[Fic] By Another Name
Because I haven't been in the mood to write about arrogant schoolboys, shiny weapons and pacifism for my other story even though I wrote the draft of this scene over a year ago and all it needs is some touching up.
That and the fact that I've been reading way too many fandom crossovers lately, mostly courtesy of
bedlamsbard (Narnia and everything under the sun) and metonomia/rthstewart ( Buffy/Merlin).
And then thinking that taking two specific fandoms from the above and pairing them would totally not work, I ended up with this instead.
Title: By Another Name
Summary: While Giles muses over an unexpected letter, Buffy stumbles upon the bodies and a most unusual weapon. To wit, it was just another typical day on the Hellmouth.
Spoilers: Buffy Season 2, post Phases. Narnia, post The Last Battle.
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The Chronicles of Narnia belongs to the estate of C.S. Lewis. I own nothing but the plot to this story.
His family had known her for a very long time, from several years before he was born. She was a friend of his mother's if he recalled correctly; the two women had met and bonded over their tragic losses after a railway accident had taken their loved ones.
He had not seen her in an age, at least a decade before his assignment sent him here. What he couldn't fathom was why she wanted to see him, of all people. He sighed and read the letter over again, pausing briefly at the date she had written of when she would arrive. That day was finally here and a part of him filled with dread at seeing her again.
"Giles!"
He looked up and sighed inwardly as his young charge burst through the library doors; the girl always had a dramatic way of making an entrance. Had it not been for the presence of Cordelia Chase and her former sycophants, he thought Buffy Summers could easily win the title of Drama Queen at this school. It was a bit shallow of him to think that of her, really. Hormonal teenager she may be, but he supposed the Slayer deserved some credit considering the weight of the world that she was forced to carry upon her slender shoulders.
However, the dramatics today were no different than any other day ever since he became her Watcher. He looked up and with a start, stared in surprise at the objects she brought with her. Not for the first time, he silently thanked the gods that it was still early morning; no excuse on this earth would ever explain away to that overbearing, pompous principal why the school's biggest troublemaker carried a bloodied sword in one hand and what ostensibly looked like a canine head in the other.
"Look what I came across during my morning rounds," she said cheerfully, as if she brought him things of a more mundane nature.
She dropped both items onto the table without fanfare, the objects making their own unique and unpleasant sounds as they hit the wooden surface. The edge of the sword clattered loudly while slick, wet noises emanated from the viscous bottom of the severed head as it slid slowly across the table. Buffy cringed as the latter finally ceased its movement, stopping right before it could reach the edge and fall into his lap.
It was mildly disconcerting to find a pair of golden, feral eyes staring blankly up at him. He looked away, eyes darting to the calendar on the wall before turning his gaze to his Slayer. "Is this-"
"I don't know. He-She-It was already dead when I got there. That," she tilted her head toward the sword, "was lying beneath its body. I think whoever did this ran off when I showed up."
He folded the letter and returned it to his shirt pocket. There would still be time for him to brood on the unexpected and unwelcomed visit later. For now, there was work to be done.
***
The knock on the door nearly caught him by surprise. Though the visit was expected, he had been anticipating the chime of the doorbell to alert him of her arrival, not the firm rap on wood that came instead.
With a glance at the clock, he made his way toward the door. One of the most defining things he remembered about her was that she was punctual to a fault. Apparently, that hadn't changed since he last saw her.
He took a deep breath and opened the door. "Mrs-"
"Ms!" she sharply corrected him. "Never Mrs-or have you forgotten that?"
He had forgotten, though he really shouldn't have. It was one of the first things she had taught him when he was old enough to learn basic lessons in etiquette. Never assume, for one may assume incorrectly and be left in an awkward situation. And he was making an assumption, he supposed. A quick glance at her hand revealed no ring, though he knew her well enough to know the absence of such a trinket hinted nothing of her status at all.
"Forgive me, Ms-"
"Never mind the formalities this time, Rupert," she said. "I've heard enough of them for a lifetime." There was a pause. "For several lifetimes, actually."
He stepped aside and with a sweeping motion of his hand, gestured for her to enter. "Do come in then."
For a woman soon to enter her seventh decade, she was exceedingly sprightful. As she swept past him, he noted her impeccable posture: chin up, back straight, shoulders high and thrown back. Clearly, no walking stick was necessary for someone that moved as if she were several decades younger. Not for the first time did she remind him of the upper-crust, society elites that his parents frequently invited for dinner when he was around Buffy's age.
He followed her into the living room, watching as she took a seat in the middle of the sofa and setting her purse neatly to the side. "Would you like something to drink? Tea, or coffee perhaps?"
"Tea, if it's not too much trouble." A pause. "Or a glass of wine, if it is."
"No trouble at all," he replied, resisting the urge to bow to her imperious demeanor. "It will only take a moment."
He excused himself and left the room. Once he was out of her sight, he shook his head. Good Lord, he had wanted to bow to her! It was such a ridiculous notion and he had no idea why the thought even occurred to him. He had known her his entire life and knew she was no aristocrat. During one of those rare moments when she discussed her past, she had spoken of growing up during the Blitz and how difficult it was to clothe and feed a family of six on ration coupons.
It was very strange. He shook his head to dispel those thoughts, attributing them to the surprise of both her letter and presence today.
He returned to the living room several minutes later and set a tray on the table. She raised one eyebrow at the two glasses and the tall dark bottle. "I take it the tea was too much trouble then."
"Not at all. But I didn't think everyday tea would be appreciated by the present company."
"PG Tips?"
"Lipton, unfortunately. And I regret to add that it is of the bagged variety." He remembered her preference for Earl Grey from Fortnum and Mason when she and his mother took tea together, and should have been more prepared.
She said nothing to that, though her lips curled slightly in disdain. He rather agreed with her assessment; what Americans thought as tea was really rather disgusting and tasteless. Obtaining tea from Fortnum's on such short notice was not impossible but would have required a special order to Piccadilly and he had neither the time to do so nor the inclination to spend a ridiculous amount of money on shipping one tin of tea. Regardless, he certainly could have done better than to offer cheap teabags to his guest.
At least he did have a decent selection of spirits on hand. As one, they raised their glasses and offered a silent toast to each other and to times gone by.
He took a sip from his own glass before settling down in a chair across from her. "I must admit, your letter took me by surprise."
"I'm sure it did," she said, giving him a brief nod. "To be fair, I had not planned on traveling. It was a rather last-minute decision."
"Why are you here?" It was abrupt and a bit disrespectful but the thought of spending the entire evening making small talk was counter-productive for him; he had more important things to do, such as researching methods to restore Angelus' soul once more.
One elegantly shaped brow went up. "Can't a woman come and visit her dear godson?"
The expression on his face mirrored hers. "You traveled all the way from London to this little American town in the middle of nowhere just to see me?"
"Sarcasm does not become you, Rupert," she said archly. "And it was Brighton, not London. The capital has gotten too crowded and noisy for tastes. I've had this longing to be near the sea so I recently leased a flat along the promenade."
"Well, I'm quite flattered then." He leaned back and eyed her curiously. "Would it be impertinent of me to ask if there was another reason for your visit?"
"Of course it would." She snorted lightly and took another sip from her glass. "And then I would think your manners have slipped considerably and a refresher course in etiquette would be in order." She set the glass down on the tray. "But yes, there is another reason. I've been searching for someone and recently learned he had been seen in this town."
She reached for her purse and rummaged through its contents. After a moment, she withdrew a folded sheet of paper and handed it to him once he set his glass down.
He carefully unfolded the sheet to reveal a photocopy of a newspaper clipping. A familiar face stared back at him. Dark hair, high forehead and a long face. "Gib Cain."
"So, you have seen him then."
"Unfortunately, yes. He came here about a month ago and had a run-in with…" he paused, unsure how much he should reveal.
"With the Slayer?" she asked, looking pointedly at him. "Or with her Watcher?"
He sat up in his chair and looked sharply at her, startled that she knew about his current occupation. The last time she had seen him was at an evening soirée at the British Museum, not long after he began working as a curator there. "How did you-"
"Do not take me for a fool, Rupert. I've known you would be called to this duty the day you were born." She raised a slender finger at him. "You forget that I knew your father and have met your grandmother. So it was for them, so it would be for you."
She had never shown any hint of knowing about the darker, more supernatural side of the world before. Then again, he hadn't spent much time with his godmother since his university days, when he rebelled spectacularly against his parents and his calling.
"Is Mr. Cain still here?" she asked, drawing his attention back to the original subject.
At least her knowing made having this discussion much easier for the both of them. "I don't think so. His encounter with the Slayer and her friends did not end very well for him. He left with a parting gift of a bent shotgun and the suggestion to leave this town immediately."
"A pity. I suppose I came here for nothing then."
He looked at her curiously. "Why are you seeking him?"
"There had been rumors that he and a group of other hunters had come into possession of a mighty weapon."
"Ah." He had heard the talk as well, though not until Cain had already disappeared. After that incident with Daniel Osbourne, Willow had taken the initiative to learn more about werewolves and those that hunted them. The weapon had come up in the girl's more recent findings though neither of them had pursued the matter further until today.
"The Wolfsbane," he stated.
She nodded. "Yes." And then, "Do you know what it is?"
He hadn't known until Buffy brought her prizes to him that very morning. "A sword."
She smiled. "An épée bâtarde with a golden hilt and pommel."
"I was unaware that you were so knowledgeable in medieval armaments." She was indeed a most remarkable woman.
This time she laughed. "I'm flattered you would think that of me, but you are mistaken. My knowledge extends only to this particular blade; my brothers were the experts on swords and armor in my family."
He noted the sad look that crossed her face as she mentioned her siblings but it disappeared quickly. She had two brothers and a sister he recalled, and all of them perished in the same accident that took his mother's relatives as well.
"Well, when Cain," he waved the picture in his hand, "was here, he did not have the sword with him. He was also the only hunter we saw; if there were others with him, they did not show themselves."
"They must have split up before he arrived then," she said, sighing. "And I suppose it means I have reached a dead end here."
He handed the paper back to her and she slipped it into her purse. He waited a moment, considering if he should tell her, and then said, "Perhaps not."
She turned her head to look at him. "What do you mean?"
Though she knew of his true profession, he still found it difficult to speak of such things to her. He hesitated, unsure how much of the gruesome and distasteful details he should reveal. "This morning, Buffy Summers-the Slayer-came across a pile of dead werewolves near the school grounds. Whoever had slaughtered them ran off before she discovered the bodies."
Her face was grim. "I see. So the others could be here after all." There was a pause. "Her name is Buffy?"
"It is an unusual name," he conceded. When he first learned the name of his charge, he had to restrain from laughing in front of Council superiors. What a typical American name, he had thought and was unsurprised to learn from Merrick's journals that she was a teenage cheerleader with a personality to match the name. Regardless, he was proud of Buffy Summers and felt he should defend her to this woman at the very least. "Name aside, she happens to be a very good Slayer. She even defeated an ancient vampire less than a year ago."
"The Master," she confirmed. "Yes, I had heard some mention of his demise. Prevented the Hellmouth from completely opening, if I'm not mistaken."
Goodness, what else did she already know? First it was werewolves, then the whole Slayer business, and now she revealed her knowledge of this mystical area. He looked at her with some trepidation and found a pair of bright blue eyes calmly staring back at him.
He cleared his throat and returned to the main subject. "The bodies Buffy discovered were all in wolf's form; there was a full moon last night. Each of them died in the exact same manner: their heads were cleanly taken off with a single cut."
"With a sword," she guessed.
"Correct."
"You think one of them used this... Wolfsbane," she said the word with a grimace, "to kill them."
He shook his head. "I don't think. I know."
She raised an eyebrow. "And how could you know for sure, Rupert?"
Instead of answering, he stood up and left the room. He returned a minute later, carrying a plain leather scabbard in his hands; a golden hilt was clearly protruding from the open end of the sheath.
She sucked in a sharp breath and murmured words that were faint and indiscernible to his ears. "Is that-?"
He knew he shouldn't but he felt a bit smug at being able to surprise her for once; she was older than him after all. "Miss Summers found this beneath one of the bodies. Quite bloodied and without the scabbard, of course," he added for clarification.
"May I?"
He carefully placed it into her open hands and then moved his fingers below her, prepared to catch it in case she dropped the weapon. The bastard sword was long and quite heavy and he feared her thin, delicate limbs would be unable to handle the weight for more than a few seconds.
It seemed his concern was unfounded. She held the scabbard steadily with one hand and gently caressed the cool metal of the hilt with the other. What she did next caught him completely by surprise. He didn't see but only heard the ringing of steel as she drew the sword out in a quick, fluid motion.
It was a beautiful weapon, to be sure. Even in the artificial light of the room, it gleamed as if it caught the light of the sun. Whether the rumors were true or not, it was still an extraordinary blade and would make a lovely addition to the cache of weapons that were stockpiled in his office.
She turned the sword over several times, eyes scrutinizing and lips frowning at every scratch, every dent on both sides of the blade, from the tip, then straight down the fuller. After several minutes, she reversed the blade, examining the hilt instead. He watched as she rubbed the pad of her thumb over the cross-guard, grip and finally the pommel.
He wondered what went through her head as she meticulously looked the blade over but her demeanor gave him pause. It was strange, really; she was still a slip of a girl when the second War was over and yet her careful movements here betrayed a certain familiarity with arms that nothing in her background could account for.
"What do you make of it?" he asked once she was done.
She wrinkled her nose in slight disgust. "Whoever handled it had not been taking good care of it, that's for certain. But the balance is good and it seems perfectly serviceable."
She was either an excellent liar or she really knew more about swords than she had let on earlier. He settled on the latter, being somewhat knowledgeable on the subject himself. He had handled weaponry during his time at the Museum and had been using them more frequently ever since he took up residence on the Hellmouth.
"And why have you been searching for this?" he asked, dipping his head toward the blade she still held in her hands. "There can't possibly be werewolves in Brighton."
"How can you be so sure of that?" she asked as her lips quirked into a tiny grin, making her appear several years younger. "The next thing you'll be telling me is that there cannot possibly be a center of evil, mystical convergence in the middle of a small town in sunny California."
"Point taken." He regained his seat across from her. "There have been no concrete information about the origin of the Wolfsbane, you know." He lifted his glass from the table and raised it to lips, taking a small sip. "It's also been said that it is a cursed blade. A Wolf's bane but Man's bane as well; that it will kill the wolves but allow no human to serve as its master either. The rumors say great misfortune comes to those who try to bend it to do their bidding. I suspect that's why the sword was left behind by its last owner."
"Those are some very interesting theories." She lowered the sword and gently set the naked blade across her lap. She then raised her head and he found her blue eyes staring shrewdly back at him. "And what of you? Will you try to use it now that it's in your possession?"
"Heavens, no! At least, not until I can completely sort out the facts from fiction with regards to it."
She leaned back in her seat, the sword shifting slightly against the fabric of her skirt as she moved. "Is that so? Well, that I can help you with."
"Can you now?" He did not bother hiding the bit of condescending tone in his voice.
"Oh yes." Suddenly, and unexpectedly, she smiled at him. There was no warmth in that grin and for the first time, he felt somewhat afraid of her. "I know more about it than you can ever begin to imagine. But I want something in exchange for the information."
He could guess but chose to ask anyway. "What?"
The word was barely out of his mouth when he found himself staring down the tip of the sword; one second, it was on her lap and the next he was face to face with it. Remarkable. Scary. He now added swift to the list of words to describe the woman he remembered from his childhood as having a gentle nature.
"I tell you what you want to know and you let me leave with it."
"What do you plan on doing with it?"
"My plans are my own, Rupert; it is not relevant for you to know." She kept the weapon pointed at him, her hold on it unwavering.
"Did you not hear what I said earlier? If the rumors are true, this Wolfsbane will allow none to be its master or mistress."
She smiled again and to his surprise, it was softer and gentler, more like what he remembered from his youth. "And were you not listening to me as well? I know this sword. It will not tolerate hunters, Slayers or Watchers, but it will suffer me."
He relaxed slightly and released the breath he held as she lowered the sword from his face. With her free hand, she stroked the blade affectionately and he watched in alarm as she pricked her thumb along the edge. A gleaming ball of crimson appeared between skin and metal and then-
It hummed. There was no other word to describe it. He thought he could hear the metal vibrating to a song in an unknown language. With a mix of horror and fascination, he watched as she pressed her thumb down-the open cut meeting steel-and smeared her blood along the flat of the blade.
"Do we have a deal, Rupert?" He stilled his movements as she raised the blade until the tip was pointed at the center of his chest.
"Y-Yes," he stuttered out.
"Swear it."
"I s-swear by the gods-"
"And the Deep Magic," she interjected.
"-and the Deep Magic," he echoed, not knowing what that was but could see it apparently meant something to her, "that I will give you this sword in exchange for what information you know of it." As he finished, he thought he heard not only the humming noise again but the sound of a cat purring as well.
"Very good." This time, she lowered the blade completely away from him and returned it to her lap. He looked down at it and was surprised to see the blood had vanished from the steel. "Now," she began, lifting her head again and looking curiously at him, "where should I begin?"
"How about the origin of Wolfsbane?" he suggested. It would probably be easier to understand if she started from the very beginning.
There was a hint of amusement in her eyes. "I suppose that would be an excellent start. But first: you must stop calling it Wolfsbane. Its true name is Rhindon."
"Rhindon?" He searched through the vast encyclopedia in his mind and could find no source to the root of the word. "Not Wolfsbane?"
"Certainly not!" she said vehemently. "I was at its naming ceremony, a long time ago."
"Naming ceremony?"
"Yes. The sword was nameless when it was given to its owner. The name came over time, after many years and much usage."
He waited a minute and when he realized she would not say more on the subject, he asked another question. "Then where did the name Wolfsbane come from?"
"I suspect it's a corruption of its history. The first time the sword was used, it was to kill a Wolf."
"Ah." The pieces were starting to fall into place. "So it really was a Wolf's Bane."
She nodded. "Not just one, but many; werewolves and regular ones as well. And not only wolves, either; it has tasted the blood of Man, of Beast and other creatures thought to be myth and legend." She sighed a bit wistfully. "Rhindon was feared by enemy and ally alike in those days."
"I see." That was a lie. He didn't see, not really. While he understood how truth evolved into fiction, he had a harder time understanding how she came to know all this.
"So, whom did this sword belong to?"
She was silent for a moment. And then, "My brother, my King."
That was not the answer he had been expecting. "Your brother?"
"My eldest brother. Peter."
"Your King?" He could hear the admiration and reverence in her voice. An older sibling caring for the rest during the War; he could see the comparison there. But there seemed to be something else in her words as well. As if the word meant something beyond a metaphor.
"Yes." She smiled briefly at his confusion. "Many, many years ago, my siblings and I stumbled into another world. Our coming was foretold by prophecy-you know all about these types of things, I'm sure-and once we ended the Witch's reign, the four of us ruled the great kingdom of Narnia for a glorious age."
He stared at her, both believing and disbelieving at the same time. It was such a fantastical tale and yet it seemed to make sense in a way. If he accepted it as truth, it would help to explain away more of the differences from the woman he thought he knew to the one that showed up on his doorstep this evening.
She continued with her story, lost in her memories and oblivious to his surprise. "And when our time was over in that world, we found ourselves back in this one and no time had passed here at all. There were a few more visits between the two worlds after that before we were told that Narnia would be closed to us forever." She sighed. "Even so, it had been said that once a King or Queen there, always a King or Queen."
"A-and this sword came from that world?" That would explain why he found no recognizable device on the weapon that matched anything in his books.
Her brows furrowed as she thought for a minute. "Yes, it was given to Peter in Narnia and was considered one of the great, royal treasures long after we left. I don't know how it came to this world, only that it has and been used by these horrid hunters."
"But what do you plan on doing with it?" He had asked this earlier and she had shut him out. Now that he knew more of the story, he hoped she would relent and give him an answer this time.
Blue eyes stared back at him, as if her gaze tried to pierce through to his soul. "If I asked, would you swear again to never reveal what I'm about to say to anyone else?"
He nodded quickly, confidently. "By the gods and by the Deep Magic, I-"
She held up her hand, interrupting the oath. "You need not do it, Rupert, but I thank you all the same. I trust you enough not to bind you by the laws of magic."
"Thank you. I am honored by your trust in me." The words were a bit antiquated, but it seemed to fit with the occasion. The regality in her mannerisms and speech were more apparent to him now.
"As for the sword, I'll take it home to England and guard it with whatever life is left with me. With Peter and the others long gone, I am the only one left of the Kings and Queens and of Narnia."
He recalled her words from before. "Is that why you said the sword will obey you?"
"Rhindon belongs to Peter and no one else. It has a magic of its own and recognizes its true master. Because I share the same blood as my brother, it will listen to me, albeit not as well as it would the High King."
"High King..." he whispered the title more to himself than to her.
She laughed lightly this time as she looked up from the blade to his face. "Peter was and will always be High King over all other Kings of Narnia."
"High King," he repeated again, only louder than before. "You know, it's quite like the old myths of England. Your brother was King Arthur and his sword was Excalibur. And you..."
Her smile was wide and for a second, he thought he saw her younger again, looking about the age she was at the time he was born. "I was and am Queen Susan of Narnia, sister of Peter the High King. And with Rhindon now in my keeping, I suppose I am the Lady of the Lake as well."
They had been talking for quite some time. He looked at his watch and realized just how late it was. He stood up apologetically. "I'm terribly sorry, I'm supposed to meet with Buffy back at the school. If there's anything I-"
"Never you mind, Rupert," she said, standing as well. "I have what I came for, thanks to you." She picked up her purse while he sheathed the sword and carried it for her as they made their way to the door.
"It was a pleasure seeing you again," he said, true sincerity in his words.
"And you as well." She paused on the step, one well-heeled foot already outside when she turned to face him. "Difficult times are coming ahead for you and your Slayer. You will suffer greatly, and then she."
He took a step back, startled. "How do you know?"
"I know many things, and I'm sorry that I can't tell you more even though it is your story." She patted his cheek with her hand. "Just trust in each other and things will work out in the end."
"I-" he stopped, unsure of what to say. Instead, he offered Rhindon to her with outstretched hands.
She took the sword from him and then leaned forward, planting a kiss on his cheek. "A Queen's blessing on you, my dear. May the great Lion of Narnia keep you and your charge safe in this world."
"Thank you." He hesitated and then added, "Your Majesty."
She flashed him one last smile before she turned and walked to her waiting car.
End.
It's sad, really. It took me just 5 days to complete (started this on Thursday and finished it yesterday, with a slight plot overhaul halfway through) without an outline while the other fic is painstakingly being worked on.
I think I should just go and post up chapter 5 of Bound by Duty on FF.net even though it hasn't been beta-ed; I feel bad that so many months have passed since the last update on it, even though 5 is complete and 6 is about two-thirds done.
Crosspost: http://autumnia.dreamwidth.org/5990.html
That and the fact that I've been reading way too many fandom crossovers lately, mostly courtesy of
bedlamsbard (Narnia and everything under the sun) and metonomia/rthstewart ( Buffy/Merlin).
And then thinking that taking two specific fandoms from the above and pairing them would totally not work, I ended up with this instead.
Title: By Another Name
Summary: While Giles muses over an unexpected letter, Buffy stumbles upon the bodies and a most unusual weapon. To wit, it was just another typical day on the Hellmouth.
Spoilers: Buffy Season 2, post Phases. Narnia, post The Last Battle.
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The Chronicles of Narnia belongs to the estate of C.S. Lewis. I own nothing but the plot to this story.
His family had known her for a very long time, from several years before he was born. She was a friend of his mother's if he recalled correctly; the two women had met and bonded over their tragic losses after a railway accident had taken their loved ones.
He had not seen her in an age, at least a decade before his assignment sent him here. What he couldn't fathom was why she wanted to see him, of all people. He sighed and read the letter over again, pausing briefly at the date she had written of when she would arrive. That day was finally here and a part of him filled with dread at seeing her again.
"Giles!"
He looked up and sighed inwardly as his young charge burst through the library doors; the girl always had a dramatic way of making an entrance. Had it not been for the presence of Cordelia Chase and her former sycophants, he thought Buffy Summers could easily win the title of Drama Queen at this school. It was a bit shallow of him to think that of her, really. Hormonal teenager she may be, but he supposed the Slayer deserved some credit considering the weight of the world that she was forced to carry upon her slender shoulders.
However, the dramatics today were no different than any other day ever since he became her Watcher. He looked up and with a start, stared in surprise at the objects she brought with her. Not for the first time, he silently thanked the gods that it was still early morning; no excuse on this earth would ever explain away to that overbearing, pompous principal why the school's biggest troublemaker carried a bloodied sword in one hand and what ostensibly looked like a canine head in the other.
"Look what I came across during my morning rounds," she said cheerfully, as if she brought him things of a more mundane nature.
She dropped both items onto the table without fanfare, the objects making their own unique and unpleasant sounds as they hit the wooden surface. The edge of the sword clattered loudly while slick, wet noises emanated from the viscous bottom of the severed head as it slid slowly across the table. Buffy cringed as the latter finally ceased its movement, stopping right before it could reach the edge and fall into his lap.
It was mildly disconcerting to find a pair of golden, feral eyes staring blankly up at him. He looked away, eyes darting to the calendar on the wall before turning his gaze to his Slayer. "Is this-"
"I don't know. He-She-It was already dead when I got there. That," she tilted her head toward the sword, "was lying beneath its body. I think whoever did this ran off when I showed up."
He folded the letter and returned it to his shirt pocket. There would still be time for him to brood on the unexpected and unwelcomed visit later. For now, there was work to be done.
***
The knock on the door nearly caught him by surprise. Though the visit was expected, he had been anticipating the chime of the doorbell to alert him of her arrival, not the firm rap on wood that came instead.
With a glance at the clock, he made his way toward the door. One of the most defining things he remembered about her was that she was punctual to a fault. Apparently, that hadn't changed since he last saw her.
He took a deep breath and opened the door. "Mrs-"
"Ms!" she sharply corrected him. "Never Mrs-or have you forgotten that?"
He had forgotten, though he really shouldn't have. It was one of the first things she had taught him when he was old enough to learn basic lessons in etiquette. Never assume, for one may assume incorrectly and be left in an awkward situation. And he was making an assumption, he supposed. A quick glance at her hand revealed no ring, though he knew her well enough to know the absence of such a trinket hinted nothing of her status at all.
"Forgive me, Ms-"
"Never mind the formalities this time, Rupert," she said. "I've heard enough of them for a lifetime." There was a pause. "For several lifetimes, actually."
He stepped aside and with a sweeping motion of his hand, gestured for her to enter. "Do come in then."
For a woman soon to enter her seventh decade, she was exceedingly sprightful. As she swept past him, he noted her impeccable posture: chin up, back straight, shoulders high and thrown back. Clearly, no walking stick was necessary for someone that moved as if she were several decades younger. Not for the first time did she remind him of the upper-crust, society elites that his parents frequently invited for dinner when he was around Buffy's age.
He followed her into the living room, watching as she took a seat in the middle of the sofa and setting her purse neatly to the side. "Would you like something to drink? Tea, or coffee perhaps?"
"Tea, if it's not too much trouble." A pause. "Or a glass of wine, if it is."
"No trouble at all," he replied, resisting the urge to bow to her imperious demeanor. "It will only take a moment."
He excused himself and left the room. Once he was out of her sight, he shook his head. Good Lord, he had wanted to bow to her! It was such a ridiculous notion and he had no idea why the thought even occurred to him. He had known her his entire life and knew she was no aristocrat. During one of those rare moments when she discussed her past, she had spoken of growing up during the Blitz and how difficult it was to clothe and feed a family of six on ration coupons.
It was very strange. He shook his head to dispel those thoughts, attributing them to the surprise of both her letter and presence today.
He returned to the living room several minutes later and set a tray on the table. She raised one eyebrow at the two glasses and the tall dark bottle. "I take it the tea was too much trouble then."
"Not at all. But I didn't think everyday tea would be appreciated by the present company."
"PG Tips?"
"Lipton, unfortunately. And I regret to add that it is of the bagged variety." He remembered her preference for Earl Grey from Fortnum and Mason when she and his mother took tea together, and should have been more prepared.
She said nothing to that, though her lips curled slightly in disdain. He rather agreed with her assessment; what Americans thought as tea was really rather disgusting and tasteless. Obtaining tea from Fortnum's on such short notice was not impossible but would have required a special order to Piccadilly and he had neither the time to do so nor the inclination to spend a ridiculous amount of money on shipping one tin of tea. Regardless, he certainly could have done better than to offer cheap teabags to his guest.
At least he did have a decent selection of spirits on hand. As one, they raised their glasses and offered a silent toast to each other and to times gone by.
He took a sip from his own glass before settling down in a chair across from her. "I must admit, your letter took me by surprise."
"I'm sure it did," she said, giving him a brief nod. "To be fair, I had not planned on traveling. It was a rather last-minute decision."
"Why are you here?" It was abrupt and a bit disrespectful but the thought of spending the entire evening making small talk was counter-productive for him; he had more important things to do, such as researching methods to restore Angelus' soul once more.
One elegantly shaped brow went up. "Can't a woman come and visit her dear godson?"
The expression on his face mirrored hers. "You traveled all the way from London to this little American town in the middle of nowhere just to see me?"
"Sarcasm does not become you, Rupert," she said archly. "And it was Brighton, not London. The capital has gotten too crowded and noisy for tastes. I've had this longing to be near the sea so I recently leased a flat along the promenade."
"Well, I'm quite flattered then." He leaned back and eyed her curiously. "Would it be impertinent of me to ask if there was another reason for your visit?"
"Of course it would." She snorted lightly and took another sip from her glass. "And then I would think your manners have slipped considerably and a refresher course in etiquette would be in order." She set the glass down on the tray. "But yes, there is another reason. I've been searching for someone and recently learned he had been seen in this town."
She reached for her purse and rummaged through its contents. After a moment, she withdrew a folded sheet of paper and handed it to him once he set his glass down.
He carefully unfolded the sheet to reveal a photocopy of a newspaper clipping. A familiar face stared back at him. Dark hair, high forehead and a long face. "Gib Cain."
"So, you have seen him then."
"Unfortunately, yes. He came here about a month ago and had a run-in with…" he paused, unsure how much he should reveal.
"With the Slayer?" she asked, looking pointedly at him. "Or with her Watcher?"
He sat up in his chair and looked sharply at her, startled that she knew about his current occupation. The last time she had seen him was at an evening soirée at the British Museum, not long after he began working as a curator there. "How did you-"
"Do not take me for a fool, Rupert. I've known you would be called to this duty the day you were born." She raised a slender finger at him. "You forget that I knew your father and have met your grandmother. So it was for them, so it would be for you."
She had never shown any hint of knowing about the darker, more supernatural side of the world before. Then again, he hadn't spent much time with his godmother since his university days, when he rebelled spectacularly against his parents and his calling.
"Is Mr. Cain still here?" she asked, drawing his attention back to the original subject.
At least her knowing made having this discussion much easier for the both of them. "I don't think so. His encounter with the Slayer and her friends did not end very well for him. He left with a parting gift of a bent shotgun and the suggestion to leave this town immediately."
"A pity. I suppose I came here for nothing then."
He looked at her curiously. "Why are you seeking him?"
"There had been rumors that he and a group of other hunters had come into possession of a mighty weapon."
"Ah." He had heard the talk as well, though not until Cain had already disappeared. After that incident with Daniel Osbourne, Willow had taken the initiative to learn more about werewolves and those that hunted them. The weapon had come up in the girl's more recent findings though neither of them had pursued the matter further until today.
"The Wolfsbane," he stated.
She nodded. "Yes." And then, "Do you know what it is?"
He hadn't known until Buffy brought her prizes to him that very morning. "A sword."
She smiled. "An épée bâtarde with a golden hilt and pommel."
"I was unaware that you were so knowledgeable in medieval armaments." She was indeed a most remarkable woman.
This time she laughed. "I'm flattered you would think that of me, but you are mistaken. My knowledge extends only to this particular blade; my brothers were the experts on swords and armor in my family."
He noted the sad look that crossed her face as she mentioned her siblings but it disappeared quickly. She had two brothers and a sister he recalled, and all of them perished in the same accident that took his mother's relatives as well.
"Well, when Cain," he waved the picture in his hand, "was here, he did not have the sword with him. He was also the only hunter we saw; if there were others with him, they did not show themselves."
"They must have split up before he arrived then," she said, sighing. "And I suppose it means I have reached a dead end here."
He handed the paper back to her and she slipped it into her purse. He waited a moment, considering if he should tell her, and then said, "Perhaps not."
She turned her head to look at him. "What do you mean?"
Though she knew of his true profession, he still found it difficult to speak of such things to her. He hesitated, unsure how much of the gruesome and distasteful details he should reveal. "This morning, Buffy Summers-the Slayer-came across a pile of dead werewolves near the school grounds. Whoever had slaughtered them ran off before she discovered the bodies."
Her face was grim. "I see. So the others could be here after all." There was a pause. "Her name is Buffy?"
"It is an unusual name," he conceded. When he first learned the name of his charge, he had to restrain from laughing in front of Council superiors. What a typical American name, he had thought and was unsurprised to learn from Merrick's journals that she was a teenage cheerleader with a personality to match the name. Regardless, he was proud of Buffy Summers and felt he should defend her to this woman at the very least. "Name aside, she happens to be a very good Slayer. She even defeated an ancient vampire less than a year ago."
"The Master," she confirmed. "Yes, I had heard some mention of his demise. Prevented the Hellmouth from completely opening, if I'm not mistaken."
Goodness, what else did she already know? First it was werewolves, then the whole Slayer business, and now she revealed her knowledge of this mystical area. He looked at her with some trepidation and found a pair of bright blue eyes calmly staring back at him.
He cleared his throat and returned to the main subject. "The bodies Buffy discovered were all in wolf's form; there was a full moon last night. Each of them died in the exact same manner: their heads were cleanly taken off with a single cut."
"With a sword," she guessed.
"Correct."
"You think one of them used this... Wolfsbane," she said the word with a grimace, "to kill them."
He shook his head. "I don't think. I know."
She raised an eyebrow. "And how could you know for sure, Rupert?"
Instead of answering, he stood up and left the room. He returned a minute later, carrying a plain leather scabbard in his hands; a golden hilt was clearly protruding from the open end of the sheath.
She sucked in a sharp breath and murmured words that were faint and indiscernible to his ears. "Is that-?"
He knew he shouldn't but he felt a bit smug at being able to surprise her for once; she was older than him after all. "Miss Summers found this beneath one of the bodies. Quite bloodied and without the scabbard, of course," he added for clarification.
"May I?"
He carefully placed it into her open hands and then moved his fingers below her, prepared to catch it in case she dropped the weapon. The bastard sword was long and quite heavy and he feared her thin, delicate limbs would be unable to handle the weight for more than a few seconds.
It seemed his concern was unfounded. She held the scabbard steadily with one hand and gently caressed the cool metal of the hilt with the other. What she did next caught him completely by surprise. He didn't see but only heard the ringing of steel as she drew the sword out in a quick, fluid motion.
It was a beautiful weapon, to be sure. Even in the artificial light of the room, it gleamed as if it caught the light of the sun. Whether the rumors were true or not, it was still an extraordinary blade and would make a lovely addition to the cache of weapons that were stockpiled in his office.
She turned the sword over several times, eyes scrutinizing and lips frowning at every scratch, every dent on both sides of the blade, from the tip, then straight down the fuller. After several minutes, she reversed the blade, examining the hilt instead. He watched as she rubbed the pad of her thumb over the cross-guard, grip and finally the pommel.
He wondered what went through her head as she meticulously looked the blade over but her demeanor gave him pause. It was strange, really; she was still a slip of a girl when the second War was over and yet her careful movements here betrayed a certain familiarity with arms that nothing in her background could account for.
"What do you make of it?" he asked once she was done.
She wrinkled her nose in slight disgust. "Whoever handled it had not been taking good care of it, that's for certain. But the balance is good and it seems perfectly serviceable."
She was either an excellent liar or she really knew more about swords than she had let on earlier. He settled on the latter, being somewhat knowledgeable on the subject himself. He had handled weaponry during his time at the Museum and had been using them more frequently ever since he took up residence on the Hellmouth.
"And why have you been searching for this?" he asked, dipping his head toward the blade she still held in her hands. "There can't possibly be werewolves in Brighton."
"How can you be so sure of that?" she asked as her lips quirked into a tiny grin, making her appear several years younger. "The next thing you'll be telling me is that there cannot possibly be a center of evil, mystical convergence in the middle of a small town in sunny California."
"Point taken." He regained his seat across from her. "There have been no concrete information about the origin of the Wolfsbane, you know." He lifted his glass from the table and raised it to lips, taking a small sip. "It's also been said that it is a cursed blade. A Wolf's bane but Man's bane as well; that it will kill the wolves but allow no human to serve as its master either. The rumors say great misfortune comes to those who try to bend it to do their bidding. I suspect that's why the sword was left behind by its last owner."
"Those are some very interesting theories." She lowered the sword and gently set the naked blade across her lap. She then raised her head and he found her blue eyes staring shrewdly back at him. "And what of you? Will you try to use it now that it's in your possession?"
"Heavens, no! At least, not until I can completely sort out the facts from fiction with regards to it."
She leaned back in her seat, the sword shifting slightly against the fabric of her skirt as she moved. "Is that so? Well, that I can help you with."
"Can you now?" He did not bother hiding the bit of condescending tone in his voice.
"Oh yes." Suddenly, and unexpectedly, she smiled at him. There was no warmth in that grin and for the first time, he felt somewhat afraid of her. "I know more about it than you can ever begin to imagine. But I want something in exchange for the information."
He could guess but chose to ask anyway. "What?"
The word was barely out of his mouth when he found himself staring down the tip of the sword; one second, it was on her lap and the next he was face to face with it. Remarkable. Scary. He now added swift to the list of words to describe the woman he remembered from his childhood as having a gentle nature.
"I tell you what you want to know and you let me leave with it."
"What do you plan on doing with it?"
"My plans are my own, Rupert; it is not relevant for you to know." She kept the weapon pointed at him, her hold on it unwavering.
"Did you not hear what I said earlier? If the rumors are true, this Wolfsbane will allow none to be its master or mistress."
She smiled again and to his surprise, it was softer and gentler, more like what he remembered from his youth. "And were you not listening to me as well? I know this sword. It will not tolerate hunters, Slayers or Watchers, but it will suffer me."
He relaxed slightly and released the breath he held as she lowered the sword from his face. With her free hand, she stroked the blade affectionately and he watched in alarm as she pricked her thumb along the edge. A gleaming ball of crimson appeared between skin and metal and then-
It hummed. There was no other word to describe it. He thought he could hear the metal vibrating to a song in an unknown language. With a mix of horror and fascination, he watched as she pressed her thumb down-the open cut meeting steel-and smeared her blood along the flat of the blade.
"Do we have a deal, Rupert?" He stilled his movements as she raised the blade until the tip was pointed at the center of his chest.
"Y-Yes," he stuttered out.
"Swear it."
"I s-swear by the gods-"
"And the Deep Magic," she interjected.
"-and the Deep Magic," he echoed, not knowing what that was but could see it apparently meant something to her, "that I will give you this sword in exchange for what information you know of it." As he finished, he thought he heard not only the humming noise again but the sound of a cat purring as well.
"Very good." This time, she lowered the blade completely away from him and returned it to her lap. He looked down at it and was surprised to see the blood had vanished from the steel. "Now," she began, lifting her head again and looking curiously at him, "where should I begin?"
"How about the origin of Wolfsbane?" he suggested. It would probably be easier to understand if she started from the very beginning.
There was a hint of amusement in her eyes. "I suppose that would be an excellent start. But first: you must stop calling it Wolfsbane. Its true name is Rhindon."
"Rhindon?" He searched through the vast encyclopedia in his mind and could find no source to the root of the word. "Not Wolfsbane?"
"Certainly not!" she said vehemently. "I was at its naming ceremony, a long time ago."
"Naming ceremony?"
"Yes. The sword was nameless when it was given to its owner. The name came over time, after many years and much usage."
He waited a minute and when he realized she would not say more on the subject, he asked another question. "Then where did the name Wolfsbane come from?"
"I suspect it's a corruption of its history. The first time the sword was used, it was to kill a Wolf."
"Ah." The pieces were starting to fall into place. "So it really was a Wolf's Bane."
She nodded. "Not just one, but many; werewolves and regular ones as well. And not only wolves, either; it has tasted the blood of Man, of Beast and other creatures thought to be myth and legend." She sighed a bit wistfully. "Rhindon was feared by enemy and ally alike in those days."
"I see." That was a lie. He didn't see, not really. While he understood how truth evolved into fiction, he had a harder time understanding how she came to know all this.
"So, whom did this sword belong to?"
She was silent for a moment. And then, "My brother, my King."
That was not the answer he had been expecting. "Your brother?"
"My eldest brother. Peter."
"Your King?" He could hear the admiration and reverence in her voice. An older sibling caring for the rest during the War; he could see the comparison there. But there seemed to be something else in her words as well. As if the word meant something beyond a metaphor.
"Yes." She smiled briefly at his confusion. "Many, many years ago, my siblings and I stumbled into another world. Our coming was foretold by prophecy-you know all about these types of things, I'm sure-and once we ended the Witch's reign, the four of us ruled the great kingdom of Narnia for a glorious age."
He stared at her, both believing and disbelieving at the same time. It was such a fantastical tale and yet it seemed to make sense in a way. If he accepted it as truth, it would help to explain away more of the differences from the woman he thought he knew to the one that showed up on his doorstep this evening.
She continued with her story, lost in her memories and oblivious to his surprise. "And when our time was over in that world, we found ourselves back in this one and no time had passed here at all. There were a few more visits between the two worlds after that before we were told that Narnia would be closed to us forever." She sighed. "Even so, it had been said that once a King or Queen there, always a King or Queen."
"A-and this sword came from that world?" That would explain why he found no recognizable device on the weapon that matched anything in his books.
Her brows furrowed as she thought for a minute. "Yes, it was given to Peter in Narnia and was considered one of the great, royal treasures long after we left. I don't know how it came to this world, only that it has and been used by these horrid hunters."
"But what do you plan on doing with it?" He had asked this earlier and she had shut him out. Now that he knew more of the story, he hoped she would relent and give him an answer this time.
Blue eyes stared back at him, as if her gaze tried to pierce through to his soul. "If I asked, would you swear again to never reveal what I'm about to say to anyone else?"
He nodded quickly, confidently. "By the gods and by the Deep Magic, I-"
She held up her hand, interrupting the oath. "You need not do it, Rupert, but I thank you all the same. I trust you enough not to bind you by the laws of magic."
"Thank you. I am honored by your trust in me." The words were a bit antiquated, but it seemed to fit with the occasion. The regality in her mannerisms and speech were more apparent to him now.
"As for the sword, I'll take it home to England and guard it with whatever life is left with me. With Peter and the others long gone, I am the only one left of the Kings and Queens and of Narnia."
He recalled her words from before. "Is that why you said the sword will obey you?"
"Rhindon belongs to Peter and no one else. It has a magic of its own and recognizes its true master. Because I share the same blood as my brother, it will listen to me, albeit not as well as it would the High King."
"High King..." he whispered the title more to himself than to her.
She laughed lightly this time as she looked up from the blade to his face. "Peter was and will always be High King over all other Kings of Narnia."
"High King," he repeated again, only louder than before. "You know, it's quite like the old myths of England. Your brother was King Arthur and his sword was Excalibur. And you..."
Her smile was wide and for a second, he thought he saw her younger again, looking about the age she was at the time he was born. "I was and am Queen Susan of Narnia, sister of Peter the High King. And with Rhindon now in my keeping, I suppose I am the Lady of the Lake as well."
They had been talking for quite some time. He looked at his watch and realized just how late it was. He stood up apologetically. "I'm terribly sorry, I'm supposed to meet with Buffy back at the school. If there's anything I-"
"Never you mind, Rupert," she said, standing as well. "I have what I came for, thanks to you." She picked up her purse while he sheathed the sword and carried it for her as they made their way to the door.
"It was a pleasure seeing you again," he said, true sincerity in his words.
"And you as well." She paused on the step, one well-heeled foot already outside when she turned to face him. "Difficult times are coming ahead for you and your Slayer. You will suffer greatly, and then she."
He took a step back, startled. "How do you know?"
"I know many things, and I'm sorry that I can't tell you more even though it is your story." She patted his cheek with her hand. "Just trust in each other and things will work out in the end."
"I-" he stopped, unsure of what to say. Instead, he offered Rhindon to her with outstretched hands.
She took the sword from him and then leaned forward, planting a kiss on his cheek. "A Queen's blessing on you, my dear. May the great Lion of Narnia keep you and your charge safe in this world."
"Thank you." He hesitated and then added, "Your Majesty."
She flashed him one last smile before she turned and walked to her waiting car.
End.
It's sad, really. It took me just 5 days to complete (started this on Thursday and finished it yesterday, with a slight plot overhaul halfway through) without an outline while the other fic is painstakingly being worked on.
I think I should just go and post up chapter 5 of Bound by Duty on FF.net even though it hasn't been beta-ed; I feel bad that so many months have passed since the last update on it, even though 5 is complete and 6 is about two-thirds done.
Crosspost: http://autumnia.dreamwidth.org/5990.html