two times a slayer was called
Her name was Mirabelle - she was thirteen, living in France in the 1940's when she was called.
It was late at night, her mother would be wondering where she was, (she'd been out all night with boys older than her, smoking down by the secluded rocks and river). Her bike had gotten stuck on a rock around a quarter to twelve.
Her watcher was a young man named Albert - barely twenty, new from the Watchers Academy, but he'd been trained his whole life. He was eager to teach, eager to kill and that was always a deadly combination for the Watchers Council. Those that were eager.
Mirabelle hated him on first sight. He was walking along the same path as her that night, almost if it was fate and not that he had been stalking her for the past week, waiting for the right time to tell her about her destiny.
"Mirabelle?" He had called out, his voice soft and smooth and friendly; the way the older boys were, charming, the way that makes a young girls heart melt. Mirabelle looked up from where she was on her bike, stuck trying to get the pedals to work, and squinted her eyes at the unfamiliar man in the shadows.
"How do you know my name?" Mirabelle had asked him, a sense of fear overtaking her.
"It's a funny story, actually." Albert laughed, "You speak English?" He asks a second later, he'd been told that Mirabelle was bilingual - she knew her French, her Italian and her English.
Mirabelle nodded her head, "Yes. Why?" Her nose scrunched up as he took a step closer, letting the lights from the lamp-post illuminate his figure. He wasn't expecting to take the job for another year, at least, but the last slayer had died unexpectedly - from a rough battle with an unknown demon on a regular patrol. Her watcher, a good friend of Albert's before he'd left to train the Slayer, had been inconsolable. Unsurprisingly it had more to do with him being unable to train the next Slayer than the loss of a life.
"It would help greatly with your destiny." Albert says, taking another step closer towards her. She was much younger than he'd expected her to be. He heard thirteen and expected sixteen; a girl who'd grown into her own body, at the very least. This girl was all gangly and her curly hair cut short, pinned up in a hair 'do that was modeled after the latest big screen stars.
"Destiny?" Mirabelle echoed, "You're mistaken." She pauses for a second. "And creepy. I need to get home, my mother will be wondering where I am."
Lightly, Albert curses under his breath; he's one day on the job and has already made a mistake. "Wait - I, - I can show you!" He says excitedly. There's a graveyard not far from here, a two minute walk at most.
"Show me what?" Mirabelle asks wearily. She knows what's happened to her friends before.
"Your destiny." He says quickly. Mirabelle rolls her eyes.
"I have to get home."
"It will only take a second. You're the chosen one, Mirabelle. You can't refuse your destiny."
Mirabelle is the first Slayer documented to not be a stickler for the rules; Albert is sure there's been others - girls who aren't going to sit still and be told what to do, but no other Watchers had ever recorded having a difficult Slayer.
"Maybe I don't want a destiny. Or to be a chosen one. A chosen one for what exactly?" Mirabelle asks, leaning forward on her bike's handles. It's hurting her that she's curious, but god damn it - she is, you can't be called a chosen one and not feel at least a little special; at least not for Mirabelle.
"To slay the vampires. You're a vampire slayer." Alfred says gently, afraid of how she'll react.
"Oh. I'm the new one?" Mirabelle asks, her lips curling upwards. "Frais!"
Out of all the reactions he was expecting - that was not it. It turns out Mirabelle's pen pal had been a Slayer, had divulged the information to Mirabelle after a vampire had attacked her friend.
After that, Mirabelle and Alfred get along rather well.
*
Florence had been called in Italy, 1880. In a summer vacation in London she runs into her watcher George, ten years her senior, and falls madly in love; before even knowing of the blood that runs through her veins.
He doesn't know who she is at first, he just thinks she's a pretty face, but caught in the cross-fire with two legendary vampires he figures out her fate; the way she pushes him out of the way, the force she delivers a blow to one of the vampires with - it's like watching fine artwork, the way her movements are fluid yet messy, like a Ballerina growing into her feet.
"Florence," He had said softly, from where he was watching. Always watching. He was a Watcher, a failure to the academy, sent to London because he was banished for misconduct and misuse of magic. But he's still a watcher; the next in line if he hadn't been sent away, and this girl, this wonderful, beautiful girl - she was the Slayer.
It wasn't until later, after the vampires - a beautiful woman dressed in nines, Darla the other one had called her, an Irish lint to his voice, - had dashed off, fleeing the scene he'd come to the conclusion that he must tell her of her fate; she'd thrown a punch and kick to save herself, not knowing where the sudden urge of power had come from, but George dreaded having to tell her, having to tell the council.
"Flo," He'd called, his endearing pet-nickname drawing her closer. Soon, she'd be going back to Italy. Back to the wealthy family she'd come from, expensive dresses at her feet; he'd miss her and if he didn't make her aware of her destiny (like every good watcher needs to do, to save Mankind and the World) he could lose her; it wasn't a thought he liked to entertain.
"George?" She'd echoed, smiling at him lovingly. Soon, she'd being going back. Soon.
"I need to tell you something about tonight." He says.
"Yes?" Florence asks, looking over her shoulder at him; she's seventeen, nearly two old to be called, the right age for marriage.
"That strength you had was not normal."
Florence looks down at the ground, "I know it's not ladylike to have strength. I don't know what came over me."
George frowns. It's true. It's what has always made him wonder why slayers are always women and not men. "No, it's quite alright. It's not your fault. It's because you've been chosen. I wasn't aware until tonight."
Florence frowns, "Chosen?" She echoes, testing the unfamiliar word out on her lips.
"To slay the vampires." He says softly, smiling.
"Vampires?" Florence echoes, moving backwards in horror. "Those are just tales. Not real!" She exclaims.
It usually goes better with the other slayers. In the comfort of the council.
It was late at night, her mother would be wondering where she was, (she'd been out all night with boys older than her, smoking down by the secluded rocks and river). Her bike had gotten stuck on a rock around a quarter to twelve.
Her watcher was a young man named Albert - barely twenty, new from the Watchers Academy, but he'd been trained his whole life. He was eager to teach, eager to kill and that was always a deadly combination for the Watchers Council. Those that were eager.
Mirabelle hated him on first sight. He was walking along the same path as her that night, almost if it was fate and not that he had been stalking her for the past week, waiting for the right time to tell her about her destiny.
"Mirabelle?" He had called out, his voice soft and smooth and friendly; the way the older boys were, charming, the way that makes a young girls heart melt. Mirabelle looked up from where she was on her bike, stuck trying to get the pedals to work, and squinted her eyes at the unfamiliar man in the shadows.
"How do you know my name?" Mirabelle had asked him, a sense of fear overtaking her.
"It's a funny story, actually." Albert laughed, "You speak English?" He asks a second later, he'd been told that Mirabelle was bilingual - she knew her French, her Italian and her English.
Mirabelle nodded her head, "Yes. Why?" Her nose scrunched up as he took a step closer, letting the lights from the lamp-post illuminate his figure. He wasn't expecting to take the job for another year, at least, but the last slayer had died unexpectedly - from a rough battle with an unknown demon on a regular patrol. Her watcher, a good friend of Albert's before he'd left to train the Slayer, had been inconsolable. Unsurprisingly it had more to do with him being unable to train the next Slayer than the loss of a life.
"It would help greatly with your destiny." Albert says, taking another step closer towards her. She was much younger than he'd expected her to be. He heard thirteen and expected sixteen; a girl who'd grown into her own body, at the very least. This girl was all gangly and her curly hair cut short, pinned up in a hair 'do that was modeled after the latest big screen stars.
"Destiny?" Mirabelle echoed, "You're mistaken." She pauses for a second. "And creepy. I need to get home, my mother will be wondering where I am."
Lightly, Albert curses under his breath; he's one day on the job and has already made a mistake. "Wait - I, - I can show you!" He says excitedly. There's a graveyard not far from here, a two minute walk at most.
"Show me what?" Mirabelle asks wearily. She knows what's happened to her friends before.
"Your destiny." He says quickly. Mirabelle rolls her eyes.
"I have to get home."
"It will only take a second. You're the chosen one, Mirabelle. You can't refuse your destiny."
Mirabelle is the first Slayer documented to not be a stickler for the rules; Albert is sure there's been others - girls who aren't going to sit still and be told what to do, but no other Watchers had ever recorded having a difficult Slayer.
"Maybe I don't want a destiny. Or to be a chosen one. A chosen one for what exactly?" Mirabelle asks, leaning forward on her bike's handles. It's hurting her that she's curious, but god damn it - she is, you can't be called a chosen one and not feel at least a little special; at least not for Mirabelle.
"To slay the vampires. You're a vampire slayer." Alfred says gently, afraid of how she'll react.
"Oh. I'm the new one?" Mirabelle asks, her lips curling upwards. "Frais!"
Out of all the reactions he was expecting - that was not it. It turns out Mirabelle's pen pal had been a Slayer, had divulged the information to Mirabelle after a vampire had attacked her friend.
After that, Mirabelle and Alfred get along rather well.
*
Florence had been called in Italy, 1880. In a summer vacation in London she runs into her watcher George, ten years her senior, and falls madly in love; before even knowing of the blood that runs through her veins.
He doesn't know who she is at first, he just thinks she's a pretty face, but caught in the cross-fire with two legendary vampires he figures out her fate; the way she pushes him out of the way, the force she delivers a blow to one of the vampires with - it's like watching fine artwork, the way her movements are fluid yet messy, like a Ballerina growing into her feet.
"Florence," He had said softly, from where he was watching. Always watching. He was a Watcher, a failure to the academy, sent to London because he was banished for misconduct and misuse of magic. But he's still a watcher; the next in line if he hadn't been sent away, and this girl, this wonderful, beautiful girl - she was the Slayer.
It wasn't until later, after the vampires - a beautiful woman dressed in nines, Darla the other one had called her, an Irish lint to his voice, - had dashed off, fleeing the scene he'd come to the conclusion that he must tell her of her fate; she'd thrown a punch and kick to save herself, not knowing where the sudden urge of power had come from, but George dreaded having to tell her, having to tell the council.
"Flo," He'd called, his endearing pet-nickname drawing her closer. Soon, she'd be going back to Italy. Back to the wealthy family she'd come from, expensive dresses at her feet; he'd miss her and if he didn't make her aware of her destiny (like every good watcher needs to do, to save Mankind and the World) he could lose her; it wasn't a thought he liked to entertain.
"George?" She'd echoed, smiling at him lovingly. Soon, she'd being going back. Soon.
"I need to tell you something about tonight." He says.
"Yes?" Florence asks, looking over her shoulder at him; she's seventeen, nearly two old to be called, the right age for marriage.
"That strength you had was not normal."
Florence looks down at the ground, "I know it's not ladylike to have strength. I don't know what came over me."
George frowns. It's true. It's what has always made him wonder why slayers are always women and not men. "No, it's quite alright. It's not your fault. It's because you've been chosen. I wasn't aware until tonight."
Florence frowns, "Chosen?" She echoes, testing the unfamiliar word out on her lips.
"To slay the vampires." He says softly, smiling.
"Vampires?" Florence echoes, moving backwards in horror. "Those are just tales. Not real!" She exclaims.
It usually goes better with the other slayers. In the comfort of the council.