Giles Fic
The train slowed again, its driver uncertain of the signal ahead. Rupert clenched his arms around his stomach and tried to curl deeper into himself.
It had been a simple matter, travelling to Devon; and an even simpler one arranging a meeting with the coven. His grandmother’s slayer had saved them long ago and the debt was long past due.
“We can’t get rid of it entirely; no one can… besides, the process would likely kill you,” Sarah had said after briefly consulting her sisters. “We can, however, contain it for you until you wish to have it back.”
Rupert pushed his glasses further up his nose, still unused to their presence. “Fine, that’s fine,” he murmured, trying not to squirm under the irritation of the tweed on his arms.
Sarah bit her lip anxiously. “It will hurt… as though your soul is being ripped in two.”
“My soul has already been ripped in two,” he muttered in a broken tone. “It makes no difference.”
He had hoped to slip away while Ethan slept, still recovering from his injuries. He should have known Ethan would never allow that.
“Ripper, what are you doing?” He’d asked, taking in Rupert’s new appearance. His voice shook.
Rupert cringed away from the fear in Ethan’s eyes; the compounding sense of loss. Ethan, who stood so proudly with bandaged head, a limp, and bruises covering every exposed limb. Ethan, who would never admit to being as broken as the rest of them. Ethan, who could never walk away.
Ethan shuffled forward, hand clenched tightly around the cane they had given him. “Rupert, love?” he asked. Both hope and dread filled his voice.
Rupert closed his eyes and swallowed the bile at the back of his throat.
“I’m going back.” The gruff words hung in the air between them.
When Ethan didn’t answer, Rupert finally turned to look his lover in the eye; but Ethan was hunched over, eyes clenched shut and free arm circling his torso tightly, as though trying to keep his insides from spilling out.
When Ethan opened his eyes again, whatever spark of life which had remained was gone. Ethan straightened under Rupert’s watchful gaze and let his arm fall to his side, but his shoulders remained bent, his posture broken.
Rupert waited for a word, a look, anything. Uncertain of what he expected but expectation nonetheless filled him.
Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it. Searched the room for inspiration and when it failed to provide, his gaze landed back on Rupert. He took in the tweed jacket that was too large for Rupert’s slight frame, the thick glasses he didn’t need, the resignation in his face.
Ethan closed his eyes once more, swallowing his own pain. Without a word, he turned his back on Rupert and left the room.
Rupert didn’t know which was worse: the fiery tantrum he had been expecting or the cold desolation that reality had presented him.
It was truly a sad day when even Ethan Rayne couldn’t find the will to fight anymore.
The process was a simple one. They would draw his magic out of him and place it in a vase of Methuselah, which would then be placed in a safe to be protected. However, no one in the coven had previous experience: few would ever submit to such a procedure.
Rupert lay passively on the floor, tracing the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes, not feeling anything except the detached numbness that he had clung to since he’d left the London flat. He didn’t think anything could be worse than what he was feeling.
He was wrong.
Sarah had begun the chanting and the rest repeated in chorus. Then Giles screamed, and screamed, and screamed.
The train ride home was torturous. Rupert had barely managed to find his way to the train. The ticket had already been bought and the arrangements already made; otherwise, he would have stayed in Devon to suffer in peace.
Every time he breathed, it felt like red hot knives were searing through his molecules where his magic had once resided; his body rejecting the loss of something so intrinsic to his being. His forehead rested against the window, seeking some comfort against the cold glass, yet finding none.
At last the train arrived, pulling in to the station of his childhood home - The home which no longer fit any better than the tweed jacket, the glasses, or even his skin.
Rupert pulled himself up and walked off the train, his movements robotic and his mind completely blank.
His father looked on proudly.
“Rupert! Look at you! I’m so glad you’ve finally decided to grow up.”
Rupert stared at his father from within the husk that had once been his own body, broken and dead.
If this was growing up, he’d rather it stop.
It had been a simple matter, travelling to Devon; and an even simpler one arranging a meeting with the coven. His grandmother’s slayer had saved them long ago and the debt was long past due.
“We can’t get rid of it entirely; no one can… besides, the process would likely kill you,” Sarah had said after briefly consulting her sisters. “We can, however, contain it for you until you wish to have it back.”
Rupert pushed his glasses further up his nose, still unused to their presence. “Fine, that’s fine,” he murmured, trying not to squirm under the irritation of the tweed on his arms.
Sarah bit her lip anxiously. “It will hurt… as though your soul is being ripped in two.”
“My soul has already been ripped in two,” he muttered in a broken tone. “It makes no difference.”
He had hoped to slip away while Ethan slept, still recovering from his injuries. He should have known Ethan would never allow that.
“Ripper, what are you doing?” He’d asked, taking in Rupert’s new appearance. His voice shook.
Rupert cringed away from the fear in Ethan’s eyes; the compounding sense of loss. Ethan, who stood so proudly with bandaged head, a limp, and bruises covering every exposed limb. Ethan, who would never admit to being as broken as the rest of them. Ethan, who could never walk away.
Ethan shuffled forward, hand clenched tightly around the cane they had given him. “Rupert, love?” he asked. Both hope and dread filled his voice.
Rupert closed his eyes and swallowed the bile at the back of his throat.
“I’m going back.” The gruff words hung in the air between them.
When Ethan didn’t answer, Rupert finally turned to look his lover in the eye; but Ethan was hunched over, eyes clenched shut and free arm circling his torso tightly, as though trying to keep his insides from spilling out.
When Ethan opened his eyes again, whatever spark of life which had remained was gone. Ethan straightened under Rupert’s watchful gaze and let his arm fall to his side, but his shoulders remained bent, his posture broken.
Rupert waited for a word, a look, anything. Uncertain of what he expected but expectation nonetheless filled him.
Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it. Searched the room for inspiration and when it failed to provide, his gaze landed back on Rupert. He took in the tweed jacket that was too large for Rupert’s slight frame, the thick glasses he didn’t need, the resignation in his face.
Ethan closed his eyes once more, swallowing his own pain. Without a word, he turned his back on Rupert and left the room.
Rupert didn’t know which was worse: the fiery tantrum he had been expecting or the cold desolation that reality had presented him.
It was truly a sad day when even Ethan Rayne couldn’t find the will to fight anymore.
The process was a simple one. They would draw his magic out of him and place it in a vase of Methuselah, which would then be placed in a safe to be protected. However, no one in the coven had previous experience: few would ever submit to such a procedure.
Rupert lay passively on the floor, tracing the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes, not feeling anything except the detached numbness that he had clung to since he’d left the London flat. He didn’t think anything could be worse than what he was feeling.
He was wrong.
Sarah had begun the chanting and the rest repeated in chorus. Then Giles screamed, and screamed, and screamed.
The train ride home was torturous. Rupert had barely managed to find his way to the train. The ticket had already been bought and the arrangements already made; otherwise, he would have stayed in Devon to suffer in peace.
Every time he breathed, it felt like red hot knives were searing through his molecules where his magic had once resided; his body rejecting the loss of something so intrinsic to his being. His forehead rested against the window, seeking some comfort against the cold glass, yet finding none.
At last the train arrived, pulling in to the station of his childhood home - The home which no longer fit any better than the tweed jacket, the glasses, or even his skin.
Rupert pulled himself up and walked off the train, his movements robotic and his mind completely blank.
His father looked on proudly.
“Rupert! Look at you! I’m so glad you’ve finally decided to grow up.”
Rupert stared at his father from within the husk that had once been his own body, broken and dead.
If this was growing up, he’d rather it stop.