Fic: Veillée d'armes
Title: Veillée d’armes
Author: theoreme
Pairing: none. B/G friendship
Rating: FRT
Summary: Giles’ thoughts as he prepares for the final battle
Warnings: None
Length: 4009
Timeline : During Chosen
Note : First fic ever. Veillée d’armes means several things. Firstly, it is a knightly vigil, i.e. the night a future knight must spend in prayers before his dubbing. It also means the day preceding the battle. Finally, it can be literally translated as “Arms vigil”.
Disclaimer: Giles is not mine, alas. I also used Perez-Reverte's Fencing Master for several fencing terms.
Lowering his guard
Everything was neatly set out. Blades on his left, blanket under his legs, polish and soft rags before his eyes. The backyard was deserted, Slayers and Potentials training one last time in the front of the garden, Scoobies researching frantically, souled vampire brooding and Andrew doing, well, doing things. A soft light was fading on the end of a lovely afternoon. Not a sound, except the distant cries of the girls and the underlying pounding of the noise Dawn classified as music.
It was then the perfect moment to take care of the swords.
The blades were dirty, as the Potentials did not clean them after their last training. They seemed determined to accomplish everything as the two Slayers did and the lack of consideration both of them showed for the arms clearly passed on the younger generation. Giles smiled sadly. No one listened to him anymore, especially when rags and inglorious chores were evoked. But for once it did not matter, for he was relieved to be left alone with his swords.
It was in fact a task he had always enjoyed.
Firstly, it was the thrill of the warrior, the pleasure to take care of a lethal weapon which was sullied with blood, flesh and ashes of vanquished enemies. Being able to clean one’s sword after a fight meant being the one having won it.
Then, it was his duty as a Watcher and nothing reveled more his commitment that being sure his Slayer would go prepared to the fight, holding in her hand a weapon she could trust. And to do so, he felt the edge of the sword, he firmly grabbed the hilt and he polished the deadly sparkle of the blade. The army of Slayers would fight with weapons they deserved, and the arms would be as bright and cutting and beautiful as the hands which would brandish them. Magnificent Slayers, all silver, grace and strength against dark Harbingers and hideous Turok-Han. And it would be the blades that he, the Watcher, would have polished for them. Because no matter how the Council came to exist, he knew that many Field Watchers had acted the way he was now doing and had prepared the weapons of their Slayers - and their devotion should not be tarnished. He especially cleaned Buffy’s weapon because, although their relationship might not longer be, he remained his Watcher -and his Slayer would go to the final fight as much prepared as he could help. Even if it was only with a soft rag on the metal of her scythe. No more blood of that damned preacher on it. He would have preferred a sword for her, because he had always found scythes to be too macabre. She was maybe death, his Slayer, but she gave it as a warrior, not as… as Death itself. And the picture of harvest the weapon conjured in his mind made him wince. But he cleaned the scythe anyway.
He also took care of the weapons because his father had taught him how to properly do it, the ways his own mother had done it. And because as longer as he could remember, he had hold a sword in his hand. He grabbed the last blade, the one which would defend his life on the front line the very next day. It was heavy and familiar, cold and comforting. Aching for his past, his family and the Council, Giles authorized himself to reminisce. He was maybe living his last evening on earth and it was time for the past to be remembered -and honored.
Appel
“ Don’t be afraid, Lucy! No evil dragon is going to stop us! We’re going to win !”
“ I’m not afraid, Rupert! I can beat a dragon too, even better than you !”
“ I know. You go first and attack his right side. I’ll be right behind you and aim for the left.”
“ Let’s go !”
Oh, the sweet exaltation of the first fight. He welcomed it with the enthusiasm of a seven year-old armed with a wooden sword. The circumstances did not matter; a fight was a fight, especially one besides a Slayer. She was only his father’s Potential and he did not know what a Slayer was, but he had felt that he belonged with this girl. And with her running in front of him, her ponytail jumping as she went to fight their enemy, he experienced the exaltation of the fight, the rightness of the weapon in his hand and the love he felt for her. They were fighting against his father, who had been promoted the evilest enemy of the day and transformed into the biggest dragon which had ever walked on earth. Rupert had called him Smaug, because he had read that how dragons were called.
The battle was fierce. The beast fought hard but was no match against the two paladins.
“I slayed you, creature of darkness. You will not harm anymore!”
Lucy shouted her victory, as her sword was on the neck of the fallen beast. The words stirred something inside Rupert. He stood in awe of the young girl, his sword fell of his hand and he started walking towards her. He had to be near her. From the ground, his father looked at him and Rupert did not understand why his father’s amused smile suddenly disappeared. Of course, more than forty years later, he knew that his father had recognized the signs which marked his son as a future watcher.
But, as he evoked the summertime afternoon when Lucy and him had defeated Smaug and his destiny had been decided, he chose to only remember the exhilaration of his first battle.
Guard in Sixte
They all looked so young. They were waiting in line, dressed in immaculate fencing clothes. The foils seemed incongruous in their hands, especially with their points without buttons. They knew what it meant: they would not fence with each other this very day, but hold still and repeat controlled and careful movements until the foils fell off their trembling hands. They hated it. He hated it.
“Gentlemen.”
The old sadist had arrived. Rupert did not like him. Even the others teachers were intimidating too, they at least smiled and were not as severe as he was. He talked with an icy voice that scared the ten-year old boys more than everything.
“Today, we will review all the movements we have seen so far. You should have mastered them by the time being. As a matter of fact, I want them perfect. I do hope every one of you remembered their names. The French ones, of course. One shall always name with the proper term.”
The pupils looked grim at this idea, except Rupert. He loved languages and had reveled in learning new words. He softly breathed; he would not be the one punished this time.
“Those who do not remember the names go sit now. We will see later for your punishment. Those who believe they can do better stay.”
And then, they were four. Peter, Andrew, Thomas and him. He did not know them very well for he had only arrived to the boarding school after his birthday, while all the other boys lived here since their seventh birthday. He should have done the same, but his father had pulled a few strings to give him a few more years before the end of his dreams. Rupert was glad his father had given him more time with his family even if it meant that he was now the outcast among the schoolboys.
“I was hoping for more. The lesson shall be quick then. Harding, Forrest and Olson, our usual three musketeers. And Giles, what a pleasant surprise! Try to do better than the last time, if you please. More technique and less sterile enthusiasm.”
Rupert felt his face redden but stayed still.
“Messieurs. Si vous voulez bien saluer. Forrest, this was not a salute but an insult. Go sit with the others. En garde. Garde de tierce. Parade en prime. Good. Garde de sixte. Garde de trois-quart. Harding, you can leave, I never want to see a horror like that again. Parade en quarte. Stand still. A little longer. Fente longue en quarte. Contre de tierce. Well done. Tirez en prime. Parade en octave. Olson, you may go. Halte. ”
Rupert stopped and relaxed. He discovered with surprise that he was the only one remaining. He had been so concentrated on his movements, feeling the metal in his hand, hearing foreign words in his ear and moving his body automatically, that he had forget where he was.
“You did well, Giles. There is only one way to fence properly and it is with discipline. Raw talent is nothing without training and discipline. Raw talent is nothing against a Slayer or a vampire, but you can beat them with your concentration and your focus. Giles, you were too petulant and too emotional the last time and you lost. Try to apply the discipline and concentration you showed us today into your fighting. As Watchers, you need to discipline yourselves -or you will be dead even before the end of your very first fight.”
The fencing master had been dead for a long time, but Giles remembered his lessons well. Using feelings and emotions as a motivation was good for his Slayer, not for him. A good Watcher -a Watcher who wanted to live- needed to discipline himself.
Malparry
The running water was the only noise one can hear in the flat. No rock music playing on the battered record player, no one practicing guitar or learning new songs, no one laughing or arguing. Even he was not making a sound. He couldn’t anymore.
He had cried at first, and then he had shouted, he had murmured long guilty litanies, he had hit the walls with his fists, but nothing had helped. Then, he had fallen on his knees, head in his hands and had not moved for a long time. When he had raised his head, he had seen the sword. He had not remembered bringing it home after… after everything. He had felt sick when he had realized the very reason for the odd color of the sword. And then, he had grabbed it, sat himself in the old tub with it and turned on the tap.
He had only found an old sponge, but he scrubbed the blade as hard as he could. Reddish-brown water was tainting his fingers, slipping under his nails and he tried not to think about it. He could smell it, almost taste it. Oh god. He was relieved when the salt of his tears drove the metallic taste away.
He still did not understand. He had prepared everything. He had thoroughly researched the summoning, the cleaning rituals and the protection wards. He had only allowed the ceremony when he had felt that he was ready, that he was guarded against all risks. Going with the name Ripper did not mean he had forgotten his training. And he had been the only one to bring a sword to the summoning.
His fingers felt numb under the cold water. He realized then that he had sat long enough to run out of hot water. He would never salvage the blade but he did succeed in removing all the blood. However, the color of the steel had changed and diffused now a pale bluish reflection. This particular blue was forever burnt in his memory and he immediately recognized it. Eyghon’s blood seemed to be indelible. He wondered if the faint bluish marks on his hands would disappear one day. The thought made him shudder and he scrubbed his hands as hard as he could, tearing flesh away with his nails.
Hours later, Ethan found him in the same position: cold and wet clothes on his shivering body, hands covered with his own blood and a sword on his knees. The sword was covered with the blood of a demon, but he could still see on it the one of the man he had killed.
Giles had believed since that day that his destiny might have shattered his innocence, but it was the bloodstained sword he had tried so hard to clean that tolled the knell of his illusions about himself. He knew now that his sword was meant to be covered in blood -and it could be human.
Conversation
It was past midnight and only one light remained in the library. Under its halo, a man was still studying, his pale figure engrossed in the obscure writings and musty volumes scattered on the table before him. Even with the lighting, one could miss the man. It seemed he had tried to blend in with the shadows surrounding him. He was dressed in dark and old-fashioned suit which made him look older and had a self-effaced posture. The man was startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned his head. An older man stood in the shadows and only a left hand with an onyx signet was enlightened.
“Come on, son, time to go home. You’re the only one left here.”
“I’ve, I’ve got to find that prophecy.”
“It’s Christmas Eve, Rupert. The sodding prophecy is not going to happen before fifty years from now, it can wait a day or two.”
“ But…”
“ No. Besides, you’re exhausted. Falling asleep on this table -as you already did a couple of times, I might add- will not help anybody.”
Adrian Giles seemed even wearier as he was, but Rupert knew that his father had been looking older than he should for years. Fifteen years, his mind added automatically.
“And maybe I can tempt you with my well-known and greatly popular eggnog.”
“It would be nice. Haven’t enjoyed one of those in a long time.”
Giles stood and collected his belongings, while his father stored the books on the nearest book trolley. No one was allowed to put the books back onto the shelves, except the librarians. The two men left the library and started to walk in the somber corridors.
On their way out, as they were passing before the training rooms, Adrian stopped his son.
“Please, excuse me for a moment. I’m taking my crossbow home tonight, something is wrong with the mechanism and I want to look at it tomorrow.”
“I’ll come with you. I haven’t been there for years. Of course, if you prefer that I stay here…”
“Don’t be daft, Rupert. I’m your father, not Quentin.”
The two men entered the training rooms reserved for the senior members. Giles was not authorized to come here on his own and only knew the rooms because as a child, he had accompanied his father there several times. It was almost as impressive as he remembered, with the weapons displayed on the walls, the fencing space, the shooting ranks, the mats and the gymnastics equipment. A small corridor in a corner led to a small swimming pool.
“Fewer and fewer people come here these days. Martial training seems to be in disfavor amongst the new senior members. I have never seen young Travers train.”
“Probably too afraid to be near you, Dad. You could beat him up in your sleep.”
Giles enjoyed the brief smile on his father’s face. It did not happen often and it disappeared all too soon. Adrian stared at his son a few seconds and then walked to one of a wall. He slightly bowed his head and then turned towards his son.
“As long as you are here, I can show you something. The last gift the Council has brought for itself.”
Giles moved near his father and realized he was standing before a beautiful daishō. Although only the tsuka and the saya could be seen, both blades were obviously masterpieces. Giles bowed his head too.
“They are beautiful. One should be honored to fight with them. I would like to see you train with them. You’re the only person I know who uses the Nitō-ryū style.”
“Mastering a two blades technique was as much an obligation as a pleasure. I swore to myself I would never use a sword again. I swore it to her when I collected her ashes. Learning Nitō-ryū was like learning from the start once again, it has no memories. ”
“It has been fifteen years, Dad. You should let Lucy rest, even from your mind.”
“My sword was the weapon that… that beheaded her.”
“Not her but the demon that took control of her body. And you did avenge her by killing it. Not every Watcher has done it for his Slayer. Let her rest in peace now. ”
“Says the man who has buried himself into the depths of the Council. Since how long have you been hiding from the sun, Rupert? Five years? How many years is your penance going to last?”
“You don’t hold back any blow, do you?”
“ I’ve been holding back for years and you have been avoiding this fight for too long. I haven’t said anything to you because I have thought you needed time to heal and to forgive yourself. But it has to end right now, because you have wallowed in self-pity far too long.”
“Every morning, I woke up feeling sorry for what happened. I don’t know how… how…”
“Don’t be sorry Rupert, be a Watcher. If you came back only to lurk in the shadows, the gesture was useless. And the one of a coward. ”
“You’ve got some nerve, you know that? For fifteen years, you’ve been mourning your Slayer to the point that you can’t even touch a sword and now you’re giving me a lesson about regrets and guilt! Keep your hypocrisy to yourself, Dad. Goodnight, you know how I love to play pot and kettle with you but I’ve got research to do.”
Giles started to walk when the door when a cry stopped him.
“Rupert, en garde!”
He turned back. His father was in the center of the piece, his hands on a large broadsword. Giles could see the pale and tensed figure of his father, how his hands were shaking but firmly holding the hilt.
“I will save you son, even if I have to kick your sorry arse with that sword.”
His father had not carried out that particular threat and they had celebrated their quarrel with Adrian’s eggnog. But when Giles had woken up in the middle of the night, he had heard soft and heart-wrenching sobs coming from his father’s bedroom. That night, Giles had learned the acceptance and forgiving one could get from a sparring and that a fight that seemed lost could be -in fact- won. And that the costs were always high.
Body-to-body
Don’t make a sound, she will hear you. Don’t move until you have decided exactly where to strike, she will sense you. Maybe a false attack then. See if she is still overconfident in her reading of you. Rapid thoughts passed through Giles’ mind as he watched her blindfolded Slayer stood alert. God, she was beautiful. And she was his. It did not matter that she went back every night to an other man or that she spent more time with her younger friends than with him; it did not matter because she was his Slayer again and that once the door of the training room closed, she was only his. His to train, his to fight with, his to sharpen.
She had come back to him with bad fighting habits, grandiose and telegraphed movements and overconfidence, all dangerous defaults picked up by training with unimaginative soldiers. He had scolded at her, before tossing her a wooden sword when she had said that it couldn’t be that bad. I’m the Slayer, remember that speech of yours about me fighting against darkness and evil evil things? She had laughed at the safe weapon -until she landed on the floor four times in a row. Then, her eyes had blazed with fury when she had realized what she had lost. One week later, his Slayer was back on the top and he was back on the floor. At least, he had enjoyed that week as much as he could.
Smiling at the memory, he carefully planned his next move. She would expect an attack on her right and he aimed to give her that impression to obtain a riposte from her left side, which was always weaker and easier to intercept. He grinned and made his move. Mere seconds later, he was lying on his back, a smirking Slayer straddling his chest and fastening her blindfold on his hands.
“Oh Watcher-mine, I totally forgot to tell you that I don’t drop my left shoulder anymore. I was going to earlier but then you stole the last jelly and my revengeful stomach started plotting coups. You know, like that hunger thingies that happened all the time before. This is why you’re the first -and only- victim of the Jelly Revolution. You may go once you agree on my jelly-sharing conditions.”
Giles suddenly started to laugh with a happy, carefree laugh that surprised Buffy. He was not sure he could explain to her how delighted he was to have his Slayer tying him up for eating the last jelly, how relieved he felt that she displayed proudly her reflexes and technique, how thrilled he was to fight again with her. Bare-hands, with swords, daggers, axes or quarterstaffs - it did not matter as long as she was training with him, and he with her. This very afternoon, they finished their training with a ferocious and exhilarating fencing match that left them exhausted and grinning at each other.
Giles smiled, as he did every time he thought about his training sessions of that year with Buffy. They were cherished moments, when he did not have to hold back, when they felt that their shared destiny contained so much more than a deadly duty. In these moments, he had truly felt joy at being a Watcher. His Watcher, destined to service her and only her. Even in spite of herself. No matter what would happen in the fight the following day or with his -maybe already vanished- relationship with Buffy, she taught the true, beautiful and painful meaning of being a Watcher.
Salute of arms
He raised himself to his knees and took his sword by the hilt, point on the ground. His forehead touched the pommel and he closed his eyes. How he wished he had his father’s sword. But the old fool has insisted on carrying it with him everyday, even though it had been too heavy for him. He used to joke about wanting to polish it with Travers’s clothes. It was probably scattered to pieces in the ruins that used to be the Council.
But the sword he was holding now was a good sword and he supposed it would suffice. As the last Watcher alive and a battered and scarred middle-aged man, he was not the hero of the story. A good, anonymous and a little tarnished sword was oddly perfect for him.
He suddenly understood what had been missing all these years, what his old fencing master had tried to explain to him one day: the tranquility one experienced after having accepted the impending fight. The lack of hope he had felt since the blowing of the Council lost its overwhelming shadow. His mind seemed clear for the first time in months. All his training, his knowledge, his lineage and his life had been leading him to this moment: he finally knew where he stood - Rupert Giles, last Watcher on duty. He only felt serenity and quietness, and readiness for the battle to come. He breathed deeply several times and opened his eyes.
The blades softly shone in the evening light. He had polished them well. He grinned, rose to his feet and started collecting the weapons.
Author: theoreme
Pairing: none. B/G friendship
Rating: FRT
Summary: Giles’ thoughts as he prepares for the final battle
Warnings: None
Length: 4009
Timeline : During Chosen
Note : First fic ever. Veillée d’armes means several things. Firstly, it is a knightly vigil, i.e. the night a future knight must spend in prayers before his dubbing. It also means the day preceding the battle. Finally, it can be literally translated as “Arms vigil”.
Disclaimer: Giles is not mine, alas. I also used Perez-Reverte's Fencing Master for several fencing terms.
Lowering his guard
Everything was neatly set out. Blades on his left, blanket under his legs, polish and soft rags before his eyes. The backyard was deserted, Slayers and Potentials training one last time in the front of the garden, Scoobies researching frantically, souled vampire brooding and Andrew doing, well, doing things. A soft light was fading on the end of a lovely afternoon. Not a sound, except the distant cries of the girls and the underlying pounding of the noise Dawn classified as music.
It was then the perfect moment to take care of the swords.
The blades were dirty, as the Potentials did not clean them after their last training. They seemed determined to accomplish everything as the two Slayers did and the lack of consideration both of them showed for the arms clearly passed on the younger generation. Giles smiled sadly. No one listened to him anymore, especially when rags and inglorious chores were evoked. But for once it did not matter, for he was relieved to be left alone with his swords.
It was in fact a task he had always enjoyed.
Firstly, it was the thrill of the warrior, the pleasure to take care of a lethal weapon which was sullied with blood, flesh and ashes of vanquished enemies. Being able to clean one’s sword after a fight meant being the one having won it.
Then, it was his duty as a Watcher and nothing reveled more his commitment that being sure his Slayer would go prepared to the fight, holding in her hand a weapon she could trust. And to do so, he felt the edge of the sword, he firmly grabbed the hilt and he polished the deadly sparkle of the blade. The army of Slayers would fight with weapons they deserved, and the arms would be as bright and cutting and beautiful as the hands which would brandish them. Magnificent Slayers, all silver, grace and strength against dark Harbingers and hideous Turok-Han. And it would be the blades that he, the Watcher, would have polished for them. Because no matter how the Council came to exist, he knew that many Field Watchers had acted the way he was now doing and had prepared the weapons of their Slayers - and their devotion should not be tarnished. He especially cleaned Buffy’s weapon because, although their relationship might not longer be, he remained his Watcher -and his Slayer would go to the final fight as much prepared as he could help. Even if it was only with a soft rag on the metal of her scythe. No more blood of that damned preacher on it. He would have preferred a sword for her, because he had always found scythes to be too macabre. She was maybe death, his Slayer, but she gave it as a warrior, not as… as Death itself. And the picture of harvest the weapon conjured in his mind made him wince. But he cleaned the scythe anyway.
He also took care of the weapons because his father had taught him how to properly do it, the ways his own mother had done it. And because as longer as he could remember, he had hold a sword in his hand. He grabbed the last blade, the one which would defend his life on the front line the very next day. It was heavy and familiar, cold and comforting. Aching for his past, his family and the Council, Giles authorized himself to reminisce. He was maybe living his last evening on earth and it was time for the past to be remembered -and honored.
Appel
“ Don’t be afraid, Lucy! No evil dragon is going to stop us! We’re going to win !”
“ I’m not afraid, Rupert! I can beat a dragon too, even better than you !”
“ I know. You go first and attack his right side. I’ll be right behind you and aim for the left.”
“ Let’s go !”
Oh, the sweet exaltation of the first fight. He welcomed it with the enthusiasm of a seven year-old armed with a wooden sword. The circumstances did not matter; a fight was a fight, especially one besides a Slayer. She was only his father’s Potential and he did not know what a Slayer was, but he had felt that he belonged with this girl. And with her running in front of him, her ponytail jumping as she went to fight their enemy, he experienced the exaltation of the fight, the rightness of the weapon in his hand and the love he felt for her. They were fighting against his father, who had been promoted the evilest enemy of the day and transformed into the biggest dragon which had ever walked on earth. Rupert had called him Smaug, because he had read that how dragons were called.
The battle was fierce. The beast fought hard but was no match against the two paladins.
“I slayed you, creature of darkness. You will not harm anymore!”
Lucy shouted her victory, as her sword was on the neck of the fallen beast. The words stirred something inside Rupert. He stood in awe of the young girl, his sword fell of his hand and he started walking towards her. He had to be near her. From the ground, his father looked at him and Rupert did not understand why his father’s amused smile suddenly disappeared. Of course, more than forty years later, he knew that his father had recognized the signs which marked his son as a future watcher.
But, as he evoked the summertime afternoon when Lucy and him had defeated Smaug and his destiny had been decided, he chose to only remember the exhilaration of his first battle.
Guard in Sixte
They all looked so young. They were waiting in line, dressed in immaculate fencing clothes. The foils seemed incongruous in their hands, especially with their points without buttons. They knew what it meant: they would not fence with each other this very day, but hold still and repeat controlled and careful movements until the foils fell off their trembling hands. They hated it. He hated it.
“Gentlemen.”
The old sadist had arrived. Rupert did not like him. Even the others teachers were intimidating too, they at least smiled and were not as severe as he was. He talked with an icy voice that scared the ten-year old boys more than everything.
“Today, we will review all the movements we have seen so far. You should have mastered them by the time being. As a matter of fact, I want them perfect. I do hope every one of you remembered their names. The French ones, of course. One shall always name with the proper term.”
The pupils looked grim at this idea, except Rupert. He loved languages and had reveled in learning new words. He softly breathed; he would not be the one punished this time.
“Those who do not remember the names go sit now. We will see later for your punishment. Those who believe they can do better stay.”
And then, they were four. Peter, Andrew, Thomas and him. He did not know them very well for he had only arrived to the boarding school after his birthday, while all the other boys lived here since their seventh birthday. He should have done the same, but his father had pulled a few strings to give him a few more years before the end of his dreams. Rupert was glad his father had given him more time with his family even if it meant that he was now the outcast among the schoolboys.
“I was hoping for more. The lesson shall be quick then. Harding, Forrest and Olson, our usual three musketeers. And Giles, what a pleasant surprise! Try to do better than the last time, if you please. More technique and less sterile enthusiasm.”
Rupert felt his face redden but stayed still.
“Messieurs. Si vous voulez bien saluer. Forrest, this was not a salute but an insult. Go sit with the others. En garde. Garde de tierce. Parade en prime. Good. Garde de sixte. Garde de trois-quart. Harding, you can leave, I never want to see a horror like that again. Parade en quarte. Stand still. A little longer. Fente longue en quarte. Contre de tierce. Well done. Tirez en prime. Parade en octave. Olson, you may go. Halte. ”
Rupert stopped and relaxed. He discovered with surprise that he was the only one remaining. He had been so concentrated on his movements, feeling the metal in his hand, hearing foreign words in his ear and moving his body automatically, that he had forget where he was.
“You did well, Giles. There is only one way to fence properly and it is with discipline. Raw talent is nothing without training and discipline. Raw talent is nothing against a Slayer or a vampire, but you can beat them with your concentration and your focus. Giles, you were too petulant and too emotional the last time and you lost. Try to apply the discipline and concentration you showed us today into your fighting. As Watchers, you need to discipline yourselves -or you will be dead even before the end of your very first fight.”
The fencing master had been dead for a long time, but Giles remembered his lessons well. Using feelings and emotions as a motivation was good for his Slayer, not for him. A good Watcher -a Watcher who wanted to live- needed to discipline himself.
Malparry
The running water was the only noise one can hear in the flat. No rock music playing on the battered record player, no one practicing guitar or learning new songs, no one laughing or arguing. Even he was not making a sound. He couldn’t anymore.
He had cried at first, and then he had shouted, he had murmured long guilty litanies, he had hit the walls with his fists, but nothing had helped. Then, he had fallen on his knees, head in his hands and had not moved for a long time. When he had raised his head, he had seen the sword. He had not remembered bringing it home after… after everything. He had felt sick when he had realized the very reason for the odd color of the sword. And then, he had grabbed it, sat himself in the old tub with it and turned on the tap.
He had only found an old sponge, but he scrubbed the blade as hard as he could. Reddish-brown water was tainting his fingers, slipping under his nails and he tried not to think about it. He could smell it, almost taste it. Oh god. He was relieved when the salt of his tears drove the metallic taste away.
He still did not understand. He had prepared everything. He had thoroughly researched the summoning, the cleaning rituals and the protection wards. He had only allowed the ceremony when he had felt that he was ready, that he was guarded against all risks. Going with the name Ripper did not mean he had forgotten his training. And he had been the only one to bring a sword to the summoning.
His fingers felt numb under the cold water. He realized then that he had sat long enough to run out of hot water. He would never salvage the blade but he did succeed in removing all the blood. However, the color of the steel had changed and diffused now a pale bluish reflection. This particular blue was forever burnt in his memory and he immediately recognized it. Eyghon’s blood seemed to be indelible. He wondered if the faint bluish marks on his hands would disappear one day. The thought made him shudder and he scrubbed his hands as hard as he could, tearing flesh away with his nails.
Hours later, Ethan found him in the same position: cold and wet clothes on his shivering body, hands covered with his own blood and a sword on his knees. The sword was covered with the blood of a demon, but he could still see on it the one of the man he had killed.
Giles had believed since that day that his destiny might have shattered his innocence, but it was the bloodstained sword he had tried so hard to clean that tolled the knell of his illusions about himself. He knew now that his sword was meant to be covered in blood -and it could be human.
Conversation
It was past midnight and only one light remained in the library. Under its halo, a man was still studying, his pale figure engrossed in the obscure writings and musty volumes scattered on the table before him. Even with the lighting, one could miss the man. It seemed he had tried to blend in with the shadows surrounding him. He was dressed in dark and old-fashioned suit which made him look older and had a self-effaced posture. The man was startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned his head. An older man stood in the shadows and only a left hand with an onyx signet was enlightened.
“Come on, son, time to go home. You’re the only one left here.”
“I’ve, I’ve got to find that prophecy.”
“It’s Christmas Eve, Rupert. The sodding prophecy is not going to happen before fifty years from now, it can wait a day or two.”
“ But…”
“ No. Besides, you’re exhausted. Falling asleep on this table -as you already did a couple of times, I might add- will not help anybody.”
Adrian Giles seemed even wearier as he was, but Rupert knew that his father had been looking older than he should for years. Fifteen years, his mind added automatically.
“And maybe I can tempt you with my well-known and greatly popular eggnog.”
“It would be nice. Haven’t enjoyed one of those in a long time.”
Giles stood and collected his belongings, while his father stored the books on the nearest book trolley. No one was allowed to put the books back onto the shelves, except the librarians. The two men left the library and started to walk in the somber corridors.
On their way out, as they were passing before the training rooms, Adrian stopped his son.
“Please, excuse me for a moment. I’m taking my crossbow home tonight, something is wrong with the mechanism and I want to look at it tomorrow.”
“I’ll come with you. I haven’t been there for years. Of course, if you prefer that I stay here…”
“Don’t be daft, Rupert. I’m your father, not Quentin.”
The two men entered the training rooms reserved for the senior members. Giles was not authorized to come here on his own and only knew the rooms because as a child, he had accompanied his father there several times. It was almost as impressive as he remembered, with the weapons displayed on the walls, the fencing space, the shooting ranks, the mats and the gymnastics equipment. A small corridor in a corner led to a small swimming pool.
“Fewer and fewer people come here these days. Martial training seems to be in disfavor amongst the new senior members. I have never seen young Travers train.”
“Probably too afraid to be near you, Dad. You could beat him up in your sleep.”
Giles enjoyed the brief smile on his father’s face. It did not happen often and it disappeared all too soon. Adrian stared at his son a few seconds and then walked to one of a wall. He slightly bowed his head and then turned towards his son.
“As long as you are here, I can show you something. The last gift the Council has brought for itself.”
Giles moved near his father and realized he was standing before a beautiful daishō. Although only the tsuka and the saya could be seen, both blades were obviously masterpieces. Giles bowed his head too.
“They are beautiful. One should be honored to fight with them. I would like to see you train with them. You’re the only person I know who uses the Nitō-ryū style.”
“Mastering a two blades technique was as much an obligation as a pleasure. I swore to myself I would never use a sword again. I swore it to her when I collected her ashes. Learning Nitō-ryū was like learning from the start once again, it has no memories. ”
“It has been fifteen years, Dad. You should let Lucy rest, even from your mind.”
“My sword was the weapon that… that beheaded her.”
“Not her but the demon that took control of her body. And you did avenge her by killing it. Not every Watcher has done it for his Slayer. Let her rest in peace now. ”
“Says the man who has buried himself into the depths of the Council. Since how long have you been hiding from the sun, Rupert? Five years? How many years is your penance going to last?”
“You don’t hold back any blow, do you?”
“ I’ve been holding back for years and you have been avoiding this fight for too long. I haven’t said anything to you because I have thought you needed time to heal and to forgive yourself. But it has to end right now, because you have wallowed in self-pity far too long.”
“Every morning, I woke up feeling sorry for what happened. I don’t know how… how…”
“Don’t be sorry Rupert, be a Watcher. If you came back only to lurk in the shadows, the gesture was useless. And the one of a coward. ”
“You’ve got some nerve, you know that? For fifteen years, you’ve been mourning your Slayer to the point that you can’t even touch a sword and now you’re giving me a lesson about regrets and guilt! Keep your hypocrisy to yourself, Dad. Goodnight, you know how I love to play pot and kettle with you but I’ve got research to do.”
Giles started to walk when the door when a cry stopped him.
“Rupert, en garde!”
He turned back. His father was in the center of the piece, his hands on a large broadsword. Giles could see the pale and tensed figure of his father, how his hands were shaking but firmly holding the hilt.
“I will save you son, even if I have to kick your sorry arse with that sword.”
His father had not carried out that particular threat and they had celebrated their quarrel with Adrian’s eggnog. But when Giles had woken up in the middle of the night, he had heard soft and heart-wrenching sobs coming from his father’s bedroom. That night, Giles had learned the acceptance and forgiving one could get from a sparring and that a fight that seemed lost could be -in fact- won. And that the costs were always high.
Body-to-body
Don’t make a sound, she will hear you. Don’t move until you have decided exactly where to strike, she will sense you. Maybe a false attack then. See if she is still overconfident in her reading of you. Rapid thoughts passed through Giles’ mind as he watched her blindfolded Slayer stood alert. God, she was beautiful. And she was his. It did not matter that she went back every night to an other man or that she spent more time with her younger friends than with him; it did not matter because she was his Slayer again and that once the door of the training room closed, she was only his. His to train, his to fight with, his to sharpen.
She had come back to him with bad fighting habits, grandiose and telegraphed movements and overconfidence, all dangerous defaults picked up by training with unimaginative soldiers. He had scolded at her, before tossing her a wooden sword when she had said that it couldn’t be that bad. I’m the Slayer, remember that speech of yours about me fighting against darkness and evil evil things? She had laughed at the safe weapon -until she landed on the floor four times in a row. Then, her eyes had blazed with fury when she had realized what she had lost. One week later, his Slayer was back on the top and he was back on the floor. At least, he had enjoyed that week as much as he could.
Smiling at the memory, he carefully planned his next move. She would expect an attack on her right and he aimed to give her that impression to obtain a riposte from her left side, which was always weaker and easier to intercept. He grinned and made his move. Mere seconds later, he was lying on his back, a smirking Slayer straddling his chest and fastening her blindfold on his hands.
“Oh Watcher-mine, I totally forgot to tell you that I don’t drop my left shoulder anymore. I was going to earlier but then you stole the last jelly and my revengeful stomach started plotting coups. You know, like that hunger thingies that happened all the time before. This is why you’re the first -and only- victim of the Jelly Revolution. You may go once you agree on my jelly-sharing conditions.”
Giles suddenly started to laugh with a happy, carefree laugh that surprised Buffy. He was not sure he could explain to her how delighted he was to have his Slayer tying him up for eating the last jelly, how relieved he felt that she displayed proudly her reflexes and technique, how thrilled he was to fight again with her. Bare-hands, with swords, daggers, axes or quarterstaffs - it did not matter as long as she was training with him, and he with her. This very afternoon, they finished their training with a ferocious and exhilarating fencing match that left them exhausted and grinning at each other.
Giles smiled, as he did every time he thought about his training sessions of that year with Buffy. They were cherished moments, when he did not have to hold back, when they felt that their shared destiny contained so much more than a deadly duty. In these moments, he had truly felt joy at being a Watcher. His Watcher, destined to service her and only her. Even in spite of herself. No matter what would happen in the fight the following day or with his -maybe already vanished- relationship with Buffy, she taught the true, beautiful and painful meaning of being a Watcher.
Salute of arms
He raised himself to his knees and took his sword by the hilt, point on the ground. His forehead touched the pommel and he closed his eyes. How he wished he had his father’s sword. But the old fool has insisted on carrying it with him everyday, even though it had been too heavy for him. He used to joke about wanting to polish it with Travers’s clothes. It was probably scattered to pieces in the ruins that used to be the Council.
But the sword he was holding now was a good sword and he supposed it would suffice. As the last Watcher alive and a battered and scarred middle-aged man, he was not the hero of the story. A good, anonymous and a little tarnished sword was oddly perfect for him.
He suddenly understood what had been missing all these years, what his old fencing master had tried to explain to him one day: the tranquility one experienced after having accepted the impending fight. The lack of hope he had felt since the blowing of the Council lost its overwhelming shadow. His mind seemed clear for the first time in months. All his training, his knowledge, his lineage and his life had been leading him to this moment: he finally knew where he stood - Rupert Giles, last Watcher on duty. He only felt serenity and quietness, and readiness for the battle to come. He breathed deeply several times and opened his eyes.
The blades softly shone in the evening light. He had polished them well. He grinned, rose to his feet and started collecting the weapons.