"After the Deluge" - another update
I have been somewhat busy with family matters, but long hours of travel do at least offer the opportunity to work out a few plot points, so it's not all wasted.
Here we are with Chapter Eighteen. Rating PG because of naughty language. 1,519 words.
Earlier chapters are here.
Chapter Eighteen: A Meeting of Minds
The young man looked at Buffy, gaze travelling from her head downwards, then up again. His face became perplexed. “Hwa bist? Acwiðe !”*
Buffy turned to Giles, as confused as the newcomer. “What’s he saying? Who is he?”
“Oddly enough, he’s saying almost exactly what you just said. He’s just using an older form of English, that’s all.”
“That’s English?” Incredulously, Buffy took a step towards him. Althanea stiffened and flung a hand forward in an unmistakeable gesture.
“Buffy, stay back. He might attack!”
Buffy smiled thinly, “You think I can’t take him?”
Giles moved to her side. “I know you can - that is our worry. We need him on our side, not fighting it.” He pulled a notebook from his inside pocket, thumbed to a page near the middle and started reading. “Ic þe ábene asprecan. Bist þe Witleof?”**
Buffy tugged at his arm. “Giles, are you trying to converse with him? Who is he? What’s he doing here? What are we doing here for that matter?”
Giles turned his disappointed look on her. “Buffy, I am talking in old English. Very old English. I need to check if this young man is who we think he is.”
Miss Hartness coughed. “Rupert, I know you are very proud of your language skills, but you are working from a text-book. If he doesn’t speak the dialect Dr Sweet transcribed, we have problems. We don’t have much time - why not just let Althanea do a Babel spell?”
Rupert Giles’s face fell; he looked almost sulky. Buffy sternly controlled her sympathetic instinct. This was a man who still had a lot of explanation to do, and indulging his wish to chat in archaic languages could only delay the showdown she was still adamant would occur. “There’s a translation spell? Do it. Like ten minutes ago, OK?”
Oscar opened, then shut his mouth. It was wiser only to take sides when it was clear which would win.
Althanea held out a hand to Miss Hartness, who took it almost without looking. They started to hum once more, then opened their mouths into a wordless tone which ascended and descended. Somehow they synchronised their breathing so that there was no discernible gap, and the two voices interwove in a remarkable harmony. In the midst of this each witch tossed a handful of herbs above her head; the wind caught the fragments and twisted and whirled them until they fell, scattered on the heads of all present.
There was a moment of silence. Then the young man stepped forward. He halted mid-stride, as if stopped by an invisible barrier, and scowled. “Would one of you people tell me what the fuck is going on?”
Rupert Giles went into emergency mode. He polished his spectacles vigorously to allow himself time to think. Oscar strode to his side and cleared his throat.
Not a good idea. Rupert intercepted his brief pause. “Witleof, I presume? My - er - apologies for your present constraints. I’m afraid my friends and I need your assurance that you will make no attack before we are able to liberate you.”
The young man’s face darkened. “You dare to present conditions? I am Witleof of Fernham, son of the eorl. Who are you?”
“I am Rupert, son of Giles, of the mighty Council of Watchers.”
Witleof started back. “A Watcher? Why are you here?” He looked around himself, seeing it as if for the first time. “Where are we? Explain.”
“We are where you have always been, though its name has changed several times. When we are is a more pertinent question for you.”
Buffy coughed. “I think a little more explanation would be welcome here too.”
Oscar intervened. “Buffy, this is Witleof. He lived here when Penda was king of Mercia.”
“Clear as mud, little Giles.” Buffy kept this beneath her breath, “So that’s his name. I get it. He told us that himself. But someone needs to explain why he’s here before I get radically antsy. An antsy Slayer is not a happy Slayer. And a happy Slayer’s the best sort to have.”
Althanea stood and moved calmly, fluidly to the side of the newcomer. “We summoned you, boy. We think it is your time to repay at last.” She looked at Giles. “We can take the restraints off, or loosen them a little - whatever you wish. He might be more amenable if you sat down with him and explained a little more.”
Five minutes later Buffy had reached the detailed phase. “So, he betrayed an entire camp to vampires?”
“Yes - they had promised him wealth beyond his dreams if he showed them the way to this place. A large encampment of warriors was established just beyond that barn. The place the vampires wanted to reach was beyond them. So he walked up to the sentries and gave the password. He was invited inside the camp - and his companions with him. I don’t need to draw a more detailed picture for you, do I?”
Buffy was staring at the young man with revulsion.
“Watcher, you are telling only half the story. Did those evil vampires survive? No, they did not!”
“Ah, no. I was forgetting. You led the vampires to the Well, then trapped them in netting to wait for the sunrise. Carefully-planned and executed in every sense of the word. You feel we should applaud you for this?”
Buffy felt totally nauseous now. This slight, spare young man, quite attractive, really, had destroyed humans and vampires with equal zest. And showed no remorse. She was well aware her own (two) vampires had done as much harm, and more often, but at least they had an excuse. The Evil Undead were supposed to be evil as well as undead. This had been a normal young man. For whatever value of “normal” could actually be made to work in this case.
Witleof was scowling now. “I think I’ve paid for it, haven’t I? What’s happened to my world? I’ve been held here in limbo with occasional visits from you Watcher clerks. How long? You gits won’t even tell me that much.”
“I think it’s fair to tell you that your family, such of it that survived the vampires, died out a thousand or so years ago. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
The young man’s face was grey. Buffy could almost feel sorry for him. He swallowed, hard, then again. “So, is it time for me to be let out yet? Have you clerics finished torturing me?”
“I am no cleric, though I can read, which is more, I’ll wager, than you can do. I think the end of your waiting may be near, though, yes. This is why we have summoned you and why I must have your oath, for what that is worth, that you will make no attempt to harm me or any of my party. Your assistance would be useful, yes, but without that oath, sworn on your own blood and body, we will manage without you and send you back to the darkness.”
“Way to go with the speechifying, Giles,” muttered Buffy.
Witleof looked around, as if for help. Oscar, the witches, Giles and Buffy stared back at him, implacable.
“I accept. Give me a knife.” Althanea solemnly handed over a tiny fruit knife, far too small for use as a weapon.
Witleof braced himself and stared into the sun. “I swear by my own blood,” he slashed a gouge across his upper arm, “and by my own body,” he smeared blood from the gash down each arm and across his face, “that I will remain loyal to Rupert, son of Giles of the Watchers, and will harm neither him nor those under his protection. May my body burn, my brains fry and my heart wither if I break this vow.”
There was a silence, then Althanea and Miss Hartness waved incense sticks in a complex pattern, chanted a few words of what might well have been Latin, and there was a strong sense of pressure being released.
Just for a moment everyone relaxed. Oscar and Althanea escorted Witleof to a mounting block which could serve as a bench, while Giles and Miss Hartness gathered the occult paraphernalia to return to the car.
Giles closed the boot and turned to rest his back against the vehicle. His jaw dropped, just a little, at what he saw. Of all the people in all the places in the world…
“Oh. Em. Gee. It’s Mr Giles. My Mentor and father of my soul!” Andrew dropped the basket he had been struggling to carry and rushed to grasp an unwilling Giles by the hand, or hug him. Or possibly even kiss him. His intention was unclear, but the general gist was not.
“Andrew. What are you doing here and what have you done with my sister?”
In another world Buffy’s tone might have been described as Bene Gesserit. Andrew’s blood faded from his face and he sat down abruptly on the scrubby grass by the gate. Suddenly it seemed explanations, never his strongest point, were about to dominate his future.
Translations of the Anglo-Saxon:
* Who are you? Speak!
** I bid thee speak - art thou Witleof?
I hope to post more soon. Other meetings are imminent...
If you have been, thanks for reading. Comments make me squee with joy.
Here we are with Chapter Eighteen. Rating PG because of naughty language. 1,519 words.
Earlier chapters are here.
Chapter Eighteen: A Meeting of Minds
The young man looked at Buffy, gaze travelling from her head downwards, then up again. His face became perplexed. “Hwa bist? Acwiðe !”*
Buffy turned to Giles, as confused as the newcomer. “What’s he saying? Who is he?”
“Oddly enough, he’s saying almost exactly what you just said. He’s just using an older form of English, that’s all.”
“That’s English?” Incredulously, Buffy took a step towards him. Althanea stiffened and flung a hand forward in an unmistakeable gesture.
“Buffy, stay back. He might attack!”
Buffy smiled thinly, “You think I can’t take him?”
Giles moved to her side. “I know you can - that is our worry. We need him on our side, not fighting it.” He pulled a notebook from his inside pocket, thumbed to a page near the middle and started reading. “Ic þe ábene asprecan. Bist þe Witleof?”**
Buffy tugged at his arm. “Giles, are you trying to converse with him? Who is he? What’s he doing here? What are we doing here for that matter?”
Giles turned his disappointed look on her. “Buffy, I am talking in old English. Very old English. I need to check if this young man is who we think he is.”
Miss Hartness coughed. “Rupert, I know you are very proud of your language skills, but you are working from a text-book. If he doesn’t speak the dialect Dr Sweet transcribed, we have problems. We don’t have much time - why not just let Althanea do a Babel spell?”
Rupert Giles’s face fell; he looked almost sulky. Buffy sternly controlled her sympathetic instinct. This was a man who still had a lot of explanation to do, and indulging his wish to chat in archaic languages could only delay the showdown she was still adamant would occur. “There’s a translation spell? Do it. Like ten minutes ago, OK?”
Oscar opened, then shut his mouth. It was wiser only to take sides when it was clear which would win.
Althanea held out a hand to Miss Hartness, who took it almost without looking. They started to hum once more, then opened their mouths into a wordless tone which ascended and descended. Somehow they synchronised their breathing so that there was no discernible gap, and the two voices interwove in a remarkable harmony. In the midst of this each witch tossed a handful of herbs above her head; the wind caught the fragments and twisted and whirled them until they fell, scattered on the heads of all present.
There was a moment of silence. Then the young man stepped forward. He halted mid-stride, as if stopped by an invisible barrier, and scowled. “Would one of you people tell me what the fuck is going on?”
Rupert Giles went into emergency mode. He polished his spectacles vigorously to allow himself time to think. Oscar strode to his side and cleared his throat.
Not a good idea. Rupert intercepted his brief pause. “Witleof, I presume? My - er - apologies for your present constraints. I’m afraid my friends and I need your assurance that you will make no attack before we are able to liberate you.”
The young man’s face darkened. “You dare to present conditions? I am Witleof of Fernham, son of the eorl. Who are you?”
“I am Rupert, son of Giles, of the mighty Council of Watchers.”
Witleof started back. “A Watcher? Why are you here?” He looked around himself, seeing it as if for the first time. “Where are we? Explain.”
“We are where you have always been, though its name has changed several times. When we are is a more pertinent question for you.”
Buffy coughed. “I think a little more explanation would be welcome here too.”
Oscar intervened. “Buffy, this is Witleof. He lived here when Penda was king of Mercia.”
“Clear as mud, little Giles.” Buffy kept this beneath her breath, “So that’s his name. I get it. He told us that himself. But someone needs to explain why he’s here before I get radically antsy. An antsy Slayer is not a happy Slayer. And a happy Slayer’s the best sort to have.”
Althanea stood and moved calmly, fluidly to the side of the newcomer. “We summoned you, boy. We think it is your time to repay at last.” She looked at Giles. “We can take the restraints off, or loosen them a little - whatever you wish. He might be more amenable if you sat down with him and explained a little more.”
Five minutes later Buffy had reached the detailed phase. “So, he betrayed an entire camp to vampires?”
“Yes - they had promised him wealth beyond his dreams if he showed them the way to this place. A large encampment of warriors was established just beyond that barn. The place the vampires wanted to reach was beyond them. So he walked up to the sentries and gave the password. He was invited inside the camp - and his companions with him. I don’t need to draw a more detailed picture for you, do I?”
Buffy was staring at the young man with revulsion.
“Watcher, you are telling only half the story. Did those evil vampires survive? No, they did not!”
“Ah, no. I was forgetting. You led the vampires to the Well, then trapped them in netting to wait for the sunrise. Carefully-planned and executed in every sense of the word. You feel we should applaud you for this?”
Buffy felt totally nauseous now. This slight, spare young man, quite attractive, really, had destroyed humans and vampires with equal zest. And showed no remorse. She was well aware her own (two) vampires had done as much harm, and more often, but at least they had an excuse. The Evil Undead were supposed to be evil as well as undead. This had been a normal young man. For whatever value of “normal” could actually be made to work in this case.
Witleof was scowling now. “I think I’ve paid for it, haven’t I? What’s happened to my world? I’ve been held here in limbo with occasional visits from you Watcher clerks. How long? You gits won’t even tell me that much.”
“I think it’s fair to tell you that your family, such of it that survived the vampires, died out a thousand or so years ago. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
The young man’s face was grey. Buffy could almost feel sorry for him. He swallowed, hard, then again. “So, is it time for me to be let out yet? Have you clerics finished torturing me?”
“I am no cleric, though I can read, which is more, I’ll wager, than you can do. I think the end of your waiting may be near, though, yes. This is why we have summoned you and why I must have your oath, for what that is worth, that you will make no attempt to harm me or any of my party. Your assistance would be useful, yes, but without that oath, sworn on your own blood and body, we will manage without you and send you back to the darkness.”
“Way to go with the speechifying, Giles,” muttered Buffy.
Witleof looked around, as if for help. Oscar, the witches, Giles and Buffy stared back at him, implacable.
“I accept. Give me a knife.” Althanea solemnly handed over a tiny fruit knife, far too small for use as a weapon.
Witleof braced himself and stared into the sun. “I swear by my own blood,” he slashed a gouge across his upper arm, “and by my own body,” he smeared blood from the gash down each arm and across his face, “that I will remain loyal to Rupert, son of Giles of the Watchers, and will harm neither him nor those under his protection. May my body burn, my brains fry and my heart wither if I break this vow.”
There was a silence, then Althanea and Miss Hartness waved incense sticks in a complex pattern, chanted a few words of what might well have been Latin, and there was a strong sense of pressure being released.
Just for a moment everyone relaxed. Oscar and Althanea escorted Witleof to a mounting block which could serve as a bench, while Giles and Miss Hartness gathered the occult paraphernalia to return to the car.
Giles closed the boot and turned to rest his back against the vehicle. His jaw dropped, just a little, at what he saw. Of all the people in all the places in the world…
“Oh. Em. Gee. It’s Mr Giles. My Mentor and father of my soul!” Andrew dropped the basket he had been struggling to carry and rushed to grasp an unwilling Giles by the hand, or hug him. Or possibly even kiss him. His intention was unclear, but the general gist was not.
“Andrew. What are you doing here and what have you done with my sister?”
In another world Buffy’s tone might have been described as Bene Gesserit. Andrew’s blood faded from his face and he sat down abruptly on the scrubby grass by the gate. Suddenly it seemed explanations, never his strongest point, were about to dominate his future.
Translations of the Anglo-Saxon:
* Who are you? Speak!
** I bid thee speak - art thou Witleof?
I hope to post more soon. Other meetings are imminent...
If you have been, thanks for reading. Comments make me squee with joy.