Tribulations - Chapter 51

For what seemed the thousandth time, Wesley glanced at the swirling void that filled the opposite side of Giles's flat, finally admitting to himself that his apprehension had grown to the point at which it could no longer be ignored. Had the wall moved since last he'd looked? Of what was the barrier constructed, and what could it possibly conceal?

Before he even became aware of his own intentions, Wesley found that he'd crossed to the no doubt magically induced wall, reached out and touched its faintly yielding yet impenetrable surface. No sound emerged from that space, and yet he could hear, clearly, the percussion of the now-torrential rainfall against the windows beyond. Unfamiliar as he was with Southern California weathers, he could not help but wonder if such a storm presaged some new sort of apocalypse.

Or perhaps it was only a storm. Wesley sighed. He felt useless. So bloody useless. Already he'd leafed his way through each of the shelved books in the flat, hoping for at least some snippet of lore that might expand on his newly recaptured memory--but the Time Robber seemed, to say the least, quite an elusive creature. The additional books, still cartoned, that occupied every square inch of the flat's not-overgenerous storage space might perhaps contain clues, but Wesley could not deny a certain squeamishness about delving into the less-than-public areas of Giles's home. That, and he felt strangely enervated, unequal to the task of searching through box after box in pursuit of material that might not even exist.

Instead, Wesley found himself trying the telephone, which, despite the storm, had apparently begun to function once more. His fingers punched in quite a long number, one he wasn't aware that he'd memorized, and had not consciously intended to call. A seemingly never-ending series of rings answered him, until he was nearly ready to admit defeat and return the receiver to its cradle. At precisely that moment, however, a voice came on the line, sounding faintly breathless.

"Hullo," it said, "Quartermass here."

Wesley nearly rang off. What did one say, after all, to a man whose boyhood one had made miserable? One whom he'd treated with something approaching contempt throughout their training, only to find that Quartermass had succeeded where he himself failed? Who had continued to prove himself in the most impossible of situations?

Wesley found himself stammering, "Ah...y-yes. I...that is, I thought I ought..." His voice trailed off. At another time, he might have taken a calming breath and tried again, but considering that even that small comfort was now denied him, he forced himself to swallow and say, "Quartermass, this is Wesley Wyndham-Price."

"Wesley? It's good to hear your voice." Quartermass seemed to have caught his own breath. He sounded pleasant, and as if he might actually be glad. Wesley could not imagine why.

"And yours," he lied, feeling confused, weary, completely off balance. "How...? That is, I understand..." What did he understand? That the Watchers' Council, that venerable institution that he'd imagined would always be, had been reduced, in a matter of days, to almost nothing? He truly had no idea. And less idea still what he should say.

Fortunately, Quartermass seemed at no such loss. "We're coping, Wesley, as best we can. Actually, we could use your help. Any thoughts of coming home?"

Home? The word might have existed only in an obscure foreign language for all the sense it made to him.

"Not..." Wesley sank into a chair, wondering if the rippling patterns across the room had actually begun to slow in their motion, or if that perception, once more, was yet another product of his over-active imagination. "I'm afraid... Afraid, at this time, that's not possible."

Quartermass's voice was sympathetic. "Hellmouth keeping you a bit busy? That I can certainly understand. How are Mr. Giles and Buffy faring? And Her Ladyship, of course."

How could he possibly answer? "There's... That is, I've a great deal to tell..." Wesley cleared his throat. "Look, Quartermass, I need your help," he said, fleeing from all painful subjects. "Or Miss Tremayne's help, if that's possible."

A brief silence followed. "You've heard about Mr. Briggs, then?" Quartermass asked, solemn-voiced.

"Buffy described... That is... Yes," Wesley answered, feeling even more muddled that before. Suddenly and painfully, he missed the quiet little man, one of the few, at the Compound, who'd always treated him kindly. Who hadn't seemed to find him such an insufferable prig as he found himself. "And I was very sorry to hear. Very sorry indeed."

Now Quartermass seemed at a loss for words. A silence followed.

"What I want," Wesley continued, breaking the awkwardness, "Is information that may possibly pertain to Mr. Briggs's killer. I've two threads to be researched, actually. For the first, I'd very much appreciate any information Miss Tremayne might dig up regarding a supernatural being-- most likely a demon--known by the name of The Time Robber, or the Time Thief. I first heard a snippet of the story, as a boy, from an old woman in the Lowlands of Scotland, but Giles referred to what's very likely the same creature as Der Zeit Räuber."

"Mmn," Quartermass answered. Wesley could detect the scritch of a pen-point over paper as he, presumably, jotted down a series of notes. "And the second thing?"

"I'd like all she can discover regarding an artifact. An egg-shaped stone, quite ordinary in appearance, though most likely magical in nature. I'm told there are small pictograms depicting a hand on one side, a wing or pair of wings on the other. It was something Henry Giles had in his possession, let's say in the late fifties or early sixties."

"Very good," Quartermass replied absently. "I'll set her onto both straightaway. And knowing Angela, we ought to have something for you quite soon. Still, you're sure you wouldn't like to join her in the search? As I recall, you were extremely..."

"No," Wesley interrupted flatly. "No, I would not be..." What had he meant to say? That he would not be useful? Instead, to his horror, he found his lips shaping the word, "Welcome."

"There's no bad feeling between us," Quartermass told him quietly. "Please believe that, Wesley. This is your home, and you will always be welcome here. God knows, we could use your help, just now."

Wesley slumped forward, resting his head against his hand. He meant to say nothing, and yet he heard his voice, once more, speaking quite against his will. "Quartermass, I've been turned," he said quietly, each word painful in his throat. "It was Maria...Miss Del Ciello. I've been turned, and I've no place there anymore. No real place anywhere, I suspect."

He heard Quartermass's quiet breathing, then, "I'm so very sorry, Wesley."

"Yes, well," Wesley answered.

"You sound..." Quartermass began, and then the light must have dawned upon him. "You've been cursed with a soul, haven't you?"

"Yes," Wesley answered. "I've been cursed. With the same ritual, I believe, as was used on Angelus." He'd no desire to discuss any of this, to spend another moment of his life in explanations, or in being pitied. What was there to be said? His body stiffened, awaiting his former colleague's response--almost as if Quartermass was likely to answer him with blows instead of words.

But Quartermass said nothing.

"I appreciate your help in this matter," Wesley told him, stiffly.

Quartermass answered at last--oddly, it seemed at the time, though later it struck Wesley as an act of almost painful kindness. "You will be in my prayers, Wesley. Take care, and I shall speak with you soon."

He rang off, leaving Wesley staring at the receiver as if it were something he'd never seen before, a remnant of an utterly alien culture. "Goodbye, Simon," he said softly.

Willow wondered if there might be something wrong with her eyes: everything she looked at seemed to have haloes of color all around it, as if she was looking through a prism or something. Her guest--the one she'd reached out and touched (like a supernatural long-distance call) in that other dimension, the one who'd held her hands and followed her through--she had a really hard time making out at all. Even when she looked at her directly, staring as hard as she could, the best she could usually get was an impression of green eyes or red hair. Weirdly, it reminded her of looking in one of the funhouse mirrors, down at the amusement park near the beach. Like looking at her own reflection made older and taller.

We are LeFaye, Willow, her guest's voice hummed inside her head. All one, together. The humming softened. You know that you will never be lonely again.

"But I'm not!" Willow wanted to answer. Lonely, that was. Only that was kind of a lie, wasn't it? She had friends, of course she did, but they were so often...well, elsewhere. Buffy and Giles had each other. Oz was with his band. Xander had--whatever it was Xander had. And there she was: geeky Willow, playing-with-magic Willow, nobody-she-could-quite-talk-to-who'd-completely-understand Willow. Willow alone.

No, no, my love, murmured the soft British voice inside her. Never that. You have us. Your family.

Willow's voice of reason tried to remind her how much she'd not loved Mermorgan Hall. And if her family had been so all-fired concerned with her, why had they left her trapped in a rickety tower while they plotted her fate? Where was her big welcome then?

We've lost our way, the honeyed voice told her, But you, Willow, are our hope. You will be the one to return us to our path, making us again what we were always meant to be: Queens of the Earth, worshiped and adored. No longer will we consent to be judged, or constrained, by those who shut their eyes to our destiny.

Destiny, schmestiny, said a cocky voice inside her head, sounding a lot like Xander's. "Tell me you're not buying this load of pony crap, Will?"

Willow narrowed her eyes, trying yet again to make out her guest clearly. Maybe she was the goddess, the one Willow herself, for just that little bit of time, had become.

The earth kind of wrenched around them, and all of a sudden they stood together on the promontory of Harrow's Point, the sea to one side of them, the lights of Sunnydale to the other. All around them the storm raged, but they were not touched by so much as a single raindrop.

Do you remember? her guest murmured. Willow, do you remember how it felt to be a goddess?

Yes, she remembered. God, yes. No fear, no uncertainty. Brimming with a perfect, powerful calm. Having felt that, how could she have wigged so badly afterwards? So, she'd kissed a priest, a married priest. What did that matter? Weren't all men put on earth for the pleasure of beings like her?

NO, cried out a tiny voice inside her. *No, this isn't right. This isn't you.*

Turn back, turn back, turn back. A vision flashed into her mind, of Giles holding her beneath the ruins of Mermorgan Tower, holding all the weight of the rubble off her body, his soft voice talking to her, calming her when she'd been so afraid, both of being crushed and of the terrifying visions that haunted her. He would hate this, she knew that. Hate both the choice that was being offered her, and that she was so tempted by it. He'd probably fight like anything to keep her away from making this decision.

Right. Like he fought to keep her away from the magic, to limit her, to keep her weak and pathetic.

Almost eighteen years now she'd been the "you" that little voice had babbled about, and where had it gotten her? The best role that self could claim was to be the Velma of the Scooby Gang, and who even liked Velma? Who respected Velma? Was she going to live the rest of her no-doubt dramatically shortened life as Buffy's minor satellite, or was she going to claim something for herself?

Knowledge, determination, most of all power were all being offered to her. She could stretch out her hands and take them now. She could run with them, or she could be...

She could be nothing. She could be Willow.

It was hardly any choice at all, really.

The return to reality jolted him, and Sebastian found himself astounded to open his eyes upon a landscape of dark wood and white plaster instead of on the dreamworld of clouds and mirrors he'd immersed in so completely. But there he was, quite solidly situated in the not-unfamiliar territory of his father's flat, breathing in the scents of well-polished wood and, from somewhere not terribly far away, the perfume of rain-washed flowers.

The lights had come back on, he was pleased to note, and the rain itself subsided to no more than a series of faint taps on the windowpane. Wyndham-Price still occupied his seat at the table, as if he'd scarcely moved in all that time. He glanced up, as if sensing Sebastian's awareness, then down again, with apparent diffidence. "Any luck?" he asked, seemingly of the large book that lay open on the table before him.

The thing was, Sebastian had no idea. Certainly, he felt little difference personally, though some of the weight seemed to have lifted from his shoulders. He even found himself able to consider the events of theprevious evening almost rationally, as if mere thought would find him a way out of the maze of dilemmas set up before him. That he'd experienced something, he'd no doubt, but as to the nature of that something...

He wasn't sure. Maybe that would be the new tendency of his life--to lead him into places where he remained unsure of anything. The trouble was, he wasn't sure that he could, as Buffy might have said, "deal" with that sort of existence.

And speaking of Buffy...

She lay very near to where she'd been when he took them all under, curled up close by one end of the sofa, her golden head resting against Rupert's shoulder, her hand lying loosely over his, a look of serenity on her lovely young face. Her friend Xander, by contrast, sprawled half over the coffee table, one cheek crushed up against the wood in a way that distorted his features quite amusingly.

"We've come through, I believe," Sebastian answered, at last. "As to what transpired...it was all rather odd, and I have to confess I'm a bit hazy on the details. Certainly, it was nothing like what happened when mum performed the ritual with me." He stretched, working a crick out of the back of his neck, then reached to touch his dad's cheek. The skin was cooler at any rate--quite a bit cooler, in fact. Rupert merely looked rather worn, and weary--but then, when hadn't he, in recent weeks?

"Have you had any luck with your own project?" he asked.

Wesley set aside a pair of spectacles--for which, Sebastian suspected, he'd no longer any physical need--rubbed his eyes and glanced up, frowning slightly. "I actually went so far as to call the Watchers' Council. Spoke to Quartermass, in fact. The archivist there, a girl called Tremayne, will winkle out anything that's there to be found. She's quite clever with such things."

Sebastian nodded. "Yes, I met her when we were at the Compound. She seems quite knowledgeable in a number of fields." He didn't like to ask why Wesley's expression stood so much at odds to his words. Indeed, he appeared quite discouraged, weary almost unto death.

But then he was, wasn't he? Dead. A corpse, animated by a demon--or so Rupert had taught him, and he'd no reason to doubt his father's veracity on that particular subject. His heart did not beat, and his temperature would never again rise above that of the air around him. For a soul to be bound in such an existence struck Sebastian as truly terrible. A wave of pity washed over him, and must have registered quite clearly on his face, for Wyndham-Price glanced down again. He wouldn't want pity, that was certain, and to put such feelings into words would be a great unkindness.

"Buffy's extremely concerned," Sebastian told him instead. "Or so my wife informs me."

"Don't you believe that she ought to be?" Wesley asked, in return. "If, as Buffy believes, a period of time is to be taken from her, in exchange for the favour she bought from this demon, the repercussions could be quite extensive. She is, after all, the Slayer."

Sebastian couldn't think of an answer. Certainly, looking back on recent events, there were times when Buffy would most certainly have been missed. On the other hand, however, the possibility existed that her absence might just as well have allowed the things to take place quite differently. One couldn't know--and that, he supposed, created the real danger. One couldn't know, or predict. And when the one involved was Chosen, unique...the risk might well multiply exponentially.

Strangely enough, he doubted Buffy had considered a that possibility for so much as a moment. She was, as well as a warrior, a creature very much of the heart. For her, other losses would seem paramount. As, perhaps they were. Hadn't she, after all, the right to consider her own feelings?

He, for one, could not fault Buffy for her fear of wounding his father so deeply. And Sebastian knew that was exactly what disturbed her most--after all, he'd seen into her soul, into her valiant and impetuous nature, not so very long ago. Perhaps, lacking the blood connection, he had not joined to her with the same closeness he'd experienced after Moira's ritual, but he'd seen enough...certainly enough to know her mind, all the doubts, hopes, fears and joys that terrified or uplifted her.

As if roused by the intensity of his thoughts about her, Buffy raised her head, gazing about her with wonderment. "It's here. It's all still here. Only we're down... Huh." Her eyes lifted in the direction of the loft. "Instead of up... Oh, hey Seb."

"Hullo, Buffy," he answered.

Slowly, Buffy brushed a strand of golden hair back from her cheek, tucking it securely behind one ear. Immediately, her eyes returned to Rupert's face. "Did it work?" she inquired. "Is he better? We helped, didn't we?"

"I believe so," Sebastian answered, meaning to sound reassuring, though he feared his voice came out sounding merely weary.

Buffy stroked her thumb gently over Rupert's brow. "He's cooler, anyway. That's gotta be good, right?" She reached out her other hand to nudge Xander's shoulder with slightly more force. "Xander? You okay in there?"

"Wha...?" The boy came to with alarming suddenness--and the look of someone who finds himself late for half a dozen appointments. Immediately, his hands went to his head, as if seeking to hold on the top of his skull. "Uh. Ow. Not good."

Xander had fought well and bravely by Celeste's side, Sebastian reminded himself. They all owed him a debt of gratitude. He, perhaps, most of all. "All right, are you?" he asked, helping the boy to struggle to a more-or-less upright position. "Better, at least?"

"I..." A myriad of expressions fought for supremacy on Xander's face, until at last it settled into an unnatural blankness, the normally mobile features set as if in stone, the brown eyes holding a slightly muddled defiance.

"Xander," Buffy said to him in a softer voice, laying a hand on the boy's arm. "You helped me. Us. You helped us. Do you...? I mean, I'm so, so thankful."

Don't tell, Xander's eyes demanded. Don't say a word.

"Xand." Buffy's eyes locked with her friend's, and Sebastian knew that no possibility existed that she would let things go at that, yet her voice, when she spoke again, held such a wealth of tenderness, he could not help but be moved. "You know I love you, right? You know we all love you?"

Xander's look, in response to that was utterly naked, nothing hidden, nothing held back. Sebastian found he had to look away, lest his own emotions show too clearly. Anger seethed in him against those who were so blind, who would take their God-given gift only to injure and neglect it--he feared that his own actions, were he ever to meet Xander's parents, would be far less than priestly.

Buffy, on the other hand, reached out to her friend, pulling him close to her, his head on her shoulder as she stroked his dark hair gently, murmuring something in his ear that Sebastian could not detect. The boy leaned against her a long moment before straightening.

"Well, I better..." he began.

"Don't be dumb, Xander," Buffy responded, her tone a curious mix of kindness and acerbity. "You're not going anywhere. Except maybe upstairs. You've gotta sleep, and it's not like we're using it."

"But when Giles..." Xander protested.

"When he wakes up, I'll wake you up. Deal?"

Xander shook his head, a slightly rueful grin on his face. "Buffy has spoken, and I must obey."

"Damn straight," she told him--which Sebastian took for an absolute affirmative. However, after Xander had taken himself upstairs as commanded, the greater part of Buffy's firmness seemed to drain out of her. She gazed down on Rupert's face, unshed tears glistening in her large, expressive eyes.

Impulsively, Sebastian wrapped an arm round her shoulders. How slight she felt, it struck him--as it had every time he'd touched her--how fragile. One would never have guessed at her strength, either of body or of spirit. "He will be all right, you know," he told Buffy gently. "You needn't be afraid anymore."

"Oh, Seb," Buffy sighed. "Don't you know? I'm kinda always afraid. If it's not one thing, it's another."

"But look, love--Wesley's hard at work for you, too, just as you requested."

Wyndham-Price glanced up at Sebastian's words, and the look he gave Buffy tried very hard to appear reassuring. Fortunately, she hadn't raised her own eyes from Rupert's face, and so missed that additional fuel to the fire of her fear.

"You're good guys," she responded, in a sad, soft voice that tugged at Sebastian's heart. "And you don't have to tell me--I know I'm really, really lucky to have you." She ran her fingertips down Rupert's sleeve, stopping when she'd reached his motionless hand. "Only...don't you just wish sometimes, just for a little, that it would all be over?"

Sebastian wondered, exactly, what she meant by that, but Wesley answered, with all the sombreness of his essentially serious nature, "Yes, Buffy, I most certainly do."