikes sparks of angry fear –
“No matter if you think I’m ignorant,
The worlds and ages I have seen provide
More knowledge than resides and rots like leaves
Inside your memory. The Slayer walks
In realms beyond this world each time she dies,
If not before, and I have seen her walk
Those halls of death, have walked there by her side.”
The god refuses to accept this fear,
Bites back, replies, “This does not signify
You understand those worlds in which you walked.”
Spurred on by this belligerent challenge, then
The Slayer crosses floor to stand above
The eldest of her daughters, spreads her hand
Before her, gesturing. “This girl who does
Not lead you, look you on her dreams. You’ll see
Exactly what both she and I observed
When we walked through the stony halls of death.”
Sineya’s eyes are angry now, black glints
Of tempered steel surrounded by her mask
Of harsh and battle-ready white. She’s won,
They know; the god feels trepidation she
Should not, looks anxiously upon the form,
The woman sleeping – feels the claws of pain
And hard-won certainty that what she’s done
Is right, will save the world –
– and then she falls.
[IX]
(no subject)
Date: 19/03/2011 01:05 (UTC)Where volunteers were needed, typed and mopped
The church."
Just quoting beautiful language back to you, because I can.
Holy shit, that's hot. The syntax and rhythm of that last line knock the breath right out of me. It just -- booms. (Tricksy word; lemme explain: not like a cannon booms; like water in a sea cave booms. (Stulti what the hell are you talking about?))
Good simile.
Willow's story is full of neat bits, but it's the last section, with Sineya and Illyria, that really pops for me. Illyria being forced to...to learn, and become (both smaller and greater), is of such interest to me. The Slayer is a brilliant foil.
(no subject)
Date: 19/03/2011 01:39 (UTC)(And, hee, I had so much fun working out the aromatherapeutics of Willow's tea, along with Caer Ibormeith; I kind of want to try and blend some now, if I could make it not taste like pot pourri, just to see if it's any good for restful sleep + clear dreams...)