BtVS: "Divine Interventions" (1/16)
Title: Divine Interventions (1/16)
Fandom: Buffy/Angel
Characters: Dawn, Amy, Cordelia, Ethan, Willow, Kennedy, and others.
Rating: The overall fic will include material up to and including NC-17; most scenes are considerably milder, though.
Warnings: Het, femslash, BDSM, noncon-but none as the main focus of the fic.
Warnings for this chapter: None.
Timeline/Spoilers: Takes place after “Why We Fight.” Spoilers up to “You’re Welcome.”
Summary: Unlikely allies must team up to protect Willow from a resurrected enemy and the worshippers of the god Osiris.
Notes: Special thanks to spikendru for a great beta.
Prologue
Even the most novice witch or warlock knows the Laws of Making. After all, there are only two, and they are easy to memorize. The first is, simply, that anything which has been made can be unmade. The second is that anything which has been unmade can be made again.
Knowing the words is easy. Understanding them is not so simple; even the most advanced mages know that the Laws of Making are not to be used lightly. They are a primordial truth; a description of the underlying state of the universe. They are not something to be manipulated to man’s will.
But they can be, if the one who desires to do so is powerful enough. To remake some things-for example, a human soul which has become consumed in the Fires of Resurrection-is beyond the ability of many gods and most Powers. Those who could perform the deed would not. But it is still possible.
The recreation of a single artifact, lifeless, is far simpler. Especially when one is the High Priestess of the god after whom it is named.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken
A light from the shadows shall spring
Renewed be the Urn that was broken
The crownless again shall be King.
Alexia had to smile as she recited the words. Who would have guessed actual spells would have been found in Tolkien? She watched as a wind began to pick up around her, a miniature sandstorm forming from the sand of the desert, the sand of the beach, and the sand of the crater. And at the heart of sandstorm, a pottery vase began to form. Soon the storm was gone, leaving the urn on the ground in front of her.
Alexia approached it, taking a vial of hart’s blood from a pocket in her blouse, pouring its contents into the urn. “Osiris, keeper of the gate,” she began to recite, “master of all fate, hear me. Before time, and after. Before knowing and nothing. Accept our offering. Know our prayer.”
As she spoke the words, she was tested. Gashes cut open across her body, blood streaming from her veins. This was what the god demanded of her; she would not fail Him.
“Osiris! Here lies the warrior of dark magicks! Let him cross over.”
Alexia began to feel a lump in her throat. What was this? Aghast, she watched as a serpent crawled out of her mouth. She let it fall onto the sandy ground, and continued to invoke the god.
“Osiris, let him cross over! Osiris, release him!”
Again, there was a wind, blowing around her at gale forces, even stronger than before. She raised her arms to the level of her eyes, trying to shield herself from the sandstorm. Once again, the sand of the desert, the sand of the beach, and the sand of the crater combined to form-
A man. And, oddly enough, his clothing.
The man looked at Alexia, uncertain. “Do you know who you are?” Alexia asked him.
The man nodded, slowly.
“Do you remember how you died?”
The man nodded again. “She killed me.”
Alexia smiled. “Yes, that’s right. And she’s the reason we brought you back. We want you to take her down.”
The man simply stared at Alexia for a long moment, and then a smile began to spread across his features. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had strawberries,” he said. “I’ve missed that taste.”
Chapter One
Cordelia Chase climbed the steps of the temple, wondering why she was even bothering to do this. Of course, it wasn’t a real temple, just the mental recreation of one on the Otherworld, formed for her benefit.
Why was she doing this? For the girl who just had to steal Cordy’s boyfriend before she realized she was gay?
Cordelia looked around inside the temple. It was certainly spacious. And empty. “Um, hello?” she asked nervously.
I am here, child.
Cordy started. “Greetings, O Great and Powerful Goddess,” she ventured. Hecate, after all, was a
goddess, while Cordelia was only a mere Higher Power. No mater how high you got on the totem pole, there was still someone sitting on top of you.
It has been a long time since one of the Powers has come here. Longer still since they have shown the proper respect to their Elders.
Did that mean the “O Great and Powerful” stuff was working?
No. It doesn’t.
Right. Goddess. All-knowing and all that.
What do you want, Cordelia Chase?
“Well, you see, I have a friend. Or had one, when I was human. Her name’s Willow, and-“
I am aware of the witch Willow Rosenberg.
Right. Still all-knowing.
She has been brought to My attention. We have had Our eyes on her for a while now.
“Well, they’re trying to kill her.”
They, My child? Have not creatures been trying to kill the Rosenberg child for years? Did she
not live on a Hellmouth?
“The Order of Osiris.”
Yes, I know. Osiris has been angered by the girl. Now He fears her. You wish Me to intervene?
“Only to counteract Osiris’s interference, Your, erm, Worship.”
You wish to be sent to Earth.
“Willow was my friend. Sort of. I need to help her.”
It can be done. But remember, you will have to sacrifice much of your power as a Higher Power to do it. No one, not even I, can interfere with the free will of a human being.
“I don’t ask it. Only to stop Osiris.”
Then My will be done.
* * * * *
“Who’s the hot babe?” asked Ethan.
Beth Daniels was, as usual, hunched over the blacktop of the prison yard, several colored sticks of chalk in his hand. His latest artistic creation Ethan found especially impressive: a young but mature woman, slender but curved, her hair a dark brown color. She was dressed in a blue blouse and a black skirt with white boots, and on her finger was a gold ring. Ethan was almost half-tempted to straddle the chalk portrait and make love to it. After all, it was the closest thing to a female he had seen in months.
“I don’t know,” Beth answered as he added a few more strokes to the girl’s waist, adding even more to the three-dimensional quality of the drawing. Just from looking at the picture, one would never have guessed that Beth was blind, had never actually seen a woman with his own eyes.
Beth Daniels was, as near as Ethan could tell, sixteen or seventeen years old. What the boy had done to land himself in the detention center was a mystery to everyone, although Ethan secretly thought that the kid had probably used black magic to kill his parents in revenge for their naming him Beth. A boy named Sue, indeed. . . .
“She’s yours.”
“Mine?” asked Ethan. “My past, or my future?”
“Both,” answered Beth.
“I think I’d remember a girl who looked like that,” Ethan observed.
Beth just kept on drawing. “She was younger then, of course,” he said. “This is what she looks like now.”
“So when do I get to meet her?”
The boy paused for a moment, then began to count backwards. “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .”
“Rayne!” cried out one of the guards. “Get over here. You have a visitor!”
Ethan looked from the guard to Beth, then back to the guard, and began to approach the guard.
There was only one type of visitors one received in this type of detention facility-Initiative interrogators. And Ethan was bloody sure they didn’t hire anyone that young, or that hot.
“Don’t screw this up, Ethan,” Beth said.
Ethan shrugged and followed the guard into the heart of the facility. The guard led him into a small room, empty except for two chairs, then left. Ethan sat down on one of the chairs, and waited. It was a moment more until the girl from Beth’s portrait did indeed enter. She was dressed just as he had sketched her-the blue floral blouse, the black skirt, the gold ring. Up close, in real life, Ethan could make out smaller details than he could in Beth’s drawing. For example, he could see the exact nature of the girl’s ring-it was fashioned in the design of a snake consuming its own tail.
A Ring of Ouroboros. Which meant she was a Watcher. Not all Watchers wore the ring, of course. But no one did who was not associated with the Council in some way.
“The Council finally found some interest in me again?” Ethan asked, playfully.
The girl simply examined him as she sat down. In her hands, she held several pieces of parchment.
“The Council as you knew it no longer exists,” she said, simply, in an American accent. “I am a representative of the organization which has taken its place, but I must admit that as far as that organization is concerned, they are quite happy with you rotting away where you are.”
Ethan nodded, wondering who this young representative from the new Council could be. She seemed to be much too young for a Watcher-hardly old enough to be graduated from high school, yet alone have defended a Watcher’s thesis. Could she be a Slayer? Beth-being so closely attuned to the currents of good and evil, chaos and order-had explained to him how it was that now every girl who could have been a Slayer, was a Slayer. It was not beyond imagining that in the restructuring of the council that would ensue, some Slayers would be given Rings of Ouroboros. Although he had difficulty imagining Quentin Travers or Roger Wyndam-Pryce agreeing to it.
“Have I met you?” Ethan asked the girl. After all, according to Beth, he had.
“No,” said the girl. “But you remember me anyway.”
Ethan had to cock an eye at this unexpected turn. “Really?”
The girl nodded. “Really. Sunnydale, 1997. Hallowe’en. My sister and her best friends were going costume shopping, and my mother made them take me along. We bought our costumes at your costume shop.”
“Really,” said Ethan. Wasn’t that interesting? “Could I ask what costumes you purchased?”
“My sister was a princess. Her one friend was a hooker-although they seemed to think I was too young to find out what that was and kept referring to it by the most romanticized euphemisims. The other, a soldier-a fact which ultimately proved somewhat useful. I suppose we should thank you.”
Everything fell into place. He never met her, but he remembered her anyway. Of course. “You’re her. The Slayer’s sister. The Key.”
The girl sighed. “Neither identity being one I happen to be incredibly fond of. How about just plain Dawn Summers?”
“Of course, Miss Summers. As I remember, your costume was that of Alice Pleasance Liddell.”
Dawn nodded. “I complained that my hair was the wrong color, but you pointed out that the historical Alice Liddell was a brunette. And when the spell was finally broken, it made it all the easier for me to rationalize everything as having been a very, very weird dream. Although the British accent persisted for days.”
“I assumed you have not come here to reminisce?”
“No,” said Dawn, and handed him the parchments. “I have here pages of the Tredescan Codex. They are written in Etruscan, Sumerian, and Egyptian. Loosely translated, they give an account of the end-times. For the most part, they’re your standard fire-and-brimstone stuff.”
“You know Etruscan, Sumerian, and Egyptian?”
“Among other languages,” Dawn agreed. “You should hear my Italian accent. What interests me in these pages is what seems to be references to a friend of mine-the girl who dressed as the prostitute.”
“Willow Rosenberg. The witch.”
“You do remember. These references seem to be constantly associated with some type of ritual known only as the Rite of Isis. However, when I asked Giles-“
“How is old Ripper these days?”
Dawn ignored him and continued. “However, when I asked Giles, he said there was only one living person known to have knowledge of the details of the Rite of Isis, and that he wouldn’t be able to help me.”
“And from that, you guessed it was me?”
“I did a little more research,” Dawn corrected. “Then I knew it was you.”
“Well, haven’t you done your homework. Now what do you want from me?”
Dawn stared him straight in the face. “Tell me what the Rite of Isis does.”
“And what do I get out of it?”
“Even if I wanted you free, the military would never be persuaded to allow it. It was difficult enough for me to procure an interview.”
“Then you don’t really have anything to bargain with, do you?” asked Ethan. “I’ve been on my best behavior here. Just ask anyone. I have the benefit of every privilege prisoners are allowed to enjoy.”
“Then you won’t help me?”
“I didn’t say that.” He paused, thinking. “You are aware that I worship chaos, I suppose?”
Dawn nodded. “In particular, the god Janus-an Etruscan god with two faces, one young and one old, one looking forward and one behind. He was later appropriated by the Romans, who named the month of January after Him. The gates to His temple were closed only in times of peace.”
Ethan had to smile at the girl’s precision. What was she, an encyclopedia? “Which in ancient Rome, was exceedingly rare. You learned all of this along with the languages?”
“Most of it,” said Dawn. “My sister’s boyfriend sort of knows a lot of Roman history. I learned some of it from him. He’s cool like that. And hot.”
“Then the Slayer must be a lucky girl,” observed Ethan. “But that’s really neither here nor there, is it? What matters is that Janus has taken a liking to your little witch friend. After all, whether intentionally or unintentionally, chaos usually manages to follow in her wake. And so He would be very sad if something unfortunate were to befall your friend. And I would have to say that the Rite of Isis would be something quite unfortunate indeed.”
“What is it?”
“Aye, there’s the rub, isn’t it? I wish I knew, exactly. Just trust me when I say you don’t want it happening.”
“You performed it once.”
“Indeed. And it was such a powerful experience, it wiped my mind completely clean. Permanent amnesia. I don’t remember a thing. Rather guess that’s what your friend Rupert meant by my not being able to help. Though I don’t blame you for wanting to find out for yourself.”
“Then you can’t help me.”
“Well, I would guess that would depend on the sort of help you want. But if you mean telling you what the Rite is, no, I’m afraid that I cannot do. Not even if I wanted to. Sorry.”
Dawn nodded. “Well, thank you for your help, Mr. Rayne,” she said, extending her hand. Ethan shook it, politely. Then she left.
Only after he had managed to make his way back to the prison yard did Ethan unclench his fist and look at the small crystal that Dawn Summers had had palmed in her hand.
TBC. . . . here.