Fic: Right Of Claim 19/19
Wordcount: 2,480
A.N. Well, here it is. The end of the longest thing that I've ever written. And I would say next year to remind me not to pull something that over 85k out of the bag, but since I'm going to be trying for a part 2, if anyone wants to see it... And damn, what a ride it's been.
Epilogue - Prophecy (Fucking With Fate)
“All debts are paid
At the opera tonight”
-Repo - At The Opera Tonight
“Oh, do stop being stupid, Rupert. You’re entirely too sentimental these days. And you’ve known since before the day she was born, that she was stamped with an expiry date. There’s sweet fuck all that you can do about it. If she is prophesied to die, then she will do so.”
He spun on it, and lunged, all his anger and frustration and the pain that he was trying to hide pouring out into that one little movement. And he wasn’t overly surprised, when his lunge was intercepted in mid-flight, and he was redirected past it towards the armchair, hitting the back of it with enough force to flip it backwards, and he hit the ground painfully as it knocked the wind out of him. He hadn’t expected much else, to be honest, but it was still better than simply standing there.
He heard its footsteps drawing closer, and seconds later it grasped the bottom of the chair and flipped it up, without him moving a muscle.
“Can you blame me for being sentimental? I’m still only human, after all, or did you forget that fact? And I always knew that I was going to… going to lose her, but not like this. This, it’s too soon. She’s too young, she doesn’t… she doesn’t deserve to die. And not like that.”
“I though you were past the stage where you thought that life still cared about fair, and right, and wrong. And you’ll have other things to occupy your time, once it’s over and done. You’ve done what you were meant to do, Rupert. And you’ve done it well, there’s no-one that can deny that.”
He bit the inside of his lip hard enough to pierce the skin and draw blood. Damned if he was going to show weakness in front of it. The last time that he had broken down in its presence, had been some twelve years ago, and he was not going to change the habits of a lifetime, not even over something this huge.
He glared at it, wishing that he could force some of that brutal ball of emotion that he was currently feeling onto it. This place was too tiny, he couldn’t breathe, it was stifling, and that wasn’t just because of the dry, acrid, air that he had still yet to adjust to. He couldn’t stay here, not with this monster which was saying that he may as well lie down and let The Idiots in Charge run over him like he was a sick dog in the middle of a busy road.
He stood and knocked aside the hand that reached out for him with as much force as he could put into the movement. His voice was low and deadly, as he drew himself up to his full height, even though he knew that he was more amusing than intimidating to it, “Don’t you dare lay those dirty fucking hands on me. Not again, not ever,” he made sure that the hatred he was currently feeling was evident in every word, “I despise you, and everything that you are. I may have no fucking choice about living with you if I want to survive, but my own death would be more preferable to me then watching hers.”
He stepped around it, because as much as he wanted to shoulder past it, he knew from past experience that such a thing wouldn’t work. Reaching the door, he drew back the latch, and tugged at a doorhandle that wouldn’t turn. Looking over his shoulder, he narrowed his eyes calling his power to the tips of fingers, so that it sparked across the flesh in small, stinging jolts, looking like lightning.
“Let me out of here, or I’ll tear this fucking place down around our ears.”
It looked at him calmly, not returning a fragment of any of his rage, something else that threatened to send him further out of control. Gods, but at least if it took the fucking bait, then he would have a reason to go on the offensive again. Yeah, sure it would thrash him, but it would hardly have been the first time. And then, at least he would be feeling a little more like he thought it was that he should have felt.
Instead, with a gesture, and a word of Latin, it opened the door for him. Narrowing his eyes at it further, he twisted away from it again, and stormed out through the gap that it had given him to leave by.
Spinning, he slammed the door, taking some satisfaction from the fact that if the window in it wasn’t spelled then it would have shattered. Grabbing his helmet off the back of the bike, he swung himself onto it, and fired it up, gunning it down the black road, not bothering to flick the headlights on.
Tonight it wasn’t about escape; it was about getting there fast enough to try to save someone that he cared for.
He didn’t care that he was probably going to face his own death, as well. He found it hard to care about anything past getting there in one piece.
He hadn’t been lying to it, when he’d said that his own death was preferable to watching Buffy die, like a good little drone of the Council should have been satisfied to do so, having seen a Slayer serve out her sentence. Ethan had after all, risen him to challenge things. And wasn’t that another ironic thought; that it had helped hone the blade that had just been turned on it?
If he couldn’t save her, then he was bloody well going to go down with her. Ethan could go to Hell, for all he cared. Come to that, he would probably be dragged down with it, but he could handle that, he was sure. He’d spent fifteen years looking for a way out, and now he was ready to face the only one that had ever been presented to him.
He took the bike straight to the graveyard, knowing that she was probably already down there, possibly facing the Master (and if that wasn’t ostentatious, even as far as the standard of vampires went, then nothing was), and facing her own death. He had seen the terror in her expression when she had first found out, and later the determination that it was replaced by, as she had decided that she was going to go down in battle, keep the world safe with her last breath, which was a decision that he should have made for himself a long time ago.
If he’d had even a quarter of her courage throughout his life, then he’d have been a better person by far. As he left the bike standing against the side of the crypt and headed inside, pausing only to check that he was armed; stakes, knife and magic still crackling at his fingertips, he realised that he was already saying goodbye to the world. It was a far easier thing to do, now that he was going headlong to meet his end.
He summoned a ball of fire to light the path ahead of him, and followed that unswerving feeling of which direction it was that the Slayer had gone in, heading deeper and deeper underground, as that heat which he had cursed from day one finally faded, as he reached a depth where the sunlight would never warm again, the remnants of the old town that was buried under the new one. Appropriate really, a grave for a town, under a graveyard.
There was no sound, not even the shuffling and scrabbling of rats. He knew that it meant that he was going in the right direction.
Ducking his head, he entered the oldest of the shells of buildings, and was surprised to see her, simply standing there. He looked up, it the direction that she was staring in, just as she looked back towards him, to the sound of his harsh breathing as he entered the cavernous, echoing space.
There was the Master, ears pointed, and a permanent mouthful of pointed fangs, skin pale, and its nose twisted up like a bat’s. Its hands were tipped with nails that had grown hard, and thickened, twisting into claws, and when it mover, it was jerky, like something that was used to a far larger frame. He could feel its power, twisted, and tainted and black from all the way back here, spreading a treacle coating over everything that it could touch with it. It was the worst kind of power, the sort that infected anything around it, twisting desire and corrupting need. He wondered briefly, what it had been like in life, if it had perhaps sold its soul before it had been turned, as a price for power.
It wouldn’t have been the first time such a thing had been done.
And he could also see why she had frozen, as though she were rooted to the spot.
For a few moments he struggled to make sense of it, and then gave up, having some feeling of mercy for his poor brain.
“Heinrich Joseph Nest. I see you haven’t weathered the time well. All these years underground in the dark have been harsh on you, by the look of it. How many did you offer your soul to, before your human life ended? It’s no wonder you trapped yourself, with all of those that must be waring for your power.”
He stared at that familiar back, watched that gliding, predatory flow that he would have been able to pick out of a crowd of thousands, listened to that note of mock which seemed to permeate most things that it said.
“What the hell is going on?” Buffy’s voice was low, as he drew alongside her, “I mean, who sent out the invitations to the party?”
He watched as the ripple of the morph passed though it, a familiar enough motion even from its back.
“That’s Ethan,” he replied in an equally soft voice, and left it at that, if only because he didn’t know what else to add.
“What is this invasion of my sanctuary? Have you come to throw yourself on my mercy, another vulture like the rest of these fools that lurk in my shadow, desperate for a fragment of the power that I will wield when I walk upon the earth once more? All it will take is a sip of the Slayer’s blood, and then the world is mine.”
He felt its power slid past Ethan, and circle around Buffy.
“Come here, girl,” its tone dropped, and acquired a note that would seep into her subconscious, designed to strip a person of both free will and fear. Rupert raised a hand, and shattered the stream of power with a jolt of magic, ignoring the jolt that the unrefined power gave to him, as the backlash struck him.
And he could hear the smirk in Ethan’s voice.
“I’m afraid not, Nest. I’m in it for the Chaos alone. And it should be quite something to see, once I’ve torn you from your throne of blood and bodies. Besides which, I protect what’s mine, and that boy there is exactly that. The Slayer is his, more the black sheep element, I’m afraid. Either way I protect my own.”
“You think that you can challenge me?” Nest’s voice was cold, and welcoming of the challenge, “you’ll hardly be enough to warm my bones, before I wreck havoc upon the waiting world. I will drain this town dry, and the Old Ones will take their place at the top of the human vermin. Your ash will cover the ground before me, for I have walked this world for over six centuries.”
“I know you have, child.”
Ethan met Nest’s tackle with a speed that was almost painful to try to follow. He saw flashed of claw and tooth, and caught any overspill of power that flashed out in their direction, as the pair flipped over and over, never slowing for long enough that he could see what one seemed to be winning.
The sounds from the two reminded him rather vividly of a pair of dogs that he’d once seen brawling in the street for a fragment of thrown meat. Snarls, and hissing, and that animal-like guttural growl. For a few seconds they parted, and he could see scratches and what looked like a burn through a spot where shirt had once been.
And this time it was Ethan that led the attack. He saw a claw-like bolt of power carve through the air, and a body fell back, head hitting the ground beside it, as flesh seemed to melt off, dissolving to a fine powder around it. He’d heard of vampires that were too old to dust completely, those that walked with almost fossilized bone, and it seemed Nest was one of them.
He looked squarely at the ancient, standing, hunched over the bones, again giving him the impression of a predator, this time guarding a kill from those that would dare to try to steal it out from under its nose.
Growling, a slight tremble running through it, it raised its head to follow his movements, never taking its cold amber gaze from him. He took a couple of paces forward and stopped, giving it time to focus on him again. He knew how to handle this now, if nothing else.
If he crossed into its circle of flight when it was like this, then there would be hell to pay.
Keeping his own tremble out of his voice, he finally spoke, as its body language became a little less defensive. Not much, but just enough to show him that it was beginning to think again.
“Ethan?”
Another terse moment passed, and then it straightened, and morphed back to human, before it grinned and began to laugh, “Ah. I haven’t had that much fun in a long time.”
“Why?” he asked the question, leaving it open-ended.
“I believe I’ve told you that I’m no fool, Rupert. Everything about you told me that you were going to your death again. And I meant it, that nothing touches what’s mine. I see no harm in you playing Watcher for a little longer.”
Quietly he looked it, that shirt half torn, the worst of the cuts that it had picked up already beginning to heal over, and the flickering candlelight playing over its human skin, glinting off its eyes, and he saw something that he never had before.
“Thank-you.”
His voice was soft, and he meant the words with every fiber of his being.
Looking away from it, he glanced back towards his Slayer, who was hanging back, looking unsure of herself, and then back towards Ethan again.
He thought that he could live with this.
End
(of part 1)