Tribulations - Ch. 25

Giles clung to his Watcher training as a man cast adrift on a wild ocean might cling to a flimsy piece of timber to hold himself afloat. He'd been taught to deal with pain, to accept, contain and set it aside--but this pain seemed unfathomable. It filled everything, converting even the whisper of blood through his veins to an unbearable din. Somewhere out beyond the grey shadows that filled his vision were voices--one voice in particular that, gentle as it was, seemed to demand his attention, forcing him to turn words into other words for a purpose he could no longer remember.

A hand held his, and when the pain grew to its most unbearable peaks, he gripped it, unable even to think of the consequences to its owner.

"We need Sebastian," the demanding voice said at last. "And pretty soon, I think." A hand touched his brow. Giles he flinched away from a touch that ought to have been cool, and soothing.

"Yeah," a deeper voice answered. "He can't take much more of this. Neither of them can. Will, you've gotta do the spell."

"I'm scared, Xand. This is way, way beyond... I mean, I'm not..."

"We don't have anyone else. Qualified witches don't exactly grow on trees, even in Sunnydale. Amy's still rattified. Moira's nowhere..."

"Wesley!" the higher voice exclaimed suddenly. Willow's voice, he reminded himself, the one that kept demanding the words from him, even though it had become agonizing to dredge them up from the depths of his memory. The deeper voice must be Xander's.

"Oh. Yeah. Riiiight," Xander answered, his tone fairly dripping sarcasm.

"No, Xander, I mean that Wesley will know where Moira is, and then we can find her and--and she'll do the counterspell thing, and then everything will be fine. See?"

"I already left a message," Xander confessed. "I've waited all day. Nada. Zippo. Zilch."

"What if something happened to them? Him." The was a rattle of papers, and the bed dipped and swayed as someone rose. "Xander, we left Wesley here all alone. What if he tried something heroish and badness happened? You saw the paper this morning. Twenty-seven unexplained deaths? In the past three days? That's kinda off the charts, even for Sunnydale."

"Then what do we do? I could go over to Wes's place..."

"I'm scared for you," Willow confessed. "I'm scared for them. Giles and Buffy and Moira and Wesley. I wish we were back in England."

The hand that Giles had been gripping pulled away.

"C'mon, Will. There was plenty of badness there, too."

"I know." Willow seemed to be crying. "I know--but I still..."

"I'm going," Xander told her, sounding almost gruff. "See ya soon."

When the young man had gone, Giles felt Willow's soft touch return to his shoulder. "It won't be long now, Giles. I promise."

He smelled sulphur, and heard the hiss of a flame springing to life on a match, then the warm smell of heating wax. What seemed a thousand miles away from him, Willow's small voice began to chant a blessing.

The truth was, Sebastian had always rather liked his voice--not in a conceited way, in that he loved to hear himself talk to the exclusion of all others--but he knew it was a pleasant voice, a serviceable voice, one that could deliver a sermon, sing a hymn or a spell in-key, or whisper tenderly to Celeste as they made love. He missed being able to speak as one might miss an old friend that one had become accustomed to hearing every day. To have only a dry rasp emerge every time he attempted a word had pushed him beyond the point of irritation.

He wanted his voice back and he wanted it NOW.

Sebastian had improved enough to rise from bed and pad round the house in his untidiest clothing, feeling bored, slightly unwell, and rather lonely. Celeste had presented him with a mystery novel, concocted a pitcher of lemon squash--just as his mum, Gemma Delacoeur, had made for his summer sore throats when he was a boy--and told him to sit nicely out in the sunshine until she returned from the shops. He missed her. Even though she'd only left his presence half an hour previously, he hated for her to be gone.

As ordered, he'd slouched out to the back garden to slump in the largest of the wicker chairs, the one with its own ottoman. Under normal circumstances, Sebastian loved their little yard--he even liked to putter about out there, on those rare occasions Celeste would allow him to do so. Normally, the fragrance of the bright flowers and the drowsy drone of the bees filled him with a sense of peace and thankfulness.

On this beautiful August afternoon, however, he could only worry. Although Sebastian didn't like to admit the trait to himself, certainly not to others, he possessed a streak of anxiousness in him, a tendency to stew a bit too much over the ones he loved.

He shifted uncomfortably in the comfortable chair--why shouldn't he worry? Their lives were fraught with danger, and though he might have no ability to keep them safe, he felt better when they were under his watchful eye. Perhaps that was something he'd inherited from his dad, a streak of Watcherishness (Watcherfulness?) that ran straight through the centre of his soul.

Yes, Sebastian told himself, You've every reason for concern. He hadn't heard from Moira since the horrid cellar, nor from his dad in the past two days, which was in and of itself quite enough to sound the warning alarms, so far as he was concerned. Sebastian's old school-friend Simon Quartermass had popped round the night before, and had mentioned to him a mass of research that Rupert requested from the Watchers' Archivist. He'd brought a duplicate of that research along with him, bundled up in brown paper and string, and had deposited the parcel on the parson's bench in the corridor as he left.

Sebastian had walked him to the door, thinking how worn poor old Quartermass looked, how lost in his stiff tweed suit, his injured arm still in its sling. He'd touched his friend's shoulder and given Quartermass what was meant for an encouraging smile, but Simon only responded with a harried nod. So much responsibility had fallen on his shoulders, Sebastian supposed--and hoped Quartermass would find himself equal to the burden.

Sebastian sighed and sipped at his drink, glancing at his wristwatch: barely half-past one, and Celeste had said she'd not return until teatime. His sense of boredom increased, and he'd begun to feel entirely out of sorts. He knew he ought to relax, to exist in the moment, to appreciate the lovely garden. Somehow, though, it no longer seemed THEIR garden, any more than the house seemed THEIR house. The concept of beginning a new life in California had initially terrified him, but Sebastian found himself now entirely ready to set out on that journey.

He tried leaning back, shutting his eyes in a vain attempt to center himself, but even as the calm settled over him, be began to wonder again about Quartermass's visit, and the mysterious bundle of papers. Surely, there was no meaning, or else Simon would have told him outright--yet, on the other hand, why had Simon brought the copies along, if not to somehow pique his interest?

Sebastian sighed. There was nothing for it. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it always had been one of his strongest characteristics, and one he hoped to survive. He knocked the ottoman over in rising from the wicker chair but didn't pause to set it to rights. The feeling grew in him that Simon's gift must be important, and must be studied before another moment passed.

He found the parcel exactly where Quartermass left it. His fingers had already begun to worry at the knots as he strode down the corridor and pushed his study door open with one shoulder. He tore off the paper and dropped it heedlessly on the floor. Plato the ginger tomcat gave a yowl of disapproval as he was dislodged from the sofa, but Sebastian merely gave him a look and the cat slunk off to glare at him from under the desk.

Sebastian settled down, his back propped into a corner of the sofa, his legs stretched out across the cushions, and began to read.

Three hours later he was still reading, scrawling notes in the margins, making the Latin, Greek and Old English translations as best he could, wondering what the other words might mean--he hadn't his father's facility with the truly obscure dead tongues, but he'd understood enough to move quite rapidly from the realm of vague worry into downright apprehension. From everything he could make out, although they'd accomplished their stated end of sealing the portal into hell, they--or rather, Moira--had also misstepped badly, perhaps badly enough to place some of their number in outright danger--especially given Buffy and Rupert's proximity to the younger Hellmouth in Sunnydale.

In apprehension, without thinking, Sebastian fetched the telephone from his desk, punching in his dad's number. The ringer had sounded four times, and the greeting come on, when Sebastian realized he'd no voice to deliver his message. He was pondering this, and how the difficulty might be overcome, when a tiny, breathless voice, undoubtedly Willow's, emerged from the receiver.

"Hi? Xander?"

Sebastian made a weak breathy sound, the most he could manage. He tried again, with everything he had, resulting in a choked, helpless gasp. He didn't know why he was surprised: the pages he'd just read predicted no less.

"That's not funny!" Willow exclaimed. "We have sick people here, and you're just being mean!"

"WILLOW!" Sebastian tried to answer, but again all that emerged was the sort of squeak a frightened mouseling might utter. He ran a hand back through his hair in utter frustration, suddenly with no idea of what he ought to do, how he could make Willow understand--and then he heard the study door open.

He hadn't heard Celeste come home, but there she was, and Sebastian waved the receiver frantically in her direction, gesturing like some sort of deranged mime.

Celeste raised one eyebrow, but took the receiver without pausing to ask the questions. She rarely lost her aplomb whatever the situation.

"Er...hullo?" she said into the mouthpiece. "Who's speaking, please?"

"Celeste?"

Sebastian had pressed his head close to Celeste's, the better to hear the conversation. Willow sounded terribly tired, and more than a bit confused.

"Yes, love, it's Celeste. How are you?"

In answer, the girl began to sob, and for some moments Celeste did no more than make vague comforting noises, while Sebastian searched frantically for a book he knew quite well that he possessed, as well as a paper and pen. At length he was able to locate one of the long yellow tablets Celeste used for her planning, and what Buffy might have called, amusingly, a "Magic Marker." He began to scrawl, holding up the page for Celeste to read.

Celeste drew her comforting remarks to a close, saying in a brisker tone, "Bastian wants me to give you a message. It says, "Four talents taken away." Celeste scowled in his direction. "Well, it makes no sense to me either."

Sebastian did another frantic scrawl, noticed that he'd spelt one word incorrectly but went on.

His wife nodded, comprehension showing clearly in her eyes--Celeste wasn't a bookish person, but Sebastian knew quite well that she was quite as clever as he. "Ah, yes. I see. Bastian's trying to say that the four of them present at the Hellmouth closing each possessed a particular ability: Buffy had her strength; Rupert his ability to decipher those dreadful obscure texts; Bastian had his voice to do magic, and Moira..." Celeste glanced up, searching Sebastian's eyes with her own. "Moira had heaps of knowledge."

She listened a bit longer, nodding occasionally. "Yes, dear, I'm aware that it's terribly difficult, but you must remain strong, mustn't you? Of course we'll be there as quickly as we possibly may. Yes, today, certainly."

Sebastian held up the book in his hands, a small, slim volume that might easily have been slipped into the breast-pocket of a coat, or carried in a ladies reticule, back in the days of its first printing. Contained within its tissue-thin pages was a spell he'd used before to good effect. It wasn't a cure, by any means, but it would at least shield a given space until such time as a more permanent solution could be accomplished.

"Bastian has something for me to read out to you. Have you paper and pen, Willow?"

A brief pause followed, as Willow presumably scrambled for writing implements. Celeste's eyes studied Sebastian's, and he hated to see the weight of sorrow and worry contained in their warm, brown depths. He wished to the bottom of his heart that he possessed words to comfort her.

Celeste glanced away, concentrating on the tiny script, stumbling a little on the Latin she'd most likely not used since the Watchers' Council released her from their service. As she read out the spell, Sebastian scrawled out the steps to the ritual which Willow must follow, holding up the instructions for his wife to see. She read them out patiently, though her look became ever more somber.

Sebastian laid a comforting hand on her shoulder as she told Willow, "Yes, we promise. Yes, of course. As soon as we possibly may. Goodbye, love."

She pressed the button to ring off, the thoughtfulness and worry still plain on her face. "Sometimes, Bastian, I don't much like the life you lead."

He touched her chin, raising her face to his, his own eyes questioning her, pleading with her. Celeste, understand me, please understand me. If I--we--don't fight evil, what will become of us all?"

"Oh, I know." Celeste sighed. "The cause is just. And still..." She drew closer, slipping her strong arms round his waist, holding Sebastian close, her head resting on his shoulder. "Still, I needn't like it."

Sebastian wrapped his arms around her in return, loving the closeness and the warmth of her, loving her, his Celeste, wishing more than ever for the words to give her peace of mind.

Xander parked the convertible at the curb and sat for a minute, staring at the dark little house as he rubbed his hand. One thing was sure--even dying, or whatever it was that he was doing--the G-man had a hell of a grip. His fingers felt nearly pulped. Sometimes the pain had been almost too much, but then Xander thought what Giles was going through, and hadn't pulled away.

That was his problem: he always wanted to pull away, and he hated himself for it. He wanted to scurry off, to hide and be safe, but then he'd watch the others--Buffy with her jokes, Giles with that unflappable Britness, Willow with her brave little resolve face--and he'd nearly die inside with shame, a feeling that went way beyond the dull, aching humiliation showered on him by his family all during his growing-up years. He recognized it only too well: the shame of being around people who are naturally brave and good, when you know you'll never be that way yourself, even if you spend your whole life practicing.

Xander gripped the wheel with both hands and rested his forehead on the upper arc. God, he was tired. It felt like he'd been tired forever, and that feeling had only gotten worse the past three years. He didn't know how Giles did it--sure, he'd get cranky, but he never gave up, unless you counted that one time, with Eyghon. And Xander didn't count that one time, not any more. He'd been shocked, almost sick-shocked--not really disgusted, but something else--when Giles told him the whole story of what happened with Randall and the demon. He wasn't known for his ability to keep quiet about stuff, but he knew he'd never share what Giles had told him with anyone else, not even the girls, because the story hadn't been meant for them, only for him. Giles wasn't just the person he'd thought, the steady, stodgy, tweedy mentor, the man Xander had tested and tested, waiting for him to lose it, to lash out, to hurt him. Instead, with that story, he'd said that he understood all Xander's own secret wants and weaknesses and fears, that he understood HIM, which was something no one else had ever done, not even Willow. For eighteen years, she'd lived right across the street and never really understood: not the reason the smell of scotch made him gag, or why he sometimes wore sweaters or long-sleeved shirts in summer, or why he always fell asleep in class. Neither she nor Buffy understood why he hardly ever had them over, or why they never saw his mom out in public.

And part of him liked it that way, because they didn't really have it in them to understand. They'd think they did, and feel sorry for him, but they wouldn't KNOW. Because even the travelin' Rosenbergs were better than what he had.

Stop, Xander commanded himself. Stop now. Buffy and Giles needed him. They looked bad, worse than bad--Giles in so much pain, Buffy too weak to even turn herself in bed. It reminded him of the way his Grandma Harris had been at the end, when everything inside her body had gone wrong and she'd lain there looking up at him as if she was begging him to do something, anything to make it all stop.

He hadn't been able to do anything. He never could.

Xander hauled himself out of the car, slamming the door. It wasn't like that. It wasn't anything like that. He'd find Moira and everything would be fine--do the spell, punch the reset button, pass Go and collect your two hundred dollars. No reason to have a wiggins.

He hurried up the drive past Wesley's poor, trashed van and climbed the four steps to the door, knocking hard. It wasn't much of a house--just a little bungalow, really, with a teeny porch. Not at all the kind of place you'd expect people like Wes and Moira to live in--they seemed more like the "Welcome to my estate, we're having tea on the lawn and afterwards a spot of fox-hunting" type. The door needed painting, and the drapes had been drawn all the way across both front windows. Xander pounded again, but got no answer. A cold worm of fear began to wriggle around in his stomach.

That's just stupid, he told himself. It's dumb. He found himself trying the knob anyway, and when it twisted, let himself inside.

Xander blinked, trying to make his eyes adjust to the dimness, the fear-worm wriggling even more enthusiastically. Nothing like walking into a dark, deserted house to put a guy at ease. He fumbled for the light switch, but when he found it nothing happened, even though he flipped the toggle three or four times.

"Okay, Scully," he muttered, "Time to bring out the tiny, inadequate flashlights with the nearly dead batteries."

But he didn't have a flashlight, not even a tiny, inadequate one, and the drapes refused to slide back on their runners. He considered pulling them down completely, but the thought of Wes and Moira running out in their bathrobes to see what the noise was stopped him. With his luck, he'd barge into the bedroom and interrupt them having hot reunion sex or something--and then they'd either kill him, or he could die of embarrassment and save them the trouble.

"Dumb guy," Xander muttered to himself. "Dumb, dumb guy." There was no one in the living room, obviously. No one in the kitchen or pantry. No one in the backyard, though he could see some scratches on the back-porch rail and a bunch of crunched-down bushes. He drifted back into the house, knocked timidly on the bedroom door and opened it--no one there, either, and the bed was made up more ultra-tidily than you'd expect even Wes to make it. No one in the bathroom. None of the lights worked in any of the rooms, and all the drapes were drawn. The simple explanation was that someone forgot to pay the electric bill, or had tripped the circuit breaker, but Xander wasn't buying. Something felt WRONG. Something made the short hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He trailed into the living room again, looking for the phone. He might as well call Willow and tell her "no joy"--a Giles phrase they'd both picked up, though Buffy so far had resisted.

He found the telephone on a little table against one wall, but as he groped for it in the dark, his hand dislodged a heavy leather something that fell with a crash to the floor, spilling its contents. Xander stooped, feeling on the floor for the spilled stuff: wallet, keys, tissues, makeup, lighter. Woman stuff. Moira's stuff. Moira's purse.

He straightened, holding the purse to his chest as if it might somehow protect him, knowing clearer than anything that he wasn't alone any more, that someone--or something--cold and beyond quiet had come into the room with him. He'd faced vampires and demons before, plenty of them, but somehow this felt worse. This felt like the kind of nightmare you have to instantly make yourself wake up from, because it was just too much to take.

"Xander," something pretending to be Wesley's voice said to him, though Xander knew it wasn't really Wesley's at all, that whatever stood behind him was in no way like Wesley Wyndham-Price, Upperclass Twit of the Year and--in his own Wesley way--a pretty decent guy. It was something else entirely.

"Xander," the voice repeated, "What are you doing here?"

A cold hand came down on his shoulder and Xander's blood turned to ice. His throat worked, but there were no words for him to say.