 |
|
As she reached again for her cup of tea, Joyce realized that she was getting pretty hungry. Rupert would probably be ravenous when he awoke from his sleep. Glancing around the kitchen, she decided to start searching for something to eat. Joyce raised the cup to her lips but stopped as a wave of dizziness swept over her. The cup slipped from her fingers and crash to the floor. I guess I do need something to eat, she thought. Forcing her eyes to focus, she put out her hands to steady herself against the table.
Her hands. She could see through her hands.
Joyce closed her eyes. Okay, she thought. That was just a trick of the light. Your hands are still there.Opening her eyes again, she looked down.
It wasn’t the light.
Joyce could see through her hands, her dress, her body. Not all the way through. It was more as if she’d become translucent.
Then the next shock came.
She didn’t know where she was. She wasn’t quite sure who she was. Panic began to creep into her mind.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, she was back. Still shaky, Joyce placed her blessedly solid hands on the table and eased herself down into the straight chair, thankful that she didn’t pass right through it.
“All right,” she said aloud. “That was scary.”
* * * Philan froze in place as the strange woman began to disappear in front of him. As she regained solid form, he drew back into the living room, shaking from head to foot. He should have known that she was something unnatural, unreal. This woman was a spirit. Or a witch.
The entire family must be cursed! It was rumored that Morag was of fay blood. Philan doubted that now. What he had just witnessed convinced him that Morag’s family had demon blood. That would explain Wolf’s actions. The man must be under a spell.
Philan thought for a moment about attacking this evil woman. However, if she could disappear at will, his small knife would be useless against her. So would the gun she had laid on the table. Knives and pistols could never harm a ghost or a witch. He had to get out before she discovered that he’d managed to free himself. And he had to do something about this family. This had to stop now.
If he hurried, Philan reckoned that he could catch up with the old man and the girls. Then he’d do what he had to do. This had changed from being a plan of revenge and gain. Philan was a religious man in his own way. And he was convinced that there was only one way to right the wrongs he had done in his life – and the wrongs done to him. There was only one way to save his own soul.
He would have to destroy this Devil family.
* * * Something was wrong.
The elder Giles could feel it.
He’d not spent twenty years in the Highlands, studying its history and ways and the secrets of the Glass, without knowing when something was amiss. And, as surely as he knew that there was trouble, he knew what it was.
Philan.
Giles should never have left Joyce alone with the man. Even tied up, Philan was a danger to Joyce and to the younger Giles, especially since his younger self was wounded. The elder Giles had checked on their captive before leaving and found the man to still be bound, but that didn’t mean that they would remain safe. He had to return, even if it meant a longer journey for Meg and Deborah. There had to be a way to safely bring Philan back with them. Giles could take no chance of Meg’s being hurt. The survival of Joyce – and consequently Buffy – depended on the child’s safety. She was, after all, their ancestor. And then there was her connection to the Mirror…
Stopping the wagon, the elder Giles prepared to tell the girls that they were returning to the cabin. He turned toward them, only to see Meg’s excited face as she pointed toward the distance. She called out toward the horizon. “Papa!”
Giles followed her gaze. Carruthers Fergusson was riding toward them at a gallop, two other men close behind him. Giles smiled upon seeing Gussie. Over the years they had become friends, but the last time he had seen Fergusson, the man had been twenty years older than now. Giles sighed. Time travel was confusing.
Meg was climbing down from the wagon. Neither Giles nor Deborah moved to stop her. The child ran toward her father. Gussie reined in his horse and jumped down, running to meet her. Dropping to his knees, he gathered Meg in his arms, hugging and kissing her and thanking God for her safe return.
Giles had thought that he was past being moved to tears by anything. Yet, at this moment, he found himself blinking away tears at the sight of the reunion. Although Meg had been gone for only a few hours, the fear of never seeing her again had to have weighed heavily of Gussie and Morag. Giles fully understand the joy from seeing a lost loved one. He had felt it upon seeing Joyce again.
Hearing a quiet sniffle beside him, he turned to see Deborah crying, her face in her hands. “I never should have doubted it,” she sobbed. “He loves her as his own.”
“Yes, he does,” Giles agreed.
The teenaged girl continued to cry. Gussie, carrying Meg in his arms, walked over to the wagon. Through the joy and relief at the return of his daughter, Giles could see Gussie’s anger as he looked at Deborah and Giles.
“Step down, sir!” Gussie demanded.
Deborah jumped down from the wagon. “Forgive me!” she wailed, kneeling at Fergusson’s feet. “Please have mercy!”
Giles could see that Gussie was in no mood to be merciful. He quickly climbed down from the wagon and stepped between Fergusson and Deborah. “Easy, man,” he said quietly.
Gussie met his eyes. Recognition dawned on his face. “You’re – “ Gussie began.
“Yes,” the elder Giles told him. “From another time. Through the Glass.”
He knew that Gussie would accept this explanation and not scoff at it. Still, the anger toward Deborah was evident. “She took my daughter,” he ground out.
“She’s a young girl whose head was turned by an older man,” Giles countered. “When she finally saw the error of her ways, she acted bravely to bring Meg back to you and Morag.” He stepped closer, speaking softly. “She’s never had a family. Be that for her. Forgive her. Accept her back into your home.”
Fergusson was wavering. It was at that moment that Meg looked down at her nanny. “Deborah?” she said. “We’re going home.”
Out of the mouths of babes,/thought Giles. But then he wasn’t really surprised. He had watched Meg grow up and knew her to be capable of more than anyone would have guessed.
“Keep them both safe,” he said to Gussie. “I must return to – the others.”
“Philan?” asked Fergusson.
“Yes. They’re holding him at the cabin. I’ll bring him back soon. And I repeat: keep Meg safe. She’s – “ Giles stopped. He couldn’t tip his hand, not just yet. “She’s important.”
Gussie smiled at his daughter. “I’m aware of that, sir. I’m aware of that.”
“One thing more. Could I borrow one of your horses?”
“Take mine,” Gussie offered. He set Meg in the wagon again and turned to Deborah, who still knelt on the ground. “Come, Deborah,” he said, holding out his hand. “Let’s go home.”
Amazement lit the teen’s face. Hesitantly, she took the outstretched hand. Giles could only imagine her shock at having the master of the house offer her a hand up. “Thank you, sir,” she sobbed.
The elder Giles left them to settle things. He took a small satchel from the wagon and climbed onto Gussie’s horse. As he rode back toward the cabin, he prayed that he would arrive before anything serious happened.
* * * Wolf Fergusson was a patient man. As a child, he would sit for hours, watching for a rabbit to come within range of his flintlock. Time spent waiting meant nothing to him.
And he would wait for the Mirror. There were still seven days left before the eclipse and his chance to take control once again of his existence. Wolf had no doubts that he would be there for the event. Not if his comrades did their part.
If only he could make Morag understand why he was doing these things. She could never comprehend the torture of his existence. To be a part of two worlds, and yet never be able to live in either of them. It was something he would wish on no man. And he would stop at nothing to end his torment.
* * * The dizziness passed. The incident had left Joyce shaken, and she wished that she could speak with Rupert about it. But she was loath to wake him after all that he’d gone through. Thank heaven that the older Giles had been there to treat Rupert’s wound.
Joyce thought about the time travel stories that she had seen in movies and on television. She’d always been able to keep the different timelines separate. Too bad that didn’t work as well in real life. Like Kathryn Janeway, she was beginning to realize that thinking about time travel gave her a headache. There was Rupert Giles in the next room. Then there was a twenty years older version of him travelling back to Mort Grange. An older version who had watched her die in his own timeline and came back to save her. That thought alone was overwhelming. And it was forcing her to examine her feelings for Rupert.
As quietly as possible, she entered the bedroom where he lay sleeping. She took the pistol with her. The older Giles said that Philan was securely bound, but she didn’t want to take a chance on his getting the gun.
Rupert’s steady breathing was reassuring to her, letting her know that he was resting comfortably as possible. Joyce crept to the side of the bed and watched him.
Rupert Giles was not a young man anymore. That was good. Joyce herself could hardly be classified as “young.” She noted the lines around his eyes. “Wrinkles show where the smiles have been,” her grandmother used to say. But Joyce knew that some of Rupert’s lines had been the result of worry. Worry about Buffy. Worry about being the Watcher. Worry about the future of the world.
Joyce was fully aware that she had lines around her eyes, too. They didn’t bother her. Like Rupert’s, they’d come from laughter and worry. They’d come from living and she accepted them as a part of life. Hank, on the other hand, hated those lines on his face. For him, the lines were a sign that he was getting old. He’d told Joyce as much when she found him using her moisturizer. Older and no wiser had been her thought at the time. And then Hank had gone on to say that she should look into getting a facelift. They were both thirty-two years old at the time.
Now she was forty. Her lover was forty-three. But Joyce was certain that he’d never suggest that she get a facelift.
Rupert’s face was lined. Still, it was a handsome face. A face that reflected character and strength. And one that Joyce knew she would like to look at for years to come.
* * * Philan rushed into the barn, anxious to be on a horse and away from the demons in human form that were in the house. They would have to be taken care of at another time. He knew that he would need help to rid the land of them. He would ride into the village and recruit his friends.
As he reached for the gelding, the horse shied away and whinnied. Philan tried to quiet the animal but to no avail. The mare was spooked by the gelding’s actions and began to stomp around in her stall.
As Joyce went back into the kitchen, she heard the noise from the barn. Something must be bothering the horses, she thought.
Or some~one~.
Running to the living room, Joyce discovered that Philan was gone. Somehow he’d gotten loose. He was out in the barn, ready to run. And the older Giles, Meg, and Deborah were on the road to Mort Grange. Unprotected.
She had to stop him. Joyce didn’t know if she could pull the trigger when she aimed it at the man, but she did know that she had to stop him any way that she could. Rupert was injured and wouldn’t be able to fight. Holding the gun tightly with both hands, she headed out to the barn. Perhaps she could simply hold him at bay until the older Giles returned, even if that meant a few hours.
The barn door was open. Joyce could see Philan struggling with the horses. Walking to the door, she entered no further, more than anxious to keep some distance between them. Joyce raised the gun and aimed it at the man. “Step away from the horses,” she said, amazed that her voice sounded so calm. She certainly didn’t feel that way.
Philan looked over his shoulder. The woman was in solid form again. But he knew that she could change at any time. He did as he was told, moving away from the horses. “Witch!” he spat out. “Demon! I knew you were the Sassenach’s doxie, but now I know that you’re the Devil’s whore!”
The name-calling surprised Joyce. The shock must have registered on her face because Philan went on. “Aye. I know who you are. I know what you are,” he said. “I saw you fade away like a ghost and then return. No creature of God could do that.”
There was a part of Joyce’s brain that registered the absurdity of the situation. She certainly couldn’t explain what had happened in terms that Philan would understand. She herself did not know what had caused her transformation into the ghostlike appearance. Deciding that it would be best to ignore the man’s comments, she again motioned him away from the horses. “Go to that corner and sit down,” she ordered.
Philan stepped back. He had expected the woman to try to stop him, but he’d thought that she would use witchcraft of some kind. When she came in with the gun, he’d been surprised. But it did mean one thing to him. She had to be solid in order to hold the pistol. And if she was solid, she could be hurt. Perhaps he could destroy this demon without help.
Joyce watched him warily. Something in his body language changed abruptly, and she knew that she was in real danger.
Philan rushed at her. Startled, Joyce had no time to think. She pulled the trigger of the pistol. The bullet hit Philan, stopping him in his tracks. He grabbed his side and stared at her. For a split second, Joyce believed that she killed him, that he would fall dead just like in the movies. Then the man yelled and lurched toward her. He was just short of tackling her fully but managed to grab her around the legs.
* * * Rupert sat straight up in bed. It took a moment to realize what had gotten his attention, even in sleep. A sharp sound. A gunshot.
“Joyce?” he called as he got out of bed. Finding his trousers, he began to struggle into them.
* * * Joyce fell back, the gun flying out of her hands and landing somewhere behind her. Kicking at Philan, she made contact with his wounded side. A painful grunt from him led her to kick even more, hoping that he would loosen his grip enough for her to get away. Instead, he held tighter.
Without real thought, Joyce knew that she was literally fighting for her life. She reached down and grabbed Philan’s ear with one hand and his broken nose with the other, twisting them hard. He yelped in pain and she punched at his throat. Philan removed one arm from around her legs and Joyce kicked and pushed enough to free herself. Knowing that he would be up and after her in a matter of seconds, she jumped to her feet and ran for the house.
She didn’t make it.
Once again Philan got to her. Only this time they remained on their feet. He held one arm tightly around her waist. “Demon!” he growled, hitting her in the back. Joyce gasped. The punch was sharp. Then she realized that Philan had not hit her. She had been stabbed.
Every action now was pure animal instinct to survive. Joyce snapped her head back, once again making contact with the man’s nose. She reached back over shoulders, clawing at the man’s face. He jumped back but recovered quickly enough to stab her again, this time cruelly twisting the knife. Joyce screamed in pain. Philan pulled the knife out and brought it up to her throat.
She knew that she was going to die. Joyce thought of Buffy and Rupert. She didn’t want to leave them. God! Help me! she prayed.
“Philan!”
Rupert stepped through the doorway of the cabin, a gun pointed at Philan’s head. His presence took Philan off guard. It was all that Joyce needed. With all of the strength she could muster, she stomped on Philan’s instep. Her captor howled as Joyce broke the bones of his foot. He pushed her away and she collapsed facedown on the ground.
* * * Rupert aimed the pistol, planning to blow Philan’s brains out. Then he saw the bloody knife that the man held. His eyes darted to Joyce and the knife wounds in her back.
Philan followed his gaze. “That’s right!” he sneered. “I killed your whore! And it was worth it!” He spat at Joyce.
Anger overwhelmed Rupert. He was going to take pleasure in killing this man. Before he could pull the trigger, another shot rang out. Philan fell, dead before he hit the ground.
Rupert looked up, searching for where the shot had come from. His older self rode up to the cabin.
Not wasting another second, Rupert ran to Joyce. Dropping to his knees, he turned her over as carefully as he could. Her eyes, dull with pain, fluttered open. “Rupert,” she said weakly.
The elder Giles joined them. “She’s alive,” the older man said, relief evident in his voice. “Let’s get her inside.”
* * * The two men carried Joyce into the bedroom. She groaned as they gently lowered her to the bed. “Get her clothes off of her,” the elder Giles said to his younger self. “I’ll get some water on to boil. We need to clean her wounds.” The older man paused a moment, reaching out briefly to touch Joyce’s face. The gesture was not lost on Rupert. The other man – his older self – still loved this woman. Rupert realized that, perhaps, he did, too.
Alone with Joyce, Rupert found his knife and began to cut away her clothes. She stirred and opened her eyes. “Rupert?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
He paused, putting down the knife and pulling her close to him, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. She was alive. That was all that mattered now. And he would do anything to keep her that way. “Joyce,” he murmured, kissing her softly. “Love.”
Her eyes tried to focus on his. “I shouldn’t have gone out to the barn,” she said. “I was afraid he’d go after Meg. You were hurt. I thought I was going to die…”
“Shhhh… You’re going to be all right. Rest now,” he told her.
Almost immediately she was unconscious. Rupert felt the back of her dress. It was soaked with blood. Alarmed, he finished the task of stripping Joyce of her clothes. A part of his mind noted with a bit of amusement that she had not donned the old-fashioned style of underwear that had been left for her at Mort Grange. Joyce still wore the modern silk bra and panties from her own century.
Turning her onto her right side, Rupert examined her wounds. There were two, both on the left side of Joyce’s back. One did not appear to be especially large or deep. The knife used was probably not very big, but it could still do a lot of harm. The second wound, however, was quite bad. He could tell that Philan had twisted the small knife to inflict the most pain and damage. Again Rupert felt absolute hatred for the man who had done this to the woman he loved.
But even more, Rupert felt contempt and hatred for himself. Why hadn’t he been there to help her? Why had his older self left Joyce vulnerable this way?
It didn’t matter what logical answers he might come up with. Rupert knew that he would always blame himself for this turn of events. And if Joyce died, he would never be able to forgive himself.
* * * The elder Giles lit a fire in the wood stove and began pumping water into a pan. The same pan he’d used only hours ago, boiling water to tend to his younger self. He took out some of his anger on pumping the water. How in God’s name had this happened?! He had checked on Philan!
As quickly as he’d asked the question, he knew the answer. He had not checked carefully enough. And Joyce paid the price of his stupidity. Feelings of guilt and remorse came afresh to him. It was so much like the last time. The elder Giles fought back images of watching Joyce die slowly before his eyes. But last time had been an accident. This time it was truly his fault.
After putting the pan on the stove to heat, he went outside, intending to get his satchel. Philan lay where he had fallen. Although the man could have rotted right there for all the older man cared, he knew that he had to move the body. Taking a few minutes, he dragged Philan to the barn, ignoring the trail of blood left behind. Finding an old horse blanket in the barn, he took a moment to wrap and tie it around the man. There was only so much that he was willing to do to the man who had so viciously attacked Joyce.
“Déjà vu, hey, Philan?” he muttered. “I killed you before, now I’ve killed you again. I hope neither of us has to go through this a third time.”
* * * The older Giles came into the room, carrying a basin of warm water and a cup. Setting the items on the bedside table, he looked only at Joyce. “How is she?” he asked, his voice tight with emotion.
Rupert wondered why the man had even asked the question. Joyce’s gray pallor was enough to tell him. “She’s in pain,” he replied. “And this wound – “ He indicated the large, ugly stab wound on her back. “ – is very bad. He—“ Rupert’s voice caught. “He wanted her to suffer.”
The older man sat beside her on the bed. “Philan was a man with little conscience, but this...” He lifted Joyce and called her name. “Joyce? Wake up, Joyce.” Groaning, Joyce opened her eyes a little. Taking the cup, he held it to her lips. “Drink this,” he told her. “It’ll help the pain.”
Joyce looked up at the older man. As he held the cup, she obediently sipped the liquid. Yes, she thought, examining the features of the man she had grown to love. I’m going to enjoy looking at that face for years to come. I wonder if I’ll have the chance…
As if reading her mind, the older Giles nodded. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “We’re going to take care of you.”
Rupert watched as the older man gave the drink to Joyce. “What are you giving her?” he asked.
“Laudanum,” the elder Giles answered.
Joyce gave him a weak smile. “You’re not going to turn me into a dope fiend, are you? In this era, I’ll end up in one of those opium dens in London, wondering when Sherlock Holmes will show up.”
She received a smile in return. “I’ll be careful with how much I give you,” he told her. “You rest, if you can. We need to clean your injuries.”
The two men worked carefully, cleaning and bandaging the knife wounds. Joyce flinched every now and then and groaned a bit as they worked on the larger of the injuries. When she was able, she told them what had happened and how Philan had attacked her.
"He called me a witch," she said. "And the Devil's whore. He saw me fade away. Like a ghost. I faded away, Rupert. He saw me."
The two men exchanged glances. "She must be hallucinating," Rupert concluded.
"Perhaps," said Giles. "Perhaps not."
Soon they were finished. Rupert knelt by the bed and stroked her hair. “How do you feel?” he asked softly.
She didn’t answer the question. Instead, she asked one. “Do you think this was meant to be, Rupert?”
“What do you mean?”
Joyce’s tone was calm and almost matter-of-fact. “Maybe the Mirror lied to me. Morag said that she was sure I was going to die. I died in that other time. Maybe that’s what’s supposed to happen.”
Giles put his arms around her, touching his forehead to hers. “I don’t believe that,” he said fiercely.
“Remember what I asked you to do?” she went on, ignoring his protests. “Just last night?”
“Joyce—“
“If I die, please take care of Buffy.” Her voice faded as Joyce lost consciousness.
Fear clutched at his heart. “Joyce—“
A strong hand gripped his shoulder. “Let her sleep,” the older Giles said. “We need to talk.”
Although he was reluctant to leave Joyce, Rupert followed his older self into the kitchen. Giles set about brewing some tea. "I know that you'd rather be in there with her," said the older man. "But she needs some rest. Neither of you has had much sleep." He placed a clean mug in front of Rupert. "I remember, you see."
Even though he was essentially talking to himself, Rupert still found it very disquieting to have a kind of "part" of himself in the flesh, right in front of him. He put aside those thoughts and concentrated on the immediate crisis. "What do you think?" he asked Giles. "About her injuries?"
Giles hesitated before pouring the boiling water into the teapot. "I don't like the looks of that one wound. It was already bleeding through the bandages before we left the room." Putting the teapot on the table, he walked around behind Rupert. "And you've opened your own wound again. Take off your shirt. Let me change that bandage."
Neither of them spoke as the bandages were changed. Rupert was beginning to realize that his older version found these circumstances to be just as disturbing as he did. Rupert finally broached the subject.
"Why are you still here?" he asked the older man. "I thought that you were only here to save Joyce from being trampled by the horses."
"That's what I thought, too." Giles finished tying the bandages and moved to sit opposite his younger self. "Obviously, Joyce was still in danger. So I was kept here by the Glass."
Shrugging into his shirt, Rupert commented, "You speak as if it was alive."
Giles met the incredulous gaze. "It is."
Rupert got up from the table and paced the room. "How can that be?" he demanded. "And why would it want to put Joyce in danger?"
"How can it be? I don't know. I only know that it is." Giles took a sip of his tea. "Why does it want Joyce? Well, it doesn't want her in danger. Don't you remember? Joyce's famity is connected to the mirror. Some of them might even be a part of its existence.
"But I believe I'm still here for more than just protecting Joyce. I believe that I'm still here to stop Ramsey from using the Mirror to alter time."
Giles explained what happened with Ramsey and Wolf and the Glass. Rupert listened intently and found himself somewhat in sympathy with the other Watcher.
"Wanting to save his Slayer. I can understand that," Rupert said. "It would be a powerful motivation."
"But it was not meant to be," Giles countered. "He had to use magik to open the Glass, to force it to do his bidding. And Ramsey betrayed everyone who trusted him in order to do that, including Morag and Wolf."
Rupert drained the last of his tea. "What about us?" he asked quietly. "Maybe Joyce is right. Perhaps she was supposed to--"
He was stopped by a strong grip on his shirt. Giles nearly pulled him out of his chair. "Don't you ever say it or believe it!" the older man hissed. Rupert was startled by the anger in the man's eyes. He'd never realized that depth of feeling that was evident in his face.
"I know what you're thinking," Giles continued. "I've had twenty years to think about it. What happened? Why did it happen? Maybe it was meant to be! Well, I know now that it was NEVER meant to be! Look at me! I'm YOU! Without HER! The Glass has shown me what was supposed to happen! Don't give up and say that it was meant to be!"
He released Rupert abruptly. The younger man thought about what Giles had said. He realized that he couldn't lose Joyce. Rupert had survived loss before. This time, he realized, would be the one he would never truly get over.
"What do we have to do?" he asked Giles.
* * * Joyce was cold. She'd never been so cold in her life. She stood in the middle of darkness, all alone, clutching a thin blanket around her. Where was Rupert? He would be able to keep her warm.
She turned around, searching for him. He was nowhere. But, in the distance, there was something. Joyce couldn't tell exactly what it was. It reminded her of an oasis in the desert. She knew that it would be warm and inviting there.
Taking one step, she stopped and looked once more for Rupert. He still wasn't there. She needed him. She didn't want to go without him. As tempting as the oasis was, she had to wait.
Perhaps if she called out to him.
"Rupert? Rupert?"
The two men in the kitchen turned toward the bedroom as Joyce called out. They both hurried in to see about her.
Joyce was still unconscious. Even a cursory glance told them that she was getting weaker. Giles examined the bandages. "That wound hasn't stopped bleeding," he said, his voice tight.
"What can we do?" Rupert asked.
Even without an answer, the younger man knew what their course of action would be. His older self met his gaze.
"I'll build up the fire," Giles said.
* * * Rupert scrubbed the kitchen table. Although he knew something about ancient medical operations, he didn't have any experience. But he knew that the Giles who had remained in the Highlands for twenty years did have experience.
The small kitchen seemed to be getting hotter every second. If they were to succeed, however, the fire in the wood stove would have to be as hot as possible.
The whole thing seemed barbaric to Rupert, yet he realized that they had no choice. Cauterization was a method used since ancient times to stop bleeding.
Taking a clean sheet from the bedroom, Giles spread it over the table. He then headed for the bedroom. "I'll bring her in. Put the knife in the fire."
A moment later, Joyce was face down on the table. The men washed up and then removed the blood-soaked bandages from her. Rupert noticed how pale she was. "Do you think she's strong enough for this?" he asked.
Giles looked at her. "She'll have to be."
They cleaned the wound again. "Check the knife," Giles told Rupert. "It got to be very hot. And you're going to have to do this."
"Me?!" Rupert was startled by this news. "I've never done this before."
"Someone has to hold her down," Giles said, his voice devoid of emotion. "As weak as she is, she'll fight. Your right shoulder is injured, but you're -- we're -- left-handed. I'll hold her."
He was going to cause an incredible amount of pain to the woman he loved. Rupert hesitated. "You don't want to live without her," Giles said. "I know. I have."
Giles gave him instructions. Rupert tried to take everything in -- and block out his emotions. Soon they were ready.
Rupert had experienced the scent of burning flesh before. It was something that one would never forget. But this time, it was someone that he cared for.
Giles was right. Joyce fought but only for a moment. She was too weak to do much more.
But she screamed. A long, agnozied scream that he knew he'd never forget. Rupert nearly stopped the operation, not certain that he could bear to hear how much he was hurting her. Then Joyce was quiet. "She's fainted," Giles told him.
Then it was over. Fresh bandages were applied and Giles carried Joyce back to the bed. Rupert followed them in.
"I think it worked," Giles said. Rupert was amazed at the relief he felt. He knelt by the bed again, holding Joyce as closely as he could. He wasn't even aware that his older self had left them alone until much later.
* * * A knock woke up Rupert. At sometime, he had climbed into the bed beside Joyce, but even in sleep he'd somehow managed not to disturb her or to accidentally brush against her injuries. He sat up in bed. "Yes?" he called.
Giles came in, carrying a lighted keorsene lamp. "You've been asleep for a couple of hours," he said in answer to Rupert's unspoken question. "How does her wound look?"
They were relieved to see very little bleeding had occurred. "Good," Giles observed. He reached into his pocket, taking out a blue stone.
"I remember that," Rupert said. "Morag used it when she was feeling faint."
"Yes. I think it's time for Joyce to use it."
Anger shot through Rupert. "That stone seemed to strengthen Morag. You could have used it for Joyce. We didn't need to cauterize the wound!"
"It would not have healed the injury!" Giles shot back. "It will get her strength to begin healing now. But at a cost."
Rupert sat down on the bed. "What cost?"
Giles knelt beside Joyce. "She, like the women in her family, will become one with the Mirror. Remember that Morag has fairy blood. So does Joyce. So does Buffy. Only trace in them, after so many generations. But a trace is enough.
"In order to stop Ramsey or Wolf, Joyce needs to be in control of the Glass. Once she uses the stone, she will be one with it. Just as Morag is. Just as Meg is. Just as Buffy will be one day. They are the Favored Ones."
Rupert reached over and stroked Joyce's hair. "Then perhaps, whatever the Mirror told her was the truth. And she's meant to be a part of it."
Giles placed the stone in Joyce's hand. It began to glow softly, then more brightly. Joyce stirred a bit. Then her eyelids fluttered open. She looked into familiar green eyes.
"Rupert?"
|
|