Wesleygirl's meme
So, for this one, you're supposed to quote the parts of your own fanfic you like best. Sounds suitably self-gratifying. Think I'll give it a whirl, along with some explanations for my choices.
From Graduation:
"You okay, Xander?" Larry asked.
"Fine. Just fine. I haven’t slept in the past two days on account of having a friend in the hospital and planning a battle against a demon, my folks aren’t showing up for graduation, I’m fairly certain I’m going to die today, my shoes are too tight, and on top of everything else, I’m having to listen to everybody talk about what a terrific guy Angel is. What’s not to love?" With that, Xander finished off his Coke and tossed the can in a random direction. The way he figured it, messy hallways were going to be moot by this afternoon anyway.
That brought Larry up short. "What’s wrong with Angel?"
Xander glared. "Nothing, apparently. Angel’s so gorgeous and such a great guy, and why didn’t we ever see him before, and does he have a girlfriend?"
Larry gave Xander a patient look. "I get it. Xander, you shouldn’t be jealous. You’re a great-looking guy, and while granted, Angel’s beautiful, there’s no need for you to . . ."
That was too much. "I am not jealous of Angel!" Xander snapped.
"Really?" Larry gave Xander a puzzled look. "Then why . . ." A light of understanding and sympathy suddenly washed over Larry’s features, and he grasped Xander’s shoulder in a ham-sized fist. "Oh, I see now. Isn’t it a bitch when the best ones are taken? I feel for you, man."
Larry clapped a stunned and sputtering Xander on the back once, then left to help unload Oz’s van.
Explanation: This was my first Buffyverse fic, a re-telling of the events of GDII with a lot of behind-the-scenes action. It was a good way to get into the feel of the Buffyverse, and I highly recommend doing something similar as a writing exercise. This fic holds a lot of good memories, and the above snippet is my favorite part.
From Dawn and the Dead (Wesley and Dawn are working on a potion together here, btw):
"Wesley, can I ask you something?"
"Certainly."
"What did the monks do? To everybody’s memories?" She looked over at him. "I mean, we never met, never really met before, but I’ve got all these memories of you from Sunnydale, and you remember me, too. Like, when I used to stop by the library and you’d be there, or when Buffy would complain about you and call you Wesley Wimpy-Spice, or . . ."
"I quite get the point, Dawn." Wesley thought a moment, reflecting only briefly upon how much he hated the Spice Girls. "There is a particular type of spell that has been used since the Middle Ages called Mnemosyne’s Confessor. There was a particular sorcerer, one Teriatus, who actually used it to con wealthy families out of inheritances. You see, he would cast the spell, and the next day, he would turn up at their residence. They would believe him to be an older son. As the spell set in, he would become privy to their memories and begin to insert himself into them. Furthermore, the spell was self-perpetuating. Say he had inserted himself into a memory of going riding with a particular son. When that son mentioned the incident to the person who was actually there for that ride, even if that one had never met the sorcerer, he would suddenly have that same memory-and never be the wiser.
"My belief is that the monks used something similar with you. When they . . . created your body, they most likely placed a glamour on you to make you exude a certain familiarity. It would have had to work most strongly upon your family, of course, and from there, it spread to your sister’s friends. It also reflected back to you, as you shared in their memories. The longer the spell has gone on, the more complex it has become; you’re now bound up completely in the memories of those you’ve shared your life with."
Dawn seemed to take it in, still crushing the root. "So-you’re saying it can’t be broken?"
"I honestly don’t know, Dawn. The monks who did this must have enormous power, for it isn’t an easy spell to cast, let alone on this level. It’s possible they could reverse it, but not altogether certain."
The girl nodded. "Is this good for the root?"
"Just a little more."
"So, you’re saying they didn’t really remember me at first?"
"No, not really." Wesley gathered his thoughts as he added some of the Beast’s blood to the brewing potion. "They would have felt that they knew you, and that you were a younger sister. It’s only as they began to think of you, to recollect those million memories we access every day, that they would have begun filling you into them in a logical fashion. Take, for example, someone who was in Sunnydale before you came-can you think of anyone?"
Dawn thought. "Oz, maybe."
"Excellent. Oz. Right now, he has no memory of you. However, the instant anyone mentions you to him, the spell would begin working on him. He would begin reflecting back their memories and adding his own, and a new level of complexity would be added to the spell. He would never recall not having known you, although in fact he does not, at the moment."
Explanation: I've always loved Dawn, and the idea of how she came into the Buffyverse fascinates me endlessly. This was my explanation for how the spell worked, and I'm darn proud of it. Plus, Wesley.
From Aurora
Janusz was eight when he came to the monastery. His parents had both died, and the Brotherhood of Dagon had taken him in. Being a quiet, introverted child, the life of contemplation and study suited him well, and he quickly became a favorite of his instructors.
He didn’t understand then just how special they believed him to be. However, a year after he entered the monastery, Brother Istvan took him to a part of the compound he had never seen. They entered a room hidden behind high, thick doors, and there, young Janusz beheld a wonder.
At the very center of the room was a great crystal globe. It glowed with an unearthly radiance, and as Janusz stared at it, enchanted, the glow within divided out to colors, swirling and changing and rippling, separating out and then coming back together again.
It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Brother Istvan walked close to the globe. "This is Janusz," he announced. "Janusz, this is the Key. Come close."
So Janusz did. The light within it changed as he approached, flushing a deep rose. On impulse, Janusz reached out, placing his palm against the crystal. A tendril of the light within reached out, almost shyly, and brushed lightly against the place where Janusz’s hand rested.
And young Janusz was flooded with emotion. Curiosity, a very little fear, and excitement at meeting someone new. He felt the presence within the crystal, and it was beautiful.
Brother Istvan took in this encounter, and when Janusz withdrew his hand, asked, "Well?"
"I think she likes me," said Janusz.
And Brother Istvan smiled.
Explanation: again with the Dawn-love. This story's one of my favorites because it's written about an extremely minor character--the unnamed monk from "No Place Like Home." He intrigued me with how much he seemed to truly care about the Key. So I gave him a name, Janusz, and a life story. The idea that the Key was loved and valued even before she became Dawn was not exactly common at the time I wrote this piece, so I like to think I might have added something unique to the fandom.
From Ties that Bind:
Dawn was silent after that. Spike had the feeling she was working up the courage to tell him something, so he just waited.
Finally, she spoke, looking down at her hands. "Spike, can I tell you something? You promise you won’t freak at me?"
"Do I freak at anything?"
"Good point." Still looking at her hands, she told him, "I’ve been writing to Buffy in my diary. Like letters to her or something. Julie said she thought that was okay, but anyway, one day, I was feeling so mad that I-I told Buffy I hated her. In my diary. I took it back, but . . ." She swallowed hard. "Do you think she knows? I know she’s dead and all, but so are you. Do you think she’d understand?"
Spike blew out a long stream of smoke. "You kidding? She was one of the principles in the Ballad of Buffy and Angel. Do you think she wouldn’t understand how close love and hate are? Of course she does, Little Bit." He took another drag on his cigarette, reflecting on his own past. "That’s what family’s about, you know. They’re always in your heart. You love them, you hate them, and it’s all the same thing in the end. They shape you. They’re a part of you. You can never be free of them, no matter how you try. Hell, you can kill ‘em off, but it won’t do you any good. Your family’s always in you, right down to the bone. ‘Course Buffy knows you still love her, even when you hate her."
"Good," Dawn whispered, and she leaned on him, resting her head against his shoulder.
It took Spike by as much surprise as the present had. He wasn’t quite sure what to do, so he just sat still. After a moment, he hesitantly moved his hand behind her, stroking the soft-as-silk hair falling down her back. She didn’t respond, eyes distant.
Explanation: I was always a sucker for the Spike-Dawn friendship, as well as the Buffy-Dawn, Buffy/Angel and Spike-/Angel relationships. Spike's little speech is my take on all of them, and it encapsulates the theme of this fic.
Finally, two lines I wish I'd written:
From selenak's Death Becomes Her: "Death is not male after all; Death is female, in a red dress, Ophelia out for murder, the graceful end of all hope."
Is that poetry, or is that poetry? On a different note:
From Regression, which I actually co-wrote with Gyrus, who was the one to come up with this line: "(Spike) turned and looked at Xander like he was a big, crunchy piece of eggshell hidden in an otherwise delicious omelet."
Isn't that the Spike-Xander relationship in a nutshell? Or an eggshell, rather?
From Graduation:
"You okay, Xander?" Larry asked.
"Fine. Just fine. I haven’t slept in the past two days on account of having a friend in the hospital and planning a battle against a demon, my folks aren’t showing up for graduation, I’m fairly certain I’m going to die today, my shoes are too tight, and on top of everything else, I’m having to listen to everybody talk about what a terrific guy Angel is. What’s not to love?" With that, Xander finished off his Coke and tossed the can in a random direction. The way he figured it, messy hallways were going to be moot by this afternoon anyway.
That brought Larry up short. "What’s wrong with Angel?"
Xander glared. "Nothing, apparently. Angel’s so gorgeous and such a great guy, and why didn’t we ever see him before, and does he have a girlfriend?"
Larry gave Xander a patient look. "I get it. Xander, you shouldn’t be jealous. You’re a great-looking guy, and while granted, Angel’s beautiful, there’s no need for you to . . ."
That was too much. "I am not jealous of Angel!" Xander snapped.
"Really?" Larry gave Xander a puzzled look. "Then why . . ." A light of understanding and sympathy suddenly washed over Larry’s features, and he grasped Xander’s shoulder in a ham-sized fist. "Oh, I see now. Isn’t it a bitch when the best ones are taken? I feel for you, man."
Larry clapped a stunned and sputtering Xander on the back once, then left to help unload Oz’s van.
Explanation: This was my first Buffyverse fic, a re-telling of the events of GDII with a lot of behind-the-scenes action. It was a good way to get into the feel of the Buffyverse, and I highly recommend doing something similar as a writing exercise. This fic holds a lot of good memories, and the above snippet is my favorite part.
From Dawn and the Dead (Wesley and Dawn are working on a potion together here, btw):
"Wesley, can I ask you something?"
"Certainly."
"What did the monks do? To everybody’s memories?" She looked over at him. "I mean, we never met, never really met before, but I’ve got all these memories of you from Sunnydale, and you remember me, too. Like, when I used to stop by the library and you’d be there, or when Buffy would complain about you and call you Wesley Wimpy-Spice, or . . ."
"I quite get the point, Dawn." Wesley thought a moment, reflecting only briefly upon how much he hated the Spice Girls. "There is a particular type of spell that has been used since the Middle Ages called Mnemosyne’s Confessor. There was a particular sorcerer, one Teriatus, who actually used it to con wealthy families out of inheritances. You see, he would cast the spell, and the next day, he would turn up at their residence. They would believe him to be an older son. As the spell set in, he would become privy to their memories and begin to insert himself into them. Furthermore, the spell was self-perpetuating. Say he had inserted himself into a memory of going riding with a particular son. When that son mentioned the incident to the person who was actually there for that ride, even if that one had never met the sorcerer, he would suddenly have that same memory-and never be the wiser.
"My belief is that the monks used something similar with you. When they . . . created your body, they most likely placed a glamour on you to make you exude a certain familiarity. It would have had to work most strongly upon your family, of course, and from there, it spread to your sister’s friends. It also reflected back to you, as you shared in their memories. The longer the spell has gone on, the more complex it has become; you’re now bound up completely in the memories of those you’ve shared your life with."
Dawn seemed to take it in, still crushing the root. "So-you’re saying it can’t be broken?"
"I honestly don’t know, Dawn. The monks who did this must have enormous power, for it isn’t an easy spell to cast, let alone on this level. It’s possible they could reverse it, but not altogether certain."
The girl nodded. "Is this good for the root?"
"Just a little more."
"So, you’re saying they didn’t really remember me at first?"
"No, not really." Wesley gathered his thoughts as he added some of the Beast’s blood to the brewing potion. "They would have felt that they knew you, and that you were a younger sister. It’s only as they began to think of you, to recollect those million memories we access every day, that they would have begun filling you into them in a logical fashion. Take, for example, someone who was in Sunnydale before you came-can you think of anyone?"
Dawn thought. "Oz, maybe."
"Excellent. Oz. Right now, he has no memory of you. However, the instant anyone mentions you to him, the spell would begin working on him. He would begin reflecting back their memories and adding his own, and a new level of complexity would be added to the spell. He would never recall not having known you, although in fact he does not, at the moment."
Explanation: I've always loved Dawn, and the idea of how she came into the Buffyverse fascinates me endlessly. This was my explanation for how the spell worked, and I'm darn proud of it. Plus, Wesley.
From Aurora
Janusz was eight when he came to the monastery. His parents had both died, and the Brotherhood of Dagon had taken him in. Being a quiet, introverted child, the life of contemplation and study suited him well, and he quickly became a favorite of his instructors.
He didn’t understand then just how special they believed him to be. However, a year after he entered the monastery, Brother Istvan took him to a part of the compound he had never seen. They entered a room hidden behind high, thick doors, and there, young Janusz beheld a wonder.
At the very center of the room was a great crystal globe. It glowed with an unearthly radiance, and as Janusz stared at it, enchanted, the glow within divided out to colors, swirling and changing and rippling, separating out and then coming back together again.
It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Brother Istvan walked close to the globe. "This is Janusz," he announced. "Janusz, this is the Key. Come close."
So Janusz did. The light within it changed as he approached, flushing a deep rose. On impulse, Janusz reached out, placing his palm against the crystal. A tendril of the light within reached out, almost shyly, and brushed lightly against the place where Janusz’s hand rested.
And young Janusz was flooded with emotion. Curiosity, a very little fear, and excitement at meeting someone new. He felt the presence within the crystal, and it was beautiful.
Brother Istvan took in this encounter, and when Janusz withdrew his hand, asked, "Well?"
"I think she likes me," said Janusz.
And Brother Istvan smiled.
Explanation: again with the Dawn-love. This story's one of my favorites because it's written about an extremely minor character--the unnamed monk from "No Place Like Home." He intrigued me with how much he seemed to truly care about the Key. So I gave him a name, Janusz, and a life story. The idea that the Key was loved and valued even before she became Dawn was not exactly common at the time I wrote this piece, so I like to think I might have added something unique to the fandom.
From Ties that Bind:
Dawn was silent after that. Spike had the feeling she was working up the courage to tell him something, so he just waited.
Finally, she spoke, looking down at her hands. "Spike, can I tell you something? You promise you won’t freak at me?"
"Do I freak at anything?"
"Good point." Still looking at her hands, she told him, "I’ve been writing to Buffy in my diary. Like letters to her or something. Julie said she thought that was okay, but anyway, one day, I was feeling so mad that I-I told Buffy I hated her. In my diary. I took it back, but . . ." She swallowed hard. "Do you think she knows? I know she’s dead and all, but so are you. Do you think she’d understand?"
Spike blew out a long stream of smoke. "You kidding? She was one of the principles in the Ballad of Buffy and Angel. Do you think she wouldn’t understand how close love and hate are? Of course she does, Little Bit." He took another drag on his cigarette, reflecting on his own past. "That’s what family’s about, you know. They’re always in your heart. You love them, you hate them, and it’s all the same thing in the end. They shape you. They’re a part of you. You can never be free of them, no matter how you try. Hell, you can kill ‘em off, but it won’t do you any good. Your family’s always in you, right down to the bone. ‘Course Buffy knows you still love her, even when you hate her."
"Good," Dawn whispered, and she leaned on him, resting her head against his shoulder.
It took Spike by as much surprise as the present had. He wasn’t quite sure what to do, so he just sat still. After a moment, he hesitantly moved his hand behind her, stroking the soft-as-silk hair falling down her back. She didn’t respond, eyes distant.
Explanation: I was always a sucker for the Spike-Dawn friendship, as well as the Buffy-Dawn, Buffy/Angel and Spike-/Angel relationships. Spike's little speech is my take on all of them, and it encapsulates the theme of this fic.
Finally, two lines I wish I'd written:
From selenak's Death Becomes Her: "Death is not male after all; Death is female, in a red dress, Ophelia out for murder, the graceful end of all hope."
Is that poetry, or is that poetry? On a different note:
From Regression, which I actually co-wrote with Gyrus, who was the one to come up with this line: "(Spike) turned and looked at Xander like he was a big, crunchy piece of eggshell hidden in an otherwise delicious omelet."
Isn't that the Spike-Xander relationship in a nutshell? Or an eggshell, rather?