Transitions - Ch. 46

There had once been a boy at Sebastian's preparatory school who never quite seemed to get anything right. "Well now, Wyndham-Price," the Housemaster chided this unfortunate almost constantly, "You have been more of a hindrance than a help today, haven't you.?"

At this point, Sebastian felt, he'd been having a series of Wyndham-Price moments. Truth be told, he'd been having a week of them.

Was it too late, he wondered as he flew backward through the air at a rather alarming speed, to begin a new career in chartered accountancy?

Sebastian struck the wall hard, air leaving his lungs with a determined whoosh, his head hitting a smart crack against the stones. Unable to stop himself, he slid bonelessly to the floor. Flecks of brilliance, like the fairy lights one put up at Christmas, twinkled around him. The room whirled in one direction, reversed, and whirled another. He wondered if he was going to be sick, then decided, thankfully, that he wasn't--though his universe wobbled a time or two more before it finally held still. Eventually, as the room filled with dim grey light, a slow trickle of oxygen agreed to enter his body once more.

It had all seemed like such a good idea.

Once the escape plan had been explained, Sebastian volunteered at once for the experiment. Willow had looked so tired, poor child, and was such a tiny figure, in her bright, striped jersey and tomato-red overalls, that Sebastian could not bear to see her put through the ordeal. He was hard put, in fact, to believe her more than twelve years of age--even though he knew she must have been nearly eighteen, and deeply involved, on top of that, in the magical arts. Still, despite all evidence to the contrary, she reminded him of the little girls he and Celeste would see playing with their skipping-ropes on the pavements round their neighborhood.

All seemed to go well initially--initially being the operative word. He'd stood facing his father in the center of the tower. Rupert's hand rested gently on his brow, and his quiet voice spoke soothing words, taking Sebastian down into the trance-state immediately. He'd never met a finer hypnotist and--beyond that--no one existed, not even Celeste, whom Sebastian trusted more.

Rupert moved through the spell carefully, painstakingly. Sebastian felt a warmth on the skin of his forehead, perhaps a sigil of some kind, one he'd never known he possessed. His breathing quickened slightly, though not to an alarming rate. Odd words came into his head, but when he assayed to speak them, a powerful charge, like lightning, shot through his body, flinging him backward, hurling Rupert in the opposite direction.

There were aspects of his mother's magic, it seemed, that Sebastian was not meant to explore more closely. Hence, his thoughts of accountancy, and his stony encounter.

"Bastian!" Celeste's voice startled him, and then the palm of Celeste's hand struck his cheek with considerable force. She administered another blow, then a third, ostensibly to bring him round, he supposed, though Sebastian was not entirely convinced of the truth to that supposition. He rather suspected his wife was a bit put out with him--and who could blame her, really? He'd a inkling she might be letting out her feelings in an unusually physical manner.

"Celeste, love," he answered groggily, as awake as he was likely to get for the moment. With a small grunt, Celeste hauled him upright. "You're looking more yourself," he told her, blinking.

Celeste appeared likely to slap him again, but then she softened, touching a light fingertip to his stinging cheek. "You frightened me, Bastian."

"Bit of a miscalculation, I'm afraid," Sebastian said, aware, at that moment, of how much such a phrase made him sound like his father. He shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears. "Dear Lord--that was unexpected."

"But you're all right, my dearest?"

"Never better." Yet another of Rupert's phrases. Sebastian hauled himself up against the wall. His knees felt a bit spongy, but he was otherwise unharmed. Apparently he possessed the hard Giles skull that his father sometimes joked about.

Suddenly concerned, he glanced across the tower. The annoying American boy had begun to help Rupert to his feet, the muscles standing out on his slender arms as he supported the older man's weight. The boy said something, jokingly, to which Rupert replied with a slight smile. Buffy stood before him, her hand on his father's chest, whilst Willow had Rupert's other arm.

Sebastian had to shut his eyes, and turn his head away. He could see, suddenly, clearly, in his mind's eye, the scars on his father's back, those marks of what must have been agony, about which Rupert had never seen fit to tell him. He'd mentioned the damage to his fingers in the most offhand way possible, realizing, no doubt, that Sebastian would perceive the change in his penmanship. What other harm had been done to him, body and soul, and why wouldn't he say?

I'm a grown man, Dad, Sebastian wanted to remind him, You needn't shelter me. I want you to be proud. I want you to give me a chance to prove my love to you. He might have helped, that past summer--taken care of his father whilst he was hurt, joined in the search for the missing girl, and yet he hadn't been given the chance. Instead, that had fallen to these children, who weren't even family.

Yet he had been given the opportunity this summer, and what had transpired? He'd been possessed, he'd been lost, and his father forced, more than once, to rescue him. He hadn't even managed to collect Rupert from the airport as he'd promised, or to drive him to the train, tiny favours that Rupert had already balked at asking, not liking to impose. When he might have provided even ordinary help and comfort, after Clara Stanley's funeral, Sebastian had been quick enough to return with Celeste to London. No wonder Rupert hadn't chosen to confide in him--what had he been able to prove except his own uselessness?

Sebastian found it hard to breathe again. What is wrong with you? he asked himself furiously. What could possibly be wrong with you?

For a moment, he could not admit to himself what he felt, and then the entirety of the emotion came crashing down. Such dreadful truths: that he'd failed Rupert just as badly as Buffy ever had, and so, what right had he to judge her? Furthermore, shamefully, that he hated, in the secret, hidden depths of his heart, these brave, loyal, loving children.

"Bastian?" Celeste took his face between her lovely, cool hands, as if to erase the memory of her earlier blows. "What is it, love?" she asked him, in that way she had when they were most intimate, bringing her face to his, her smooth cheek brushing his bristly one, her lips in motion against his ear. As always, it made Sebastian tingle, the nearness of her, the completeness of his love. From the moment they'd met he'd known, somehow, that he could love only her, and closer acquaintance had merely convinced him of the rightness of that first impression.

Yet, knowing what he knew of himself, how could he possibly expect his wife to love him in return? He'd betrayed her as well, however unwillingly, just when she needed him most. He'd failed Celeste, his lovely, miraculous Celeste, who'd been born to fight monsters, yet had somehow been saved for him to love.

"Aren't you well, my darling? Have you hurt yourself?" she murmured, rubbing her perfect hand in slow circles down the length of his spine. Any moment now, his body would betray him.

"No. No--that is, yes, I'm quite well." Over her shoulder, he watched his father's knees buckle, and the boy hold him upright, his father's head lolling onto the boy's shoulder. "I just think-- My dad--"

Celeste pulled away from him, turning. "Oh! Rupert?"

Sebastian hurried across the tower, and Willow backed away to let him in on Rupert's other side. Perhaps she saw something in his face, for she gave Sebastian a wide-eyed, nervous smile.

The boy backed away also, with a strange, hurt, lost expression. For a moment he and Sebastian caught each other's gazes, and perhaps both read a frightening intensity of love, protectiveness and jealousy there. As one, they averted their eyes.

Rupert, managing to steady himself, reached out again, gripping the boy's arm lightly with his good left hand, and gave another of those slight, questioning smiles. "Xander? Something amiss?"

The boy--the Xander he'd so often read of in his father's journals, the name a diminuitive for Alexander, one presumed--smiled back at Rupert, a tipped-up, sideways grin, the hurt draining from his face. "Still a little loopy, huh, Giles?"

"I--er--that seems a fair enough description."

Sebastian flushed as his father glanced back toward him, terribly afraid that Rupert would be able to read all that was written in his own expression. When did I become a jealous man? he wondered. Do I really believe that because Dad cares for these kids, he hasn't anything left for me?

Perhaps, after all, it was the time he envied, the wasted days and months and decades. These children could see Rupert at practically any hour they liked, had seen him every day for more than three years, yet even when they both lived in London, Sebastian's time with his father was confined to a few hours here and there, and their Sunday afternoon walks. He'd put up a brave front, but he'd been nearly incapable, that March morning when Rupert left for America, of bidding his father goodbye--Celeste had been forced to come collect him from Heathrow, for he'd been weeping too violently to drive home.

Now the jealousy was exacerbated because Sebastian realized, at last, the dangers of his father's life. He knew the likelihood existed, should Rupert be hurt again--or, God forbid, mortally injured--that it would be Buffy's touch he'd feel at the end, or Xander's, or Willow's, not his own.

"All right, are you, Seb?" Rupert asked him, in his usual warm, quiet tone, touching Sebastian lightly on the shoulder. Rupert's eyes sought his, and in their green depths Sebastian read all that the two of them did not say to one another, all the caring, the concern, the reassurance

"Knocked myself backwards, but yes, I'm okay," Sebastian answered, laying his fingers briefly over Rupert's. "And you, Dad?"

"I believe I actually had one of those cartoon moments, in which small birds circle twittering about one's head--but I shall certainly live." Rupert straightened, suddenly all business. "I feared it must be Willow to give us the spell." He looked down into the small girl's face, and she gazed up at him with an expression of trust. "Ready, are you, Willow?"

"Uh-huh." She nodded. "Does someone wanna stand between me and the wall? You know. In case." She made a fluttering motion with her hand. "Maybe Sebastian could catch me?" Willow gave Sebastian her sweet, childish grin, and Sebastian could not help but smile in return. It was harder, really, to feel jealousy toward Willow, far more difficult than to experience the same emotion toward Xander.

"I'm sure, as a perfect gentleman, he'd be glad to do so," Rupert answered. "However, I suspect that we shan't have a repeat performance with you, Willow."

"'Cause it's a girl thing?" Willow asked brightly.

"Yes, quite." Again, Rupert began his ritual, and the girl sank just as quickly into her trance as Sebastian had done. They'd worked together in the past, obviously--likely enough, Rupert had taught her a large part of what she'd learnt magically.

There was, in fact, a sigil, and it shone brightly on Willow's brow. With her hands resting in Rupert's, she began to speak--a complicated spell, in Cornish, of which Sebastian only managed to recognize a smattering of words.

"Buffy, to the door, please," Rupert said in an undertone, "And the rest of you, be prepared. Most likely we'll only have a few moments."

"How long is a moment, anyway?" Xander wondered aloud. "I mean, you have seconds, and you have minutes, but..."

"Xander, please," Rupert admonished.

Willow's voice grew louder, losing much of its childish quality. Her head snapped back, and her eyes filled with verdant flame. Motes of brilliance swirled about the room, gathering, at last, all around the presumed exit, until the wood of the door took on a greenish cast, and the iron bands that bound it shone with the redness of metal heated in a forge.

Rupert's hands, joined to Willow's, appeared to be on fire. The girl's body trembled violently, then set into a painful rigor, her grip tightening, all of these actions surely involuntary, for she seemed too far gone for any deliberate act.

"Buffy, now!" Rupert cried out, his jaw clenched against what surely must have been agony, as Willow's fingers compressed the bones of his injured hand.

Buffy gave the door a sharp pull and it flew open, torn suddenly from its hinges. "Got it!"

The floor heaved beneath their feet, and Willow cried out, her body folding as if boneless, though Rupert stopped her fall, bundling up her limp form in his arms.

"All of you! Out now!" Rupert commanded.

"Will--" Xander began.

"She'll be all right, Xander. Go!"

With a single glance backward, the boy went. Celeste gave Sebastian sharp push, and they followed, stumbling a little as the floor jolted again. Buffy caught Sebastian's arm, steadying him, and he shot her a brief look of gratitude--and then the two of them, ducking, knocked heads as something large and feathered whirred over.

"Damn! What was that?" Xander exclaimed.

"Owl. Escaping." Sebastian rubbed the new bruise on his temple. What had become of Willow, and his dad?

"Giles!" Buffy shouted, running back to the doorway, but no matter how she tried, the seemingly empty space would not allow her to pass. "Giles! Willow!" She beat upon on the invisible wall with her deceptively powerless fists, the sound reverberating with the violence of war-drums, as she called out their names in a voice broken with despair. "Please, Giles! Get out of there!"

On the other side, Rupert gave a little shrug, and set the still-unconscious Willow on her feet, holding her upright with his good arm. With the other hand, he touched the partition, gazing lovingly down upon Buffy's tear-streaked face. "Not quick enough," he told her, though his voice seemed to come faintly, from a great distance. "When Willow wakes, we'll try again."

The tower had begun to shake rhythmically, with motion like a large animal shivering. Bits of grit and God-knew-what-else began to filter down from the ceiling.

"Deja vu," Xander said. "What is it with us and buildings?"

"Giles!" Buffy screamed, and threw herself at the field, as if somehow, with all her strength, she could force her way through.

Rupert looked over her head, meeting Xander's eyes, then Celeste's, then, finally, Sebastian's. "Look after her," he mouthed, for his words no longer had any sound at all.

The partition went black, and the tower spasmed like a living thing in agony, flinging the four of them to the foot of the stairs. Above, the stones shrieked, and with a rending noise almost too loud to bear, the tower roof gave way, flinging down an appalling cloud of dust.

For minutes, they could only choke and cough, rubbing their streaming eyes, and then, as the dust settled, the truth of what must have occurred above them hit home.

"Giles?" Buffy breathed. "Willow?"

Sebastian managed to find his feet, to lift her from the littered floor. Buffy did not resist him. She seemed to weigh nothing, and to be fragile and translucent as a girl made from porcelain.

"Giles?" she murmured again. "Giles?"

"Come love," Celeste told her gently. "We need to leave here."

"Giles?" Buffy said yet again, her voice scarcely more than a whimper.

"A moment," Xander said, the soft brown of his eyes surrounded by whites red as flame, "Is damn well not long enough."