Fic: Vi Dýr Ennui (FRM) 3/3
Disclaimers in Part One:
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The whiskey bottle had finally run dry; Giles stared at its emptiness for a moment or two, then tossed it at the bin and reached for the next bottle in the queue. It was the darker of the two varieties of rum, the bottle sporting a label that told him nothing about its quality or its history and therefore everything about both. A twist of the cap gifted him with a waft of warmth and distilled molasses, leaving Andrew - most of the way through a fairly rambling statement that had started somewhere in among his technical abilities and had slowly transfigured into a list of his linguist skills - to break off in mid sentence and stare as the whiskey bottle arced through the air and landed, with perfect accuracy, right in the middle of its intended target.
“Manen istalyë Eldarin? [1]” Giles took the opportunity to ask. Andrew had actually lost him several sentences ago, his mind distracted by a passing mention of something he’d not thought about for years. His thoughts had wandered into history, into lazy days spent in Oxford quads, and the wilder days that had followed them. He’d rebelled against his destiny, but he’d been unable to totally deny his nature - and his love of words, of language, and of esoteric mysteries had twisted into mischief and mayhem, dancing him down paths of pain and pleasure.
Into Randall’s orbit, and Ethan’s sick and sordid games.
Andrew blinked at him. “You - speak Quenya?”
“And Sindarin, and a touch of Noldorin, a hint of Westron and just a leaf or two of Entish … Bloody hell, Andrew,” he growled, not sure whether to be amused or insulted by the wide eyed look he was getting. “I studied history and ancient languages in Oxford. Of course I’m familiar with Tolkien’s work. Besides,” he admitted with a reminiscent grin, “it was a bloody good way to pick up girls. And some guys. Whisper gîl síla erin lû e-govaded 'wîn in someone’s ear back then, and they just went … weak at the knees. Sindarin’s the perfect language to hide behind when you want to direct attention away from real magic - everyone knows you’re talking nonsense, and yet … “
“Words have power,” Andrew said warily. “Even made up ones. I did a summoning in Klingon once. Tucker didn’t think it would work, but it did. I was - just glad I’d thought to double the circle, because … it took us ages to banish the thing again. I don’t even know what it was. I just didn’t want it to … get out.”
Giles found his lips quirking in wry sympathy. “The lessons of youth,” he muttered, toasting the thought with lift of his glass and a healthy swallow of rum. It was rich and sweet after the smoke and whispers of the whiskey, and it painted his throat and swirled through his senses with a deep, dark fire. “May we live long enough to remember them well …”
“Tucker didn’t.” The words were weary, far too weary for a young man, but understandable, given his history. Born on a Hellmouth, and raised - like most of his generation in Sunnydale - to be a sacrificial victim in the Mayor’s long term plans. Giles had a vague memory of the older Wells being one of the ones who had not survived the carnage of Graduation; the fact that many had would not have been a comfort to the families with cause to grieve that day. “Warren didn’t.”
That one, Giles had no sympathy for. Warren Mears hadn’t learnt from the mistakes he’d made; he’d chosen to embrace them. He probably hadn’t deserved to die the way he had - no-one deserved that - but he’d brought it on himself in so many ways.
“Nor did Jonathon.”
And there was the crux of the matter, the loss of innocence that lurked behind every one of Andrew’s determined smiles and his puppyish enthusiasms - the event, the memory, that made him try so hard, that made him seek acceptance and reassurance from everyone around him. It didn’t matter that the First had tricked him into it; that his heart regretted it, or even that he’d paid for it in the days that followed. His hand had been on the knife, and he’d been the one to strike and twist and see the promises unravel into lies.
The one that had to live with that mistake for the rest of his life.
“I killed my best friend.” Andrew’s words were hollow, his voice heavy with the pain and regret of something he would never be able to forgive himself for, no matter what anyone might say. Giles heaved a soft sigh, echoing the sentiment with inevitable empathy.
“So did I.”
The words were out before he could stop them, confession tumbling from his lips with raw honesty. Andrew looked up, his eyes wide with astonishment - and Giles looked down into his empty glass and heaved an even deeper sigh than the first.
“Buffy … knows some of the story,” he said, tipping the bottle to splash another generous measure of dark rum into the glass. “You’ve probably heard … well, a garbled account or two, I imagine. My dark and haunted past …” His lips twisted in a sudden grin, one that held very little humor in it. It had been a long time since he’d told anyone this particular story - the truth of it that is - and he was not unaware of the irony of making this young man the keeper of his old and squalid secrets. But something told him Andrew needed that truth, needed the kind of understanding no-one else could give.
“Less dark, more sordid,” he considered, re-wetting his lips with liquid fire and feeling the warmth of it burn the reluctance from his tongue. “And far more - harrowed, than haunted, I suspect. The demon is dead, and so are most of the players in the drama, but … I remain. Remember that,” he said, looking across at his company and determinedly meeting his gaze with challenging intent. “Survival is possible. Maybe even redemption. One day.” He broke the contact to take another drink, letting his eyes and his memory shift their focus, taking him back. A long way back …
“I was a young, and very angry fool back then, and I let my resentment rule my actions. My heart had other ideas - but I didn’t pay much attention to what it had to say. You know,” he frowned, staring into the liquor but not really seeing it, “Buffy thinks … I think she thinks … that Ethan and I …” Giles laughed, a little bitterly. “It wasn’t like that. Oh, we - screwed, but … that was just … yes, well,” he dismissed, trying to get his mind back on track. It was harder than he thought it should be. “Let’s just say I never entirely - liked him. But he was supple and talented and Randall trusted him - and I trusted Randall.”
“Your - best friend?”
The hesitant interjection spawned something halfway between a snort and a giggle - and summoned a whole slew of memories, the kind of things the First had determinedly not reminded Giles of, the day it had walked in wearing Randall’s face. “My friend, my lover, my muse and my king.” His lips twisted with genuine amusement, the feelings still lingering, even after everything that followed. “He was a true romantic - in the Byronic way I mean, not that … saccharine crap that Hallmark and Disney try to sell you these days. He believed in adventure, and chasing glory, and being free - and he chose me as his Champion … I’m not entirely sure if I was meant to be his Lancelot or his Merlin, but - we held court in a squalid squat in Shepherd’s Bush, and we thought we were going to rule the world. Deidre was our maiden fair, and Philip our fellow knight - and Ethan was the court jester, playing tricks and finding endless ways to entertain us …
“And in the end he led us all into the labyrinth and fed us to the monster, just because he could. Because it was going to be fun. And it was. It really was. But I knew better. I knew it was wrong. I knew - and I didn’t want to care. Didn’t want to know. Until the day I stood, with a bloody sword in my hand, staring at Randall’s headless corpse … Christ!” he exclaimed, rearing up to fling the glass across the room. It hit the curtains, spattering them with the splash of rum before falling with an anti-climatic thump onto the carpeted floor. Giles fell back onto the bed, quivering with undirected emotion, cursing his own inadequacies, and the treachery of the drink, for leading him into such an unguarded moment.
Not even the First had managed to twist the knife that deep. And it had been wearing Randall’s face when it had tried.
“Mr Giles?” Andrew’s question was quavery, reaching for courage he clearly didn’t think he had. “You don’t have to …”
Giles turned his head, seeing the young man’s face blur and dance and finally come into soft focus, his expression wary and anxious beneath his flop of blond hair. “Yes, I do,” he realised with startled revelation. For a moment it hadn’t been Andrew, staring at him. It had been Randall - his Randall, not the First’s stilted attempt to imitate him. Wild, amber eyes, giving him that look - the one that said stop thinking it through, Rip. Just go with the flow …
Andrew looked nothing like him, in figure or feature, or even manner - but there were remnants of that same, inspired, imaginative …incomparable soul lurking in the depths of his eyes. Randall was long gone, his life taken in a desperate attempt to save his soul and protect the world from thoughtless folly - but this young man still needed to be saved.
Just as he had needed to be, all those years ago …
Duty had saved him. Duty, and a little discipline and a whole lot of guilt, not all of which he had succeeded in assuaging, even now. It had been a long journey, and some of it had been hard, some of it had been unexpected, and some it had held surprising rewards - like discovering the joys and the hardships of truly watching a Slayer.
Along with the joys and the hardships of what it meant to really fall in love.
He didn’t regret either of those, no matter how much pain they had cost him. He might well come to regret the decisions he was toying with now - but he’d never know if he never made them, and right now, making them seemed … significant somehow. As if he’d come full circle and stood - once again - at a point in his life where needing to follow the rules was far less important than needing to follow his instincts.
Or his heart.
“I didn’t know - didn’t realise you were … gay,” Andrew was considering guardedly, making a sterling effort to sensibly change the subject, then clearly decided this had been the wrong thing to say. “Because you don’t come across - I mean, you’re not coded … that is, there’s nothing …”
“Andrew,” Giles interrupted quietly, trying very hard not to laugh at the way each attempted explanation merely compounded the initial social stumble. “Don’t. I’m not offended, and I’m not gay. Not - stereotypically so, anyway. I believe the currently fashionable term is bi … although, to be perfectly honest, my sexual preferences were developed in a sub-culture where sex and gender were considered merely matters of self-expression, and in which we indulged ourselves by imbibing vast amounts of mind altering substances and voluntarily allowing a demon to posses us … Time was I’d shag anyone or anything who was warm, willing, and wanted me.”
Andrew’s mouth shut with an audible snap. And a gulp. Which defeated any attempt at sobriety and triggered the return of his giggles, the laughter once again welling up with an almost cathartic release. “I’m a little - fussier, these days,” Giles admitted, in between semi-desperate chuckles. “Although … warm, willing and wanting still has a lot going for it.” He shrugged and groped for the rum, taking a deep swig from the bottle and savoring the way it rumbaed down his throat. “The thing about sex and physical pleasure though … it’s not worth getting - hung up about, really. Pays to be good at it, but …well, like a gourmet meal - it’s worth enjoying it when you’re offered it, but hardly necessary for basic sustenance. Not that you’re not a good cook,” he hastened to say, momentarily distracted by the metaphor, “because you actually have quite a lot of talent in that direction, but no-one needs to eat Michelin every night … What was I talking about? Oh, yes … sex and … preferences … I am - moved by beauty, whether it be feminine or masculine - but I am stirred by passion and intensity … and an exceptional soul …” He tailed off, lost - for the moment - in a stir of memories: of Randall, a long limbed Apollo in nothing but incense smoke and ritual oils; of Olivia and others like her, sure of their desires and willing to be seduced; and of Jenny - dark eyed, determined Jenny, who’s mere existence had been a revelation to his jaded heart.
“Well, I - guess that counts me out, then.” It was meant as a joke, an attempt to deflect the conversation and steer it back to what - for Andrew - was probably safer ground. But Giles wasn’t in the mood for deflection - or for accepting self-effacement either. The whiskey had unlocked his heart and drowned him in memory; the rum was emboldening his tongue, and encouraging his sense of mischief.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said, taking a moment to look - really look - at his company. Andrew’s eyes went wide again; the blush and the turn away was self conscious, but the small smile that came with it held hints of shy pleasure as well as embarrassment. There were hints of something hidden among the flop of blond hair and those bright blue eyes. Andrew was young, and still at that gawky, uncertain stage, but even that had its attractions. In its own way.
“You have … a surprising amount of promise,” Giles decided, his urge to tease momentarily lost in a frown of realisation. He’d have never have looked quite so closely, had he been sober. Never bothered to see deeper than politeness and inescapable proximity required. Because this was Andrew, and … Andrew came with easy labels and a pre-determined handling plan. Misleading labels, apparently. Giles wasn’t adept at reading auras, but the one he was looking at right now was pretty easy to interpret. The young man did have promise, along with a bright flare of talent and a potent simmering of raw, barely trained power.
Andrew didn’t just need saving - he needed support and structure and direction … guidance to help maximise his potential and nurture his raw talent into skilled expertise. He needed confidence - which could be encouraged - a little adjustment in his attitude, and a whole lot more control. That could be taught. Mastery would come, in time.
Giles had missed the signs in Willow; he’d warned her about dabbling, about rushing ahead without mastering her control, but his focus had been elsewhere, and in the end he’d had to pay a desperate price to help bring her back from the brink.
He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
A gulp of rum delivered another mouthful of spirit and courage. This was either going to be one of the most momentous decisions he’d made in his entire life - or the most disastrous one. Either way, it was going to make his life very interesting.
“As I recall,” he said a little archly, struggling with the ways his words were beginning to slur together, “this interview wasn’t for the position of lover. You offered to become my apprentice. Which you could certainly do without any additional expectations on my part.” He paused, letting the unspoken thought settle between them, giving Andrew a chance to get the hint. The offer could come with extra perks - and mutual accommodation. If they were both so inclined …
“I am - as you are probably aware - a very pragmatic man, most of the time. And I believe you might find benefit in my teaching you … everything you might need to know.”
Andrew’s expression was hard to read; the rest of the room was looking pretty fuzzy, too. “To - become a Watcher?”
Giles lifted the rum bottle to toast the idea. “A Watcher, a mystic, a man … my right hand man, if you’re up to it. Or should that be my left …. Anyway, my - what’s that .. bloody word you use? Padawack?”
“Padawan,” Andrew corrected distractedly. He appeared to be smiling as he said it. At least, Giles hoped that was a smile. He’d be making a bloody fool of himself if it wasn’t.
“Ah, yes. That’s the one. Padawan to my Jedi … Not that this is a favour, or any kind of privilege, you understand? I will expect you to work, and to work bloody hard. I need help, not a hanger-on. You must promise to study as I ask you to, to learn from what I teach, and to strive to excel in everything you do. It will be a challenge, and I won’t go easy on you, but I will give praise when praise is due. You will have to prove yourself - not to me, but to you. And probably to Buffy and the others, but - that may be my problem, not yours. What do you say?”
The young man hesitated. “You mean it?” he asked. “You’re not gonna - wake up tomorrow and change your mind?”
Would he? Giles rolled the idea around in his head, pondering the sort of man he might be if he did - if he were to claim drunken foolishness and withdraw the offer in the cold light of day … “Of course I bloody mean it,” he declared. “On my oath as a Watcher …. Which is something else I’m going to have to teach you, I suppose. About the Oath and the order, and the ritual and tradition … You can help me,” he realised, jabbing an unsteady hand to emphasis the point. “To decide. What we keep and what we … throw away. Crucimentium’s out. That’s a given.”
Now Andrew was definitely smiling.
“I do want to help,” he said. “And to learn. I’ll work really hard, I promise. I’ll do - what ever you ask me to.”
Temptation hovered within reach. It would be so easy to put out his hand and seize the moment …
“You know what I’d like you to do right now?”
“No. But anything you want. Anything at all.” Andrew practically quivered with eagerness - and Giles had to fight down his laughter, weighing the value of his new assistant’s trust against the sudden, heady feeling of power it gave him.
“Good. Then you can make me some of those baloney sandwiches you promised me. Might soak up some of this … got rut rum.”
“Oh.” The disappointment was almost tangible - and then the puppy bounced back, all bright smiles and bounce. “Right. Right. Will do. With mayo or ketchup?”
“Mayo. If you must …”
Giles grinned as Andrew scurried to perform his allotted task, watching him work with new - if slightly unfocused eyes. Temptation would keep. It might happen. It might not. It might even blossom into something - more. Loyalty and respect, weren’t things that could be harvested at whim, or even planted in a moment’s meaningless pleasure. They had to be earned. Deserved. Reciprocated.
And freely given …
Outside the storm had finally died away, leaving behind the deep and solemn silence of a world blanketed in snow. Evening was drawing in and true darkness was falling. Giles stretched out with a leisurely languor, reaching his senses down into the anchor of the earth and feeling the stars dance and wheel above him. The day had neither been as long, nor as tedious as he’d expected it to be. The whiskey had been … tolerable, and while he suspected he’d regret the rum by the time morning came, he didn’t really care, right there and then.
“Sí na veth bâden im derel vi dúath dofn tummen,” he murmured, relishing the cadence of the words and smiling at the memories they summoned. Deidre had loved this particular piece, although Ethan had always scoffed at its melancholy; back then they’d believed they’d live forever, and be forever young. And now … now they resonated with quiet irony, significant at this moment in his life in a way he would never have expected, all those years ago. “Atham meraid velig a tynd Athan eryd bain beraidh.”
Across the other side of the room, Andrew Wells paused in his slicing and buttering and looked up with an indrawn breath - totally enraptured by the words and the moment, the tumble of poetry and the beauty of its declaration.
“Or 'waith bain nura Anor A panlû elin cuinar, Ú-pedithon 'i-aur gwann' Egor nai îl 'namarië' …”
Somewhere, on the shores of some distant and forgotten sea,beyond the loom of the last lone star, a long lost soul also looked up.
And Randall smiled.
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The Sindarin translation of ‘Vi Dýr Ennui’ ( a poem by J.R.R. Tolkien) is by E. Brundige
Here are Tolkien’s verses and their Elvish translation:
In western lands beneath the Sun
In spring, flowers rise,
The trees bud, waters run,
And the merry little birds sing.
Vi dýr ennui nu Anor
Ned echuir lyth eriar
I yrn ethuiwar, nin nurar
Ar aew verin linnar.
There it is cloudless night
And shuddering beeches hold
The starry host, the white jewels,
On their branching hair.
Ennas dû alfanui
A ferin 'irith gerir
I elenath, viriath fain,
Vi finnel gelfib dîn.
Here at my path's end I am lingering
In deep darkness buried.
Beyond towers strong and high
Beyond all mountains steep
Sí na veth bâden im derel
Vi dúath dofn tummen.
Atham meraid velig a tynd
Athan eryd bain beraidh
Above all shadows rides the Sun
And stars always dwell.
I will not say 'The day is done'
Or to the stars 'farewell'.
Or 'waith bain nura Anor
A panlû elin cuinar
Ú-pedithon 'i-aur gwann'
Egor nai îl 'namarië'.
[1] How do you understand Elvish?