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still_grrr2007-09-28 10:27 pm
lilachigh.livejournal.com) wrote in still_grrr2007-09-28 10:27 pm
Prompt 33 Free for All
Author: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lilachigh
Title: A Line in the Sand
Rating: PG13
Prompt: 033 Sidekicks
Characters: Giles, Ilyria
Words: 854
This might be the first chapter of something longer if people like it, but thought it would fit in here well as a one-off.
A Line in the Sand
By Lilachigh
He arrived in Los Angeles a week after. The fires had been put out but smoke was still oozing sullenly upwards from the ruins into an obscenely cheerful blue sky.
It was difficult to get anywhere near the Ground Zero area. Police and fire-fighter cordons laced the streets and one thin, weary Englishman with no obvious connections was not a priority on anyone’s list.
But as night fell, the crowds of gawping onlookers thinned, the authorities drove away, leaving just a few solitary security guards to patrol the vast, flattened area.
Giles walked slowly in the shadows, picking his way through the litter of paper that still cluttered the streets. He was aware of being followed – dark shapes slipping from doorway to doorway behind him.
Did he care? Was he scared? Strangely the answer to both questions was no. What had Buffy called it on the phone, “an apocalypse too far”? It was as if they had reached saturation point in evil, death and destruction. As if there had come a time when you could only experience so much grief and then you – well, you just stopped feeling. Grief overload.
“I just want to know what happened, Giles,” his ex Slayer had said. Her voice had sounded calm, cool, almost distant. “Are they both dead, Angel and Spike?”
“You knew about Spike, then?” he’d asked cautiously.
The laughter that greeted his words was unpleasant – there wasn’t a trace of humour in it. “Andrew has learnt a lot over the last few months, Giles, but how to keep a secret? Not so much.”
And so he’d agreed to fly here, to this wretched country that had given him such joy, such sorrow, to a place he’d vowed never to set foot in again. He would do what a good Watcher always did; check the facts, make notes, add those nuggets of vital information to the files for future Watchers to read and learn.
And none of the facts would give and hint of the people involved. It would be just a soulless list of names, some of whom he’d known – Wesley Wyndham Price, Wes who’d been such a berk when he first arrived in the States but had evolved into something better, something honest and decent – deceased.
Angel, known sometimes as Angelus, deceased. Did he care about Angel dying? No, came the answer, as swift and sure as a bullet. He was a good enough Watcher to realise Angel and Angelus were two different entities. You had to forgive the one for the actions of the other, but forget? Never.
And William the Bloody, the vampire known as Spike. The merest flicker of a smile touched Giles’ lips. He’d loathed the vampire, hated how Buffy had changed because of him, detested the fact that they had loved each other. But he’d saved the world once. And who knows, perhaps he’d saved it again a week ago.
But Spike deceased? Giles walked on, thinking that he’d accept that when he found a black leather coat sitting on top of a nice pile of dust.
Glass crunched under his feet and he knew he was getting closer to the centre, to where, according to the authorities, the “earthquake” had happened.
Giles took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He felt a certain reluctant admiration for the PR campaign the government had launched. And the cover-up was pretty bloody good as well. He wondered exactly how they’d managed to suppress the evidence that there had been no sign of an earthquake on any Richter scale anywhere in the world? That took organisation. He was impressed.
He stopped and stood still, gazing up through the drifting smoke towards a star-studded sky. The black shapes that had been following him were still there, but he sensed they were reluctant to leave the shelter of the ruins that remained standing.
Giles stood for a very long time. He didn’t pray, didn’t rant or rave or even give thanks to any or all the gods for the deliverance of the world. He just stood, a thin, weary Englishman at the end of his road.
.
The analytical, librarian part of his brain eventually swung into action, forcing him to taste the feeling that coursed through his body and give it a name. Relief. The burden had become so great and now it was over, finished. A line had been drawn in the sand and never again would he be asked to cross over it.
It was dawn when he realised he was very cold and hungry. He had phone calls to make, a flight home to book, potential Slayers to teach.
He turned and stopped. There was a woman standing, a few feet away from him. The thought flashed across his mind that he should have heard her coming. He was getting old. Then he realised two things; she was not human and from her colouring was probably the one they had called Illyria.
She was holding out her hand, imperiously. “Save them!“ she said.
Ends
lilachighTitle: A Line in the Sand
Rating: PG13
Prompt: 033 Sidekicks
Characters: Giles, Ilyria
Words: 854
This might be the first chapter of something longer if people like it, but thought it would fit in here well as a one-off.
A Line in the Sand
By Lilachigh
He arrived in Los Angeles a week after. The fires had been put out but smoke was still oozing sullenly upwards from the ruins into an obscenely cheerful blue sky.
It was difficult to get anywhere near the Ground Zero area. Police and fire-fighter cordons laced the streets and one thin, weary Englishman with no obvious connections was not a priority on anyone’s list.
But as night fell, the crowds of gawping onlookers thinned, the authorities drove away, leaving just a few solitary security guards to patrol the vast, flattened area.
Giles walked slowly in the shadows, picking his way through the litter of paper that still cluttered the streets. He was aware of being followed – dark shapes slipping from doorway to doorway behind him.
Did he care? Was he scared? Strangely the answer to both questions was no. What had Buffy called it on the phone, “an apocalypse too far”? It was as if they had reached saturation point in evil, death and destruction. As if there had come a time when you could only experience so much grief and then you – well, you just stopped feeling. Grief overload.
“I just want to know what happened, Giles,” his ex Slayer had said. Her voice had sounded calm, cool, almost distant. “Are they both dead, Angel and Spike?”
“You knew about Spike, then?” he’d asked cautiously.
The laughter that greeted his words was unpleasant – there wasn’t a trace of humour in it. “Andrew has learnt a lot over the last few months, Giles, but how to keep a secret? Not so much.”
And so he’d agreed to fly here, to this wretched country that had given him such joy, such sorrow, to a place he’d vowed never to set foot in again. He would do what a good Watcher always did; check the facts, make notes, add those nuggets of vital information to the files for future Watchers to read and learn.
And none of the facts would give and hint of the people involved. It would be just a soulless list of names, some of whom he’d known – Wesley Wyndham Price, Wes who’d been such a berk when he first arrived in the States but had evolved into something better, something honest and decent – deceased.
Angel, known sometimes as Angelus, deceased. Did he care about Angel dying? No, came the answer, as swift and sure as a bullet. He was a good enough Watcher to realise Angel and Angelus were two different entities. You had to forgive the one for the actions of the other, but forget? Never.
And William the Bloody, the vampire known as Spike. The merest flicker of a smile touched Giles’ lips. He’d loathed the vampire, hated how Buffy had changed because of him, detested the fact that they had loved each other. But he’d saved the world once. And who knows, perhaps he’d saved it again a week ago.
But Spike deceased? Giles walked on, thinking that he’d accept that when he found a black leather coat sitting on top of a nice pile of dust.
Glass crunched under his feet and he knew he was getting closer to the centre, to where, according to the authorities, the “earthquake” had happened.
Giles took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He felt a certain reluctant admiration for the PR campaign the government had launched. And the cover-up was pretty bloody good as well. He wondered exactly how they’d managed to suppress the evidence that there had been no sign of an earthquake on any Richter scale anywhere in the world? That took organisation. He was impressed.
He stopped and stood still, gazing up through the drifting smoke towards a star-studded sky. The black shapes that had been following him were still there, but he sensed they were reluctant to leave the shelter of the ruins that remained standing.
Giles stood for a very long time. He didn’t pray, didn’t rant or rave or even give thanks to any or all the gods for the deliverance of the world. He just stood, a thin, weary Englishman at the end of his road.
.
The analytical, librarian part of his brain eventually swung into action, forcing him to taste the feeling that coursed through his body and give it a name. Relief. The burden had become so great and now it was over, finished. A line had been drawn in the sand and never again would he be asked to cross over it.
It was dawn when he realised he was very cold and hungry. He had phone calls to make, a flight home to book, potential Slayers to teach.
He turned and stopped. There was a woman standing, a few feet away from him. The thought flashed across his mind that he should have heard her coming. He was getting old. Then he realised two things; she was not human and from her colouring was probably the one they had called Illyria.
She was holding out her hand, imperiously. “Save them!“ she said.
Ends
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motion passes by silent consent. :P
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