I choose all the sensible times to post - more "After the Deluge"
We move on with Buffy and Giles. Is it the Cavalry approaching to rescue, or Custer galloping to Little Big Horn?
Rating: G
Word count: 1,240
Earlier chapters are here.
Chapter Fourteen: Cotswold Roads
Two hours later Giles managed to get his troops moving. It had not been easy. He recalled a proverb about herding cats. That was childsplay compared to managing a Slayer, two witches and sundry Watchers only too ready to take offence. He would really have preferred to have left most of them behind; in the end Robson grudgingly agreed someone was needed to hold the fort and volunteered to remain and try to contact Willow, last known of in Thailand and Dawn, in Rome but unusually for her not umbilically attached to her phone - Buffy had been unable to talk to her since just after her own arrival in England.
That left two witches, both a little too concerned with the niceties of their auras but otherwise prepared to rough it. And Oscar.
Oscar Giles, younger brother by five years, Watcher wannabee, had leapt at the opportunity offered by the explosion of Council HQ and taken over what remained of the British operation. Robson had been too frail to object initially, and they had then both been exceptionally busy tracking down Potentials and maintaining comms links for Rupert. He’d been grateful, really he had.
After the death of Sunnydale, though, once the new Slayers had gone their various ways and he had escorted the Summers girls to Italy, he had been tired. More tired than in the whole of his life. So it had been less than easy to arrive home to find his brother installed, major building works in train and his house full of busy people whose affairs were all so much more urgent than his own.
Oscar explained, of course. After all, the house belonged to a family trust, not technically to Rupert. And Oscar was family, wasn’t he? It made all sorts of sense to have everything centralised, close to motorway and rail networks. There was so much space, too - had anyone really cared about the old stables and wash-house, to be honest?
Faced with his brother’s logic, Rupert Giles, Senior Watcher with an actual Slayer of his own, simply crumbled. Of course their mother wouldn’t have wanted him to throw Oscar out. Of course decisions had had to be made in his absence. Of course the money from the Council had also covered other repairs, so they were net gainers really.
And if he mourned for his own quiet country home, he did so in silence.
Oscar hid his awe at the actual presence of Buffy quite well, but it was encouraging to see him defer to her on matters which he was so confident he knew best on when arguing with his older brother. Whether vampires could ever genuinely act altruistically, for one. Whether all demons were evil for another. As far as he was concerned, Rupert could only offer anecdotal evidence, intrinsically untrustworthy.
Yet here was Buffy, cheerfully telling him about Clem and the green demon who seemed to have associated with Angel in recent years, and Oscar was accepting every word as gospel. Perhaps all it took was a pretty girl with superpowers to convince him of the error of his ways. Pity there weren’t more of those in Wiltshire.
The new Range Rover was comfortable and fast, and swallowed the passengers with ease. Giles found it refreshing to do nothing but drive the familiar route to the motorway and ignore the chatter beside and behind him. Now at least he had a simple purpose and a single focus. Complications could wait until later.
In the back seat Oscar was doing his best to impress the two witches with his knowledge, general and particular, of the Council and of Slayers. The actual Slayer in the car joined in for a while, but when the talk moved on from the demons and vampires she knew to historical accounts of others in the distant past, she shrugged and inserted earbuds. To all intents and purposes he was alone.
Giles had no need of the SatNav in his own territory, and Oscar was deep in showing off mode, so it wasn’t until well after they had left the motorway that anyone paid attention to their route. Beyond Wantage he slowed, looking for the clues that would tell him where to go next. Somewhere this side of Witney, he thought.
“Stanford in the Vale? Stanford’s in California, surely? Near Sunnyvale - I knew that because of the name.” Trust Buffy to get to the heart of things.
“One Stanford is there, certainly. This one is somewhat earlier. Once upon a time I imagine that bridge was built over a ford paved with stone.”
“Totally not an explanation,” muttered Buffy, “so you’re telling me this is all historyful?”
Giles winced. “You could say that, yes. This area is full of history from before there was history. Which is why we are here. The Vale of White Horse has powerful mystic currents. It is a liminal territory, has been from time immemorial; there are ancient powers at work here.”
“Why is it always ancient power? Why not something spanking new for once?”
“Because, quite simply, that is not the way things work.” He turned right, up Joyce’s Road. He noticed. Buffy didn’t. They drove out of the village, up out of the Vale, hills visible in each direction with strange, lumpy mounds on them. One had a strange, modernistic caricature of a horse carved into its side. Buffy didn’t ask.
Buffy was quiet as they pulled up out of the valley; she was entranced by the view through the windows of the lush roadsides. The end of May in the Cotswolds is a good time to visit: there were huge fronds of cow-parsley, wild flowers in yellow, green and blue, occasional floods of bluebells undulating beneath trees in bud and young leaf. The houses were increasingly built in a creamy golden stone, giving an odd uniformity even to what were clearly modern housing projects. It was hard to think of a greater contrast to what felt like home.
To Giles it was routine, as it was to the other passengers, by now deep in discussion of the possible applications of Pleiadian spirit conjuring. He swung the car along narrower and narrower lanes which twisted and knotted until no sense of direction could have worked.
Buffy gripped his arm as he changed down. Not the ideal time to do so, but her alarm was quite literally tangible in the pain he felt. He braked and turned to her.
“Giles, this can’t possibly be the way to anywhere. There’s grass growing in the middle of the road!”
The back-seat debate stilled for a moment. A silent message passed between the passengers. “SoCal girl.” Before Giles even started to emphasise that he was fully aware of that, thank you, it was perfectly normal round here, and he knew exactly where he was going, they had returned to conjuring and invocations.
Barely convinced, Buffy, never a comfortable driver, but sitting in what every memory told her must be the driver’s seat, stared in horrified fascination as the dry-stone walls surmounted by hedges frothing with blossom seemed to close in. A demon was preferable any time to travelling along English country lanes.
Giles braked. Ahead of them the road stopped. A farm gate lay skewed across their path. Through it could be seen a badly-scraped and dented small car, doors left wide open. Beyond it a barn.
Wherever they were, it seemed they’d arrived.
Rating: G
Word count: 1,240
Earlier chapters are here.
Chapter Fourteen: Cotswold Roads
Two hours later Giles managed to get his troops moving. It had not been easy. He recalled a proverb about herding cats. That was childsplay compared to managing a Slayer, two witches and sundry Watchers only too ready to take offence. He would really have preferred to have left most of them behind; in the end Robson grudgingly agreed someone was needed to hold the fort and volunteered to remain and try to contact Willow, last known of in Thailand and Dawn, in Rome but unusually for her not umbilically attached to her phone - Buffy had been unable to talk to her since just after her own arrival in England.
That left two witches, both a little too concerned with the niceties of their auras but otherwise prepared to rough it. And Oscar.
Oscar Giles, younger brother by five years, Watcher wannabee, had leapt at the opportunity offered by the explosion of Council HQ and taken over what remained of the British operation. Robson had been too frail to object initially, and they had then both been exceptionally busy tracking down Potentials and maintaining comms links for Rupert. He’d been grateful, really he had.
After the death of Sunnydale, though, once the new Slayers had gone their various ways and he had escorted the Summers girls to Italy, he had been tired. More tired than in the whole of his life. So it had been less than easy to arrive home to find his brother installed, major building works in train and his house full of busy people whose affairs were all so much more urgent than his own.
Oscar explained, of course. After all, the house belonged to a family trust, not technically to Rupert. And Oscar was family, wasn’t he? It made all sorts of sense to have everything centralised, close to motorway and rail networks. There was so much space, too - had anyone really cared about the old stables and wash-house, to be honest?
Faced with his brother’s logic, Rupert Giles, Senior Watcher with an actual Slayer of his own, simply crumbled. Of course their mother wouldn’t have wanted him to throw Oscar out. Of course decisions had had to be made in his absence. Of course the money from the Council had also covered other repairs, so they were net gainers really.
And if he mourned for his own quiet country home, he did so in silence.
Oscar hid his awe at the actual presence of Buffy quite well, but it was encouraging to see him defer to her on matters which he was so confident he knew best on when arguing with his older brother. Whether vampires could ever genuinely act altruistically, for one. Whether all demons were evil for another. As far as he was concerned, Rupert could only offer anecdotal evidence, intrinsically untrustworthy.
Yet here was Buffy, cheerfully telling him about Clem and the green demon who seemed to have associated with Angel in recent years, and Oscar was accepting every word as gospel. Perhaps all it took was a pretty girl with superpowers to convince him of the error of his ways. Pity there weren’t more of those in Wiltshire.
The new Range Rover was comfortable and fast, and swallowed the passengers with ease. Giles found it refreshing to do nothing but drive the familiar route to the motorway and ignore the chatter beside and behind him. Now at least he had a simple purpose and a single focus. Complications could wait until later.
In the back seat Oscar was doing his best to impress the two witches with his knowledge, general and particular, of the Council and of Slayers. The actual Slayer in the car joined in for a while, but when the talk moved on from the demons and vampires she knew to historical accounts of others in the distant past, she shrugged and inserted earbuds. To all intents and purposes he was alone.
Giles had no need of the SatNav in his own territory, and Oscar was deep in showing off mode, so it wasn’t until well after they had left the motorway that anyone paid attention to their route. Beyond Wantage he slowed, looking for the clues that would tell him where to go next. Somewhere this side of Witney, he thought.
“Stanford in the Vale? Stanford’s in California, surely? Near Sunnyvale - I knew that because of the name.” Trust Buffy to get to the heart of things.
“One Stanford is there, certainly. This one is somewhat earlier. Once upon a time I imagine that bridge was built over a ford paved with stone.”
“Totally not an explanation,” muttered Buffy, “so you’re telling me this is all historyful?”
Giles winced. “You could say that, yes. This area is full of history from before there was history. Which is why we are here. The Vale of White Horse has powerful mystic currents. It is a liminal territory, has been from time immemorial; there are ancient powers at work here.”
“Why is it always ancient power? Why not something spanking new for once?”
“Because, quite simply, that is not the way things work.” He turned right, up Joyce’s Road. He noticed. Buffy didn’t. They drove out of the village, up out of the Vale, hills visible in each direction with strange, lumpy mounds on them. One had a strange, modernistic caricature of a horse carved into its side. Buffy didn’t ask.
Buffy was quiet as they pulled up out of the valley; she was entranced by the view through the windows of the lush roadsides. The end of May in the Cotswolds is a good time to visit: there were huge fronds of cow-parsley, wild flowers in yellow, green and blue, occasional floods of bluebells undulating beneath trees in bud and young leaf. The houses were increasingly built in a creamy golden stone, giving an odd uniformity even to what were clearly modern housing projects. It was hard to think of a greater contrast to what felt like home.
To Giles it was routine, as it was to the other passengers, by now deep in discussion of the possible applications of Pleiadian spirit conjuring. He swung the car along narrower and narrower lanes which twisted and knotted until no sense of direction could have worked.
Buffy gripped his arm as he changed down. Not the ideal time to do so, but her alarm was quite literally tangible in the pain he felt. He braked and turned to her.
“Giles, this can’t possibly be the way to anywhere. There’s grass growing in the middle of the road!”
The back-seat debate stilled for a moment. A silent message passed between the passengers. “SoCal girl.” Before Giles even started to emphasise that he was fully aware of that, thank you, it was perfectly normal round here, and he knew exactly where he was going, they had returned to conjuring and invocations.
Barely convinced, Buffy, never a comfortable driver, but sitting in what every memory told her must be the driver’s seat, stared in horrified fascination as the dry-stone walls surmounted by hedges frothing with blossom seemed to close in. A demon was preferable any time to travelling along English country lanes.
Giles braked. Ahead of them the road stopped. A farm gate lay skewed across their path. Through it could be seen a badly-scraped and dented small car, doors left wide open. Beyond it a barn.
Wherever they were, it seemed they’d arrived.