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Entry tags:
- character: anya jenkins,
- character: buffy summers,
- character: dhaos,
- character: grune,
- character: rupert giles,
- character: schwartz,
- character: the first evil,
- character: the powers that be,
- genre: gen,
- media: buffy the vampire slayer,
- media: luceti,
- media: tales of legendia,
- media: tales of phantasia,
- rating: pg-13
Post-Lucetific - Fic that is old and extremely self-indulgent
Title: Redress
Fandom:![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
luceti, Tales of Legendia, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a couple of blink-and-you'll-miss-it references to Tales of Phantasia
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Words: 5951
Disclaimer: I don't own the above fandoms.
Summary: There is no balance between good and evil on Giles' Earth, and Grune cannot leave the home of one so loved in such a condition. However, she is not strong enough to right what is wrong on her own.
Author's Notes: So basically this one is me shamelessly indulging my weakness for Grune being a badass. It took me a long time to write, then to dictate and edit, but overall I'm fairly pleased with how it came out.
While I haven't watched all that much of Buffy, I tried to make the appearance of the First Evil what I think would be likely for the show. Even if it isn't what I personally would have gone with, I think this fits in the universe better. I could be completely off base, though.
I apologize in advance for any mistakes I might have made with the canon; I did a lot of reading and looking at images, but yeah.
Sunnydale is a deception. The moment Grune's feet materialise upon the ground, she knows that fact to the depths of her soul.
If she looks at this small twilit town with a human's eyes, she sees the pleasantness and seeming security of a neighbourhood that some would call "comfortable" and most would call "well off." She can feel the warm breeze on her skin. When she breathes in, the scent of green and growing things mixes with the brasher small of someone's barbecue. A lawnmower drones a block away.
But if she feels the world, the tranquility of Sunnydale is drowned in the muck of evil. The influence of this world's guardian deity is faint—washed out. She needs to search to sense it, and that is very, very wrong.
She shakes her head and begins to walk. The sooner she conducts her business here, the better it will be.
. . . But, as she travels along the freshly-laid sidewalks, she cannot help but think: in a way, this is a world more desperate than the one for which she currently fights. It is an extremely troubling thought—and it is one that will break her focus if she allows it. She dismisses it from her mind.
Instead, she lets the outward atmosphere of Sunnydale surround her. Cars drive past her on the street; a motorcycle engine rips the calm air. She makes room for a knot of carefree teenagers, a woman with a pager, a jogger. If the desperation of the world is known, it is not by them.
It takes her some time, but after a while, she reaches her destination. When she arrives, she simply stands outside and studies the building's appearance.
It isn't at all the kind of store she imagined Giles running. It appears to be a child's idea of what a shop selling magical supplies ought to look like, with its bright blue paint and gaudy letters spelling out "MAGIC BOX." But it's an endearing place, not only for its lack of sophistication but for the benches sitting beneath the awning and the home-like white-painted door.
With one last look about, she steps forward and enters the shop.
Her surprise is renewed as she closes the door behind her and walks farther inside. Between the checked tile pathways laid into the floor, the light colours, and the comfortable red armchairs off to one side, the Magic Box appears more cafe than shop. It seems still less likely to belong to Giles—but that impression hardly matters, for he stands behind the counter to the left, entirely at ease and unchanged from the last time she had seen him, so very long ago.
He seems slightly caught off-guard by her appearance. There's no recognition in his widened eyes; rather, the surface details are what have attracted his attention. It is no surprise to her; she is well aware that very, very few women—particularly mortal women—can approach her beauty.
Giles stumbles over his words slightly as he greets her. "W-Welcome to the M-Magic Box. Can I, um . . . can I help you?"
She smiles at him as one might smile at a stranger and says, "I am only looking, thank you."
"All right. Just let me know i-if you need anything."
"I will." She turns to the shelves; out of the corner of her eye, she sees him begin to organize the supplies behind the counter.
She takes in the contents of the shop, examines amulets and lifts an eyebrow at the love potions with their incredible claims (she supposes Giles does what he must to make a living). She looks and she soaks in this shared moment of quiet and she tucks all of it away in her heart. She will never be able to come back again—not without placing too great a strain on the threads of time. Her memory will have to sustain her.
She makes her selection, not at random, and brings it to Giles. He looks up from a brown-covered book with an air of faint guilt, then sets it aside.
"Essence of violet?" When he receives her confirmation, he names the price.
She lets her hand travel down to the purse she knows is absent and pretends surprise. She has no currency of this world and no way to obtain it. She is not meant to be here.
"It seems I will need to return for it another day."
She pushes the vial towards him; when his fingers brush hers to accept to it, her breath hitches. While she is armoured against sight and sound, it seems she is not against simple, accidental contact.
"It's . . . it's all right." He smiles at her, and she can feel the burn of it in her soul. "I can, um, hold it for you if you'd like."
She smiles and shakes her head. "Thank you, but it's fine. I will return another day."
"All right. Thank you for dropping by." He smiles again, hesitant. "Have a nice day."
He will think her strange, but she cannot help her sudden tenderness when she replies, "You as well."
She leaves, then, before she can betray herself further. She takes hold of the doorknob, opens the door—
And steps out into a sense of evil twice the strength of when she first appeared in the world.
She forces herself to move away from the door, unsteadily, the shadows cast by the lights above the Magic Box too dark at her feet. The door bangs shut behind her. It is unnaturally loud in the dead air.
The sun had set while she was inside, she realizes as she comes out of the shock of the—the imbalance. Goodness is so very far away, at the limit of her senses. Each night belongs to demons, and day sends them only into hiding, only some of them, only for a little while.
She takes a deep breath of the sickened night, and a thought comes to her: She cannot allow this to continue.
It is followed by another: To interfere in the domain of another deity unasked is a transgression. Does she desire to break that unwritten law for the sake of this world without hope?
Or does she desire it for the sake of Giles alone?
She sinks down to the edge of one of the benches and stares into the darkness. She has her duty and it is not to this world. Here is not where she should lend her strength.
But if not her, then who? The balance of this world is already tipped beyond the point of recovery. The deity of this world, The Powers That Be, is too distant, too weakened, to bring the world back to its proper state.
She cannot assume one like her, but with no loved ones on this Earth and no compromising ties to it, will someday come and return it to the way it should be. There are so many worlds in the universes, more than even she could count in her lifetime. The chances of anyone else helping this one are virtually nothing at all.
It is not her place to interfere in the domain of another deity. It is not her place.
But. . . .
A breath is drawn in next to her. A halting voice says, "I . . . I-I was just wondering . . . would you—would you like a cup of tea?"
She looks up.
Giles is standing by the bench. His glasses are in his hands. He is avoiding her eyes.
"I-I only suggested it, because . . . tea helps me think. I don't have very good tea, I'm afraid, but—I can make you a mug," he continues. "Or. . . or us. If you'd like."
She closes her eyes. Breathes in. Opens them, and the slightest smile touches her lips.
"Yes," she says. "I would like that very much."
"Right. Right, then." He exhales and replaces his glasses, then holds out his hand. "Giles. Rupert Giles."
He will not remember this, not until years later to his perception of time. She could give him her true name.
But the human subconscious is a difficult thing. It holds fragments of memory beyond all reason. It is unpredictable, chancy, and she will take no risks with a mind so precious as the one that resides in the man before her.
And so she does not use her true name. The one she replaces it with, however, could not be a more natural choice.
"Daisy."
She takes his hand in hers and shakes it. He smiles at her briefly, then slips back into the shop to put the kettle on.
When they are both settled with mugs in hand, Giles gives her time to collect her thoughts. The only sounds he makes are his tiny sips of his still too hot tea.
She stares out into the darkness for a moment, unflinching in the face of its wrongness. Then, at last, she turns on the bench. Hearing her shift, Giles looks up.
"Have you ever wondered if you are perhaps doing the right thing for the wrong reasons?"
She watches the bitterness settle on Giles' face before it is tucked away. She knows his answer before he speaks; it is why she asked.
"Oh yes," he says. "Yes, I'm . . . quite familiar with that particular sentiment."
"What do you believe?" she asks. "Is it better to act or to wait for a more . . . appropriate time, when acting may break rules not meant to be broken?"
"I don't know anything about your situation, but I find it difficult to believe in rules that are 'never' meant to be broken," Giles replies. He is frowning a little, attempting with the greatest of futility to understand.
"Even when they are put into place by those wiser than you?" she presses.
"Everyone makes mistakes," he says, and his expression eases into a slight smile. "Including the supposedly wise."
"And if that 'everyone' might very well include yourself?"
"Well, um . . . there's really no way to find out but by going out and doing it."
She watches the steam rise from her tea. Has she led him, through her deep knowledge of him and his life, to give the answers she hopes for? Or are these his own uninfluenced beliefs? Can she know?
"What if one chooses for the wrong reasons?" she asks quietly. "It is a step down a dark path."
She can feel him watching her and she can taste his suspicion. But he doesn't move away. He only says, "Speaking p-personally, I've come to prefer action, as long as it isn't overly reckless." He breathes out. "In the end, it only matters that the right thing is done, not why it was." A pause. "This . . . is the right thing you're doing, isn't it?"
At that, she looks at him and smiles. "Yes, Giles. It is. I give you my word."
"Well . . . that's—that's all right then." He lets out a slightly shaky breath. "Are you certain you're all right?"
"I am." Her smile warms. "Thank you."
"Quite all r-right." He smiles back, shyly. "You looked, ah, as though you needed, well . . . someone to talk to."
"I did."
And now she is the one to hesitate.
She decides.
. . . She sets aside her mug, covers Giles' hand on his own mug with hers, and leans in to kiss his cheek.
She feels his belated stiffness as she takes away her hand; she watches him blush pink as she rises.
It is, of course, a step too far. She took it regardless, because . . . she misses him. And because it no longer matters what she does: their contact has become too great. She must unravel this evening from time and weave it once more into a pattern of which she is not a part.
If Giles knew what she will do to his memory without his consent, he would be furious. And she would deserve that fury, down to its smallest shard. But he can never learn, or he would vanish in the paradox.
With all this carried in her mind, her smile cannot be without sadness. "Thank you, Giles. You have helped me greatly."
He rises as well, tries a smile of his own. "A-Always glad to help."
She looks about the Magic Box one more time, then holds his gaze. "May you know safety and happiness. Goodbye."
She turns, but before she can go far, Giles calls out, "W-Wait—it's dangerous at night. Is there someone . . . someone to go with you?"
She looks over her shoulder and smiles. "There is no need for concern. I am prepared."
Then she steps out into the darkness, leaving him in the shelter of the light.
*
Finding a place to vanish unnoticed in a city is always a difficult matter, particularly when she has no rooms of her own to which she can retreat. The night makes it easier, of course, but there is always someone glancing out the window, driving past, walking to or from a party.
In time, she comes to a graveyard. It is disproportionately large for a town the size of Sunnydale, and—
Her eyebrows draw together. It is a wonder no humans can sense its malevolent air, so powerful it is to her. Cemeteries are supposed to be a place of peace and rest well earned; this one has been corrupted.
She walks through the open gates, seeking the privacy of a stand of trees farther inside. She passes row upon row of grave markers, from simple stones set into the ground to spires that lance the darkness. There are even a few mausoleums, surprisingly elaborate for the era in which she finds herself. Flowers bloom here and there; saplings grow into sheltering trees. It is this natural beauty that seems the most wrong of all to her, and she wonders how anything living can thrive in a place such as this.
Most of the way to the edge of the cemetery, she stops walking and waits. When she hears a snarl too deep and jagged for an ordinary human throat, she whirls and flings an orb of pure, holy light into the twisted face of the vampire scant steps behind her. It explodes instantly into dust that sifts to the ground at her feet.
She observes the area and listens. Her restrained spell, delivered so close to its target, seems not to have attracted attention. She can still use this location to depart.
. . . Or perhaps it would be best to say it had not attracted human attention. She can feel another knot of evil draw near, identical to the other vampire. She goes to meet it.
This one is still in human guise. It appears as an open-faced young man. He was buried in a suit, but the monster has loosened his tie and untucked his shirt to give the impression of a boy getting comfortable in too-formal clothing.
"Hey, lady, are you sure you should be out here by yourself?" it asks in pretended concern. There are blond tips to its host's shaggy brown hair. "The graveyard's pretty scary at night."
She stands tall and pierces it with her gaze.
"I know what you are," she says, her voice hard and strong.
"Oh, good." The vampire's face shifts into its true, feral form. "That means we can skip right to the fun."
It barely takes two fast steps toward her before she flings the same orb of light directly into its no longer human face. Like the other vampire, it dissolves into dust.
She stands in place for a few moments, spreading her senses through the graveyard and beyond. There are no more vampires remaining—for the moment. She can depart without being seen and without leaving the citizens of Sunnydale to be preyed upon.
Just as she is about to vanish, she hears a human approach. She turns, and it takes all her effort to keep surprised recognition from her face.
"I'm really starting to wonder about you people." Buffy steps out from behind a nearby mausoleum. Her expression is exaggeratedly patient; it seems she had not arrived in time to witness the confrontations. "Don't you pay any attention to what's been going on lately? You know, the whole 'infested with vampires' thing?" She stops to set her hands on her hips. "Seriously, can you think of any place more dangerous to go alone than a deserted graveyard at night? 'Cause I'm coming up with a big ol' blank."
"You are doing the same," Grune points out when she's given the chance.
"Let's just say I've got a few tricks up my sleeve. Or . . . somewhere else," she adds when Grune glances at her short-sleeved top. "Just . . . whatever you were doing here, go do it somewhere else, all right? Somewhere with lots of people and a good dose of sunshine—away from this place. Unless violent death is your thing. Not really mine, but it takes all kinds."
Grune looks at her for a moment, this small human girl who is one of her planet's only champions. She is stronger than she appears—but her burden is too great for any mortal to bear alone.
"Very well," she says, and turns to leave.
"Hey lady, the exit's that way," she hears Buffy tell her.
She does not check her stride. "I am aware."
Buffy blows out an irritated sigh, but neither comments further nor attempts to follow. By the time Grune has at last reached the older trees surrounding the cemetery, she has moved away, out of sight.
In a shower of white feathers, Grune leaves Earth and returns to the world in which she is meant to be.
*
She spent a day bandaging the wounded. The work is steady and keeps her hands busy as her mind once again travels the course of her decision. She is not so preoccupied, however, that she forgets to smile at those of her patients who are aware. For many, it will have been the first such expression they will have seen in weeks.
When she is finished her shift, she attends a meeting to discuss supply levels, then tells her nightly story to the children of the camp. Only once the last child has been led to bed by his caretaker does she turn her attention to seeking out Schwartz.
It takes no time at all. A part of her is always aware of her location, in the same way she is always subconsciously aware of her hands and what they do. The other half of her soul is not far away; she is well within walking distance, close to the neighbouring refugee camp.
Once she has pinpointed the exact location, she departs. Both guards at the perimeter know her and let her pass, though with some concern—in this warzone, as in so many others, it is more dangerous to be a civilian woman than a soldier.
Schwartz meets her halfway. It is unsurprising: she could not have failed to note the directness of Grune's approach. And thus, on the muddy road before her, the darkness thickens, purple light twists, and Schwartz forms out of the air.
"Grune," she says, the surprise in her equal's voice audible only to her. "Why do you seek me out? It is not yet the appointed time."
"I am aware." Grune takes in a breath to steady herself. "I am here because I require your aid."
"You require my aid," Schwartz repeats, and though her expression is concealed behind her half-mask, Grune knows her eyebrows have lifted.
"Yes. I have found a world that has lost its balance. Not this world—it is one where its guardian deity has lost its powers. Evil runs freely and its people suffer daily."
Schwartz is watching her carefully now. "You know I cannot grant rest to a world to which we have not been called."
She immediately shakes her head. She would never forgive herself if Schwartz erased Giles' world from existence, not even to the end of time.
"That is not what I ask."
"Then speak, or allow me to continue my work."
"Help me to return balance to that world. I cannot do it alone, but together we can give its people the chance to live in peace."
She watches Schwartz consider her plea and silently curses the other's always measured actions.
At last, Schwartz responds. ". . . We have not been called to that place. It is not our responsibility."
"No," Grune agrees. She cannot deny that. Then, deliberately, she adds, "But it is our duty."
Schwartz does not speak for many moments longer. "Take me to this world. I shall see if it is as you say."
It is all she can do to keep from smiling. She has won. She knows Schwartz as well as she knows herself—for that is who Schwartz is. Schwartz will not be able to deny her request when she experiences the imbalance for herself.
"Very well," she says, her voice superficially level.
She takes only a second to ascertain they are alone. Then black feathers follow white as they both leave their world.
*
She appears again in Sunnydale's cemetery; if that place of malice cannot sway Schwartz, then there is nothing else she can do.
She has no need to fear, however. Schwartz is barely finished forming when Grune sees her lips part and hears her take in just the smallest of breaths. Now her silence is far easier to bear. There is no longer any doubt what her decision will be.
She receives her last confirmation when Schwartz turns to her. "You were right to bring me here. This cannot be allowed to stand."
"It cannot," Grune says, her heart light in spite of the evil saturating the air around them.
"We need to think of what we must—"
Schwartz stops, abruptly alert for the same reason Grune is.
A child, a sandy-haired boy of perhaps seven, is walking towards them. He had not entered the cemetery without their notice—though that is what they are meant to believe—but had simply appeared.
She catches Schwartz's gaze as well as she can despite the other's mask. Using the appearance of a child for evil purposes is a trick that has been tried countless times against them. If this being believes it will cause either of them to lower their guard, it will soon discover its mistake.
"I felt you come here earlier." The boy stops before them. He points at Grune, his small finger outstretched in both accusation and a show of fragility. "You killed some of my friends. And now you've brought someone else. Why did you do that? You know you're not supposed to be here."
She has neither the time nor the patience for such a charade. "Cease your foolishness. It will not work on us."
The boy giggles. "Nope."
"We know you are a being of power. It is useless to pretend," Schwartz says.
"But it's fun—and it's so useful, too," he adds. "The innocents are always so horrified when they realize they have to stop me like this, poor things." He grins ferally. "The hardened ones, they flinch a bit, even if it's only in their souls, but then they do whatever they think they need to get me to leave. But you two. . . ." He peers at them and an expression of childish delight fills his face. "I don't think you'd flinch at all. Who are you?"
"I am Grune," she says.
"And I am Schwartz."
The boy mimes deep thought. "Nice motif. But . . . nope, never heard of either of you." He cocks his head at them. "So why are you here? You're no more human than I am, even if those are pretty good disguises. Especially yours." He points at Grune again. "You even had me fooled for a while there, and believe me, I know humans." That same, ill-fitting grin appears on his face, showing too many tiny teeth. There's one missing, a lower tooth; another is growing in.
"We are here to restore balance," Grune says, unmoved by the sight. "While darkness is necessary . . ."
". . . just as necessary as light," Schwartz continues, "this world is out of balance. You have grown too strong."
"Your power must be checked," Grune finishes.
The boy laughs. "You two are funny! You really think I'm going to give up my hold on this world to those feeble Powers That Be?" He spreads his small arms to encompass not the graveyard, but the planet. "I've ruled this world for a long time and I like it. I'm not going anywhere."
He drops his arms. "You're both fools to try. You might be gods, but I'm the First Evil. I've existed since time began."
"You are lying," Schwartz says in her voice that makes every word a fact. "You are young. Your existence is tied to the humans upon which you inflict such suffering. Do not attempt to fool us—child."
The First Evil sighs and shrugs. "Oh well. It was worth trying. Humans always want to believe I'm so ancient. It makes them feel important."
He strolls over to a headstone and hops up to sit on it. Carelessly, he kicks his feet on the name carved into it in a way that would anger Grune if she allowed it.
"Anyway, it doesn't matter how old I am. I'm not about to let you take this world away from me—not when I've just gotten it all nicely broken in. I'm going to have to stop you . . . well," he says, as if reconsidering the false spontaneity of his words. "I can't. I can't touch anyone in this world. But I have lots and lots of friends."
People of all ages and sizes begin fading into view: vampires every last one of them. Interspersed among them are the more obvious varieties of demons, filling the air with their hateful, gleeful anticipation of a massacre.
"Better run before you're torn to pieces!" the First Evil advises on a laugh. "Bye-bye!"
His mouth opens inhumanly wide. Shark teeth sprout in his mouth, and his body wrenches inside out: he has devoured himself.
Grune wastes no time. She summons her urn and closes the distance between herself and Schwartz. Her opposite is already gripping her double-headed sun-and-moon axe.
"Are you ready?" Grune asks.
"Yes. But let us not lose sight of our true objective," Schwartz reminds her in the last seconds before the horde begins to run.
Grune does not respond. Instead, she sends a great sphere of light, half her height, into the midst of the demons. Squeals echo through the headstones long after the throats from which they sprang are dust. The other monsters are not deterred—they laugh at the sight and close ranks.
Schwartz sprints forward from her side; just out of reach of their enemies, she begins her blade dance. Limbs are severed, wounds opened, and from the demons blood of all colours gushes. The vampires are not slowed, and though they are quick to reach for Schwartz, she is quicker, raising an energy barrier to blast them away from her.
"The vampires must be stabbed through the heart," Grune calls over the din and throws two more holy globes, one from each hand.
She glances toward Schwartz in time to see a vampire shatter into dust at the end of Schwartz's axe, then turns back to scatter the monsters with her own energy barrier, green to Schwartz's purple. It gives her a few seconds to scorch the air with more light, this time as a wide laser beam. A quick smile—she has nearly mastered this one—and at last she has time to do a proper casting.
There are no incantations or spell names to shout on the world of Herane, where she is meant to be, but she lets fly her rain of shooting stars with a triumphant cry. As the blazing points of light sear the monsters before her, she hears Schwartz's answering cry, her voice harsh—and heated. She can never maintain her emotionless demeanour in a fight for the inhabitants of a world, no matter if she fights against or with Grune.
She senses Schwartz's approach; a second later, her double's back is pressed against hers where her own veil has slipped aside. They stick to one another with sweat and the hair that has slipped from Schwartz's twin-ended tail presses against her shoulder. In no time at all, a second set of falling stars showers the graveyard; Grune follows Schwartz's spell with another laser to keep distance between them and the already much-thinned mass.
"We do not have time yet," Schwartz snaps out, frustration plain in her voice.
"We shall earn it," Grune answers calmly. "Do you recall Maelstrom?"
"That eres of Melfes?" Schwartz shoots away, flying forward to decapitate a too-quick demon, then returns. "You have always been too sentimental about that world."
Grune ignores the jibe. Perhaps symbolism is foolish now, but it will give her strength.
"As one?" she asks, flinging two more globes of light.
Schwartz does not answer at first; she strikes down more of the monsters with the heavenly rays of Herane.
Then: "Very well."
An opening has been cleared. In perfect unison, they began the incantation, strength of will and the echo of the void blending in passionate declaration.
"Majestic indigo ruler of all lands, let loose thy churning tempest to engorge upon this, our misfortune."
They fling out their hands, fingernails glowing, opposite in direction but united in cause, and their voices ring clear above the unholy cacophony—
"Maelstrom!"
Twin tornadoes of holy light twist into being. Taller than any tree, they wrench through the cemetery and the wind sings as evil vanishes in its wake.
They are so in tune now that neither needs to say a word. Schwartz's axe vanishes to be replaced by a flute of hollowed bone, and she takes only a breath before beginning to play what must be the melody of the end. Grune has never before heard it—she has always faded already from the world when Schwartz plays. But, hearing its simple, airy tones, she is not afraid for this Earth. Instead, she smiles and begins to weave.
The cries of the few remaining servants of the First Evil are distantly multiplying, but it no longer matters. In perfect concert, Schwartz is ending one path of the world while Grune is creating another.
She hears the howling of the First Evil, but she does not falter and Schwartz does not drop a note. Soon, it ceases, and she is left only to fold together the ends of time. When the melody comes to a close, she senses a second pair of hands come to work the last threads into a pattern of balance.
Then, easily, the work is completed. Grune lets go with a sigh, and she and Schwartz stand in an ordinary graveyard.
The First Evil has never existed here. There is evil—vampires and demons may still be found, although they are far rarer—but that malevolent entity is unknown by all save her and Schwartz. Together, they have shaped time so that The Powers That Be have a chance. Not dominion, but an opportunity to fight. Of course, Grune made certain that the ones with the greatest chance of all . . . are the humans.
She looks about what has always been nothing more than a place of rest, then turns to Schwartz. . . . She smiles.
"Thank you." Without Schwartz's strength and skill, she might have erred. She would not have been able to keep the shape of this Earth's lives largely whole. Working alone, while she could have ensured that many who died by the indirect hand of the First Evil would have lived, some who lived in that world that has never existed might never have been born. With Schwartz, those lives, too, have been preserved.
Schwartz shakes her head just once. "It was our duty."
The night air is warm and light. Without the oppression of evil weighing her down, Grune nearly feels like dancing. Certainly, she cannot stop smiling. "It was."
. . . Not until Schwartz takes a few steps forward with a speculative air.
"There is still much pain in this world," she says. "We have only partially eased it."
"No, Schwartz." Her tone is now commanding. "That is beyond our duty. Should we be called to this place, we may proceed further. Now we must return to Herane."
". . . Yes. You are correct." With reluctance, Schwartz turns back to her. "We shall return in time."
She takes a final look about with the air of one who is satisfied with her work, then melts into black feathers and vanishes.
A moment later, a moment to listen to the wind in the trees and to feel the warmth of the night on her skin, and she vanishes as well.
She does not tell Schwartz that the time before either of them will return shall be far shorter for her.
*
When she enters the Magic Box the next day (from the perception of the people of Sunnydale, that is), it is a young woman behind the counter, not Giles. She's already setting aside her book and calling out, "Welcome to the Magic Box. Can I help you?"
"Thank you, but I am only looking," she says with a polite smile.
"All right. If you need any help, just ask." The woman settles back and picks up her book again.
Grune moves slowly about the shop, memorizing it all. She takes in its colours; she breathes in the rich, mingled scent of magical ingredients. She will remember the dust motes in the sunlight and the sound of her boots on the wooden floor and the near smoothness of the shelves as her fingertips trail along their edges. She will remember, for after this day, she will only visit this place in her memories.
When she reaches the shelf containing essence of violet, she reaches into the bag over her shoulder and withdraws a small book. This she lays against the display after she has made certain the young woman's focus is on her novel.
She takes her time traveling to the door. Just before she leaves, the young woman looks up.
"No luck?"
She shakes her head. "I'm afraid not. Perhaps another day."
"Yeah, all right. Thanks for visiting."
She pushes open the door, steps out into the sunlight, and begins to walk. A little later, in front of a white two-storey house with a beautifully-kept garden, she stops.
The Weaver of Time reshapes the fabric of the world one last time.
Then, she departs from it.
*
Her hands had been careful and sure, but Grune had deliberately allowed just one thread to drop from her grasp.
Later that day, Anya will discover a book someone has left behind and will set it by the register. On his next shift, Giles will find it, pick it up, browse through it. He will come to the only page that is marked, by a carefully folded corner. He will read it out of mild curiosity, but in the end, he will be unable to see its significance.
The flower symbolism associated with the daisy is purity, innocence, loyal love, beauty, patience, and simplicity. . . .
Fandom:
luceti, Tales of Legendia, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a couple of blink-and-you'll-miss-it references to Tales of PhantasiaGenre: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Words: 5951
Disclaimer: I don't own the above fandoms.
Summary: There is no balance between good and evil on Giles' Earth, and Grune cannot leave the home of one so loved in such a condition. However, she is not strong enough to right what is wrong on her own.
Author's Notes: So basically this one is me shamelessly indulging my weakness for Grune being a badass. It took me a long time to write, then to dictate and edit, but overall I'm fairly pleased with how it came out.
While I haven't watched all that much of Buffy, I tried to make the appearance of the First Evil what I think would be likely for the show. Even if it isn't what I personally would have gone with, I think this fits in the universe better. I could be completely off base, though.
I apologize in advance for any mistakes I might have made with the canon; I did a lot of reading and looking at images, but yeah.
Sunnydale is a deception. The moment Grune's feet materialise upon the ground, she knows that fact to the depths of her soul.
If she looks at this small twilit town with a human's eyes, she sees the pleasantness and seeming security of a neighbourhood that some would call "comfortable" and most would call "well off." She can feel the warm breeze on her skin. When she breathes in, the scent of green and growing things mixes with the brasher small of someone's barbecue. A lawnmower drones a block away.
But if she feels the world, the tranquility of Sunnydale is drowned in the muck of evil. The influence of this world's guardian deity is faint—washed out. She needs to search to sense it, and that is very, very wrong.
She shakes her head and begins to walk. The sooner she conducts her business here, the better it will be.
. . . But, as she travels along the freshly-laid sidewalks, she cannot help but think: in a way, this is a world more desperate than the one for which she currently fights. It is an extremely troubling thought—and it is one that will break her focus if she allows it. She dismisses it from her mind.
Instead, she lets the outward atmosphere of Sunnydale surround her. Cars drive past her on the street; a motorcycle engine rips the calm air. She makes room for a knot of carefree teenagers, a woman with a pager, a jogger. If the desperation of the world is known, it is not by them.
It takes her some time, but after a while, she reaches her destination. When she arrives, she simply stands outside and studies the building's appearance.
It isn't at all the kind of store she imagined Giles running. It appears to be a child's idea of what a shop selling magical supplies ought to look like, with its bright blue paint and gaudy letters spelling out "MAGIC BOX." But it's an endearing place, not only for its lack of sophistication but for the benches sitting beneath the awning and the home-like white-painted door.
With one last look about, she steps forward and enters the shop.
Her surprise is renewed as she closes the door behind her and walks farther inside. Between the checked tile pathways laid into the floor, the light colours, and the comfortable red armchairs off to one side, the Magic Box appears more cafe than shop. It seems still less likely to belong to Giles—but that impression hardly matters, for he stands behind the counter to the left, entirely at ease and unchanged from the last time she had seen him, so very long ago.
He seems slightly caught off-guard by her appearance. There's no recognition in his widened eyes; rather, the surface details are what have attracted his attention. It is no surprise to her; she is well aware that very, very few women—particularly mortal women—can approach her beauty.
Giles stumbles over his words slightly as he greets her. "W-Welcome to the M-Magic Box. Can I, um . . . can I help you?"
She smiles at him as one might smile at a stranger and says, "I am only looking, thank you."
"All right. Just let me know i-if you need anything."
"I will." She turns to the shelves; out of the corner of her eye, she sees him begin to organize the supplies behind the counter.
She takes in the contents of the shop, examines amulets and lifts an eyebrow at the love potions with their incredible claims (she supposes Giles does what he must to make a living). She looks and she soaks in this shared moment of quiet and she tucks all of it away in her heart. She will never be able to come back again—not without placing too great a strain on the threads of time. Her memory will have to sustain her.
She makes her selection, not at random, and brings it to Giles. He looks up from a brown-covered book with an air of faint guilt, then sets it aside.
"Essence of violet?" When he receives her confirmation, he names the price.
She lets her hand travel down to the purse she knows is absent and pretends surprise. She has no currency of this world and no way to obtain it. She is not meant to be here.
"It seems I will need to return for it another day."
She pushes the vial towards him; when his fingers brush hers to accept to it, her breath hitches. While she is armoured against sight and sound, it seems she is not against simple, accidental contact.
"It's . . . it's all right." He smiles at her, and she can feel the burn of it in her soul. "I can, um, hold it for you if you'd like."
She smiles and shakes her head. "Thank you, but it's fine. I will return another day."
"All right. Thank you for dropping by." He smiles again, hesitant. "Have a nice day."
He will think her strange, but she cannot help her sudden tenderness when she replies, "You as well."
She leaves, then, before she can betray herself further. She takes hold of the doorknob, opens the door—
And steps out into a sense of evil twice the strength of when she first appeared in the world.
She forces herself to move away from the door, unsteadily, the shadows cast by the lights above the Magic Box too dark at her feet. The door bangs shut behind her. It is unnaturally loud in the dead air.
The sun had set while she was inside, she realizes as she comes out of the shock of the—the imbalance. Goodness is so very far away, at the limit of her senses. Each night belongs to demons, and day sends them only into hiding, only some of them, only for a little while.
She takes a deep breath of the sickened night, and a thought comes to her: She cannot allow this to continue.
It is followed by another: To interfere in the domain of another deity unasked is a transgression. Does she desire to break that unwritten law for the sake of this world without hope?
Or does she desire it for the sake of Giles alone?
She sinks down to the edge of one of the benches and stares into the darkness. She has her duty and it is not to this world. Here is not where she should lend her strength.
But if not her, then who? The balance of this world is already tipped beyond the point of recovery. The deity of this world, The Powers That Be, is too distant, too weakened, to bring the world back to its proper state.
She cannot assume one like her, but with no loved ones on this Earth and no compromising ties to it, will someday come and return it to the way it should be. There are so many worlds in the universes, more than even she could count in her lifetime. The chances of anyone else helping this one are virtually nothing at all.
It is not her place to interfere in the domain of another deity. It is not her place.
But. . . .
A breath is drawn in next to her. A halting voice says, "I . . . I-I was just wondering . . . would you—would you like a cup of tea?"
She looks up.
Giles is standing by the bench. His glasses are in his hands. He is avoiding her eyes.
"I-I only suggested it, because . . . tea helps me think. I don't have very good tea, I'm afraid, but—I can make you a mug," he continues. "Or. . . or us. If you'd like."
She closes her eyes. Breathes in. Opens them, and the slightest smile touches her lips.
"Yes," she says. "I would like that very much."
"Right. Right, then." He exhales and replaces his glasses, then holds out his hand. "Giles. Rupert Giles."
He will not remember this, not until years later to his perception of time. She could give him her true name.
But the human subconscious is a difficult thing. It holds fragments of memory beyond all reason. It is unpredictable, chancy, and she will take no risks with a mind so precious as the one that resides in the man before her.
And so she does not use her true name. The one she replaces it with, however, could not be a more natural choice.
"Daisy."
She takes his hand in hers and shakes it. He smiles at her briefly, then slips back into the shop to put the kettle on.
When they are both settled with mugs in hand, Giles gives her time to collect her thoughts. The only sounds he makes are his tiny sips of his still too hot tea.
She stares out into the darkness for a moment, unflinching in the face of its wrongness. Then, at last, she turns on the bench. Hearing her shift, Giles looks up.
"Have you ever wondered if you are perhaps doing the right thing for the wrong reasons?"
She watches the bitterness settle on Giles' face before it is tucked away. She knows his answer before he speaks; it is why she asked.
"Oh yes," he says. "Yes, I'm . . . quite familiar with that particular sentiment."
"What do you believe?" she asks. "Is it better to act or to wait for a more . . . appropriate time, when acting may break rules not meant to be broken?"
"I don't know anything about your situation, but I find it difficult to believe in rules that are 'never' meant to be broken," Giles replies. He is frowning a little, attempting with the greatest of futility to understand.
"Even when they are put into place by those wiser than you?" she presses.
"Everyone makes mistakes," he says, and his expression eases into a slight smile. "Including the supposedly wise."
"And if that 'everyone' might very well include yourself?"
"Well, um . . . there's really no way to find out but by going out and doing it."
She watches the steam rise from her tea. Has she led him, through her deep knowledge of him and his life, to give the answers she hopes for? Or are these his own uninfluenced beliefs? Can she know?
"What if one chooses for the wrong reasons?" she asks quietly. "It is a step down a dark path."
She can feel him watching her and she can taste his suspicion. But he doesn't move away. He only says, "Speaking p-personally, I've come to prefer action, as long as it isn't overly reckless." He breathes out. "In the end, it only matters that the right thing is done, not why it was." A pause. "This . . . is the right thing you're doing, isn't it?"
At that, she looks at him and smiles. "Yes, Giles. It is. I give you my word."
"Well . . . that's—that's all right then." He lets out a slightly shaky breath. "Are you certain you're all right?"
"I am." Her smile warms. "Thank you."
"Quite all r-right." He smiles back, shyly. "You looked, ah, as though you needed, well . . . someone to talk to."
"I did."
And now she is the one to hesitate.
She decides.
. . . She sets aside her mug, covers Giles' hand on his own mug with hers, and leans in to kiss his cheek.
She feels his belated stiffness as she takes away her hand; she watches him blush pink as she rises.
It is, of course, a step too far. She took it regardless, because . . . she misses him. And because it no longer matters what she does: their contact has become too great. She must unravel this evening from time and weave it once more into a pattern of which she is not a part.
If Giles knew what she will do to his memory without his consent, he would be furious. And she would deserve that fury, down to its smallest shard. But he can never learn, or he would vanish in the paradox.
With all this carried in her mind, her smile cannot be without sadness. "Thank you, Giles. You have helped me greatly."
He rises as well, tries a smile of his own. "A-Always glad to help."
She looks about the Magic Box one more time, then holds his gaze. "May you know safety and happiness. Goodbye."
She turns, but before she can go far, Giles calls out, "W-Wait—it's dangerous at night. Is there someone . . . someone to go with you?"
She looks over her shoulder and smiles. "There is no need for concern. I am prepared."
Then she steps out into the darkness, leaving him in the shelter of the light.
Finding a place to vanish unnoticed in a city is always a difficult matter, particularly when she has no rooms of her own to which she can retreat. The night makes it easier, of course, but there is always someone glancing out the window, driving past, walking to or from a party.
In time, she comes to a graveyard. It is disproportionately large for a town the size of Sunnydale, and—
Her eyebrows draw together. It is a wonder no humans can sense its malevolent air, so powerful it is to her. Cemeteries are supposed to be a place of peace and rest well earned; this one has been corrupted.
She walks through the open gates, seeking the privacy of a stand of trees farther inside. She passes row upon row of grave markers, from simple stones set into the ground to spires that lance the darkness. There are even a few mausoleums, surprisingly elaborate for the era in which she finds herself. Flowers bloom here and there; saplings grow into sheltering trees. It is this natural beauty that seems the most wrong of all to her, and she wonders how anything living can thrive in a place such as this.
Most of the way to the edge of the cemetery, she stops walking and waits. When she hears a snarl too deep and jagged for an ordinary human throat, she whirls and flings an orb of pure, holy light into the twisted face of the vampire scant steps behind her. It explodes instantly into dust that sifts to the ground at her feet.
She observes the area and listens. Her restrained spell, delivered so close to its target, seems not to have attracted attention. She can still use this location to depart.
. . . Or perhaps it would be best to say it had not attracted human attention. She can feel another knot of evil draw near, identical to the other vampire. She goes to meet it.
This one is still in human guise. It appears as an open-faced young man. He was buried in a suit, but the monster has loosened his tie and untucked his shirt to give the impression of a boy getting comfortable in too-formal clothing.
"Hey, lady, are you sure you should be out here by yourself?" it asks in pretended concern. There are blond tips to its host's shaggy brown hair. "The graveyard's pretty scary at night."
She stands tall and pierces it with her gaze.
"I know what you are," she says, her voice hard and strong.
"Oh, good." The vampire's face shifts into its true, feral form. "That means we can skip right to the fun."
It barely takes two fast steps toward her before she flings the same orb of light directly into its no longer human face. Like the other vampire, it dissolves into dust.
She stands in place for a few moments, spreading her senses through the graveyard and beyond. There are no more vampires remaining—for the moment. She can depart without being seen and without leaving the citizens of Sunnydale to be preyed upon.
Just as she is about to vanish, she hears a human approach. She turns, and it takes all her effort to keep surprised recognition from her face.
"I'm really starting to wonder about you people." Buffy steps out from behind a nearby mausoleum. Her expression is exaggeratedly patient; it seems she had not arrived in time to witness the confrontations. "Don't you pay any attention to what's been going on lately? You know, the whole 'infested with vampires' thing?" She stops to set her hands on her hips. "Seriously, can you think of any place more dangerous to go alone than a deserted graveyard at night? 'Cause I'm coming up with a big ol' blank."
"You are doing the same," Grune points out when she's given the chance.
"Let's just say I've got a few tricks up my sleeve. Or . . . somewhere else," she adds when Grune glances at her short-sleeved top. "Just . . . whatever you were doing here, go do it somewhere else, all right? Somewhere with lots of people and a good dose of sunshine—away from this place. Unless violent death is your thing. Not really mine, but it takes all kinds."
Grune looks at her for a moment, this small human girl who is one of her planet's only champions. She is stronger than she appears—but her burden is too great for any mortal to bear alone.
"Very well," she says, and turns to leave.
"Hey lady, the exit's that way," she hears Buffy tell her.
She does not check her stride. "I am aware."
Buffy blows out an irritated sigh, but neither comments further nor attempts to follow. By the time Grune has at last reached the older trees surrounding the cemetery, she has moved away, out of sight.
In a shower of white feathers, Grune leaves Earth and returns to the world in which she is meant to be.
She spent a day bandaging the wounded. The work is steady and keeps her hands busy as her mind once again travels the course of her decision. She is not so preoccupied, however, that she forgets to smile at those of her patients who are aware. For many, it will have been the first such expression they will have seen in weeks.
When she is finished her shift, she attends a meeting to discuss supply levels, then tells her nightly story to the children of the camp. Only once the last child has been led to bed by his caretaker does she turn her attention to seeking out Schwartz.
It takes no time at all. A part of her is always aware of her location, in the same way she is always subconsciously aware of her hands and what they do. The other half of her soul is not far away; she is well within walking distance, close to the neighbouring refugee camp.
Once she has pinpointed the exact location, she departs. Both guards at the perimeter know her and let her pass, though with some concern—in this warzone, as in so many others, it is more dangerous to be a civilian woman than a soldier.
Schwartz meets her halfway. It is unsurprising: she could not have failed to note the directness of Grune's approach. And thus, on the muddy road before her, the darkness thickens, purple light twists, and Schwartz forms out of the air.
"Grune," she says, the surprise in her equal's voice audible only to her. "Why do you seek me out? It is not yet the appointed time."
"I am aware." Grune takes in a breath to steady herself. "I am here because I require your aid."
"You require my aid," Schwartz repeats, and though her expression is concealed behind her half-mask, Grune knows her eyebrows have lifted.
"Yes. I have found a world that has lost its balance. Not this world—it is one where its guardian deity has lost its powers. Evil runs freely and its people suffer daily."
Schwartz is watching her carefully now. "You know I cannot grant rest to a world to which we have not been called."
She immediately shakes her head. She would never forgive herself if Schwartz erased Giles' world from existence, not even to the end of time.
"That is not what I ask."
"Then speak, or allow me to continue my work."
"Help me to return balance to that world. I cannot do it alone, but together we can give its people the chance to live in peace."
She watches Schwartz consider her plea and silently curses the other's always measured actions.
At last, Schwartz responds. ". . . We have not been called to that place. It is not our responsibility."
"No," Grune agrees. She cannot deny that. Then, deliberately, she adds, "But it is our duty."
Schwartz does not speak for many moments longer. "Take me to this world. I shall see if it is as you say."
It is all she can do to keep from smiling. She has won. She knows Schwartz as well as she knows herself—for that is who Schwartz is. Schwartz will not be able to deny her request when she experiences the imbalance for herself.
"Very well," she says, her voice superficially level.
She takes only a second to ascertain they are alone. Then black feathers follow white as they both leave their world.
She appears again in Sunnydale's cemetery; if that place of malice cannot sway Schwartz, then there is nothing else she can do.
She has no need to fear, however. Schwartz is barely finished forming when Grune sees her lips part and hears her take in just the smallest of breaths. Now her silence is far easier to bear. There is no longer any doubt what her decision will be.
She receives her last confirmation when Schwartz turns to her. "You were right to bring me here. This cannot be allowed to stand."
"It cannot," Grune says, her heart light in spite of the evil saturating the air around them.
"We need to think of what we must—"
Schwartz stops, abruptly alert for the same reason Grune is.
A child, a sandy-haired boy of perhaps seven, is walking towards them. He had not entered the cemetery without their notice—though that is what they are meant to believe—but had simply appeared.
She catches Schwartz's gaze as well as she can despite the other's mask. Using the appearance of a child for evil purposes is a trick that has been tried countless times against them. If this being believes it will cause either of them to lower their guard, it will soon discover its mistake.
"I felt you come here earlier." The boy stops before them. He points at Grune, his small finger outstretched in both accusation and a show of fragility. "You killed some of my friends. And now you've brought someone else. Why did you do that? You know you're not supposed to be here."
She has neither the time nor the patience for such a charade. "Cease your foolishness. It will not work on us."
The boy giggles. "Nope."
"We know you are a being of power. It is useless to pretend," Schwartz says.
"But it's fun—and it's so useful, too," he adds. "The innocents are always so horrified when they realize they have to stop me like this, poor things." He grins ferally. "The hardened ones, they flinch a bit, even if it's only in their souls, but then they do whatever they think they need to get me to leave. But you two. . . ." He peers at them and an expression of childish delight fills his face. "I don't think you'd flinch at all. Who are you?"
"I am Grune," she says.
"And I am Schwartz."
The boy mimes deep thought. "Nice motif. But . . . nope, never heard of either of you." He cocks his head at them. "So why are you here? You're no more human than I am, even if those are pretty good disguises. Especially yours." He points at Grune again. "You even had me fooled for a while there, and believe me, I know humans." That same, ill-fitting grin appears on his face, showing too many tiny teeth. There's one missing, a lower tooth; another is growing in.
"We are here to restore balance," Grune says, unmoved by the sight. "While darkness is necessary . . ."
". . . just as necessary as light," Schwartz continues, "this world is out of balance. You have grown too strong."
"Your power must be checked," Grune finishes.
The boy laughs. "You two are funny! You really think I'm going to give up my hold on this world to those feeble Powers That Be?" He spreads his small arms to encompass not the graveyard, but the planet. "I've ruled this world for a long time and I like it. I'm not going anywhere."
He drops his arms. "You're both fools to try. You might be gods, but I'm the First Evil. I've existed since time began."
"You are lying," Schwartz says in her voice that makes every word a fact. "You are young. Your existence is tied to the humans upon which you inflict such suffering. Do not attempt to fool us—child."
The First Evil sighs and shrugs. "Oh well. It was worth trying. Humans always want to believe I'm so ancient. It makes them feel important."
He strolls over to a headstone and hops up to sit on it. Carelessly, he kicks his feet on the name carved into it in a way that would anger Grune if she allowed it.
"Anyway, it doesn't matter how old I am. I'm not about to let you take this world away from me—not when I've just gotten it all nicely broken in. I'm going to have to stop you . . . well," he says, as if reconsidering the false spontaneity of his words. "I can't. I can't touch anyone in this world. But I have lots and lots of friends."
People of all ages and sizes begin fading into view: vampires every last one of them. Interspersed among them are the more obvious varieties of demons, filling the air with their hateful, gleeful anticipation of a massacre.
"Better run before you're torn to pieces!" the First Evil advises on a laugh. "Bye-bye!"
His mouth opens inhumanly wide. Shark teeth sprout in his mouth, and his body wrenches inside out: he has devoured himself.
Grune wastes no time. She summons her urn and closes the distance between herself and Schwartz. Her opposite is already gripping her double-headed sun-and-moon axe.
"Are you ready?" Grune asks.
"Yes. But let us not lose sight of our true objective," Schwartz reminds her in the last seconds before the horde begins to run.
Grune does not respond. Instead, she sends a great sphere of light, half her height, into the midst of the demons. Squeals echo through the headstones long after the throats from which they sprang are dust. The other monsters are not deterred—they laugh at the sight and close ranks.
Schwartz sprints forward from her side; just out of reach of their enemies, she begins her blade dance. Limbs are severed, wounds opened, and from the demons blood of all colours gushes. The vampires are not slowed, and though they are quick to reach for Schwartz, she is quicker, raising an energy barrier to blast them away from her.
"The vampires must be stabbed through the heart," Grune calls over the din and throws two more holy globes, one from each hand.
She glances toward Schwartz in time to see a vampire shatter into dust at the end of Schwartz's axe, then turns back to scatter the monsters with her own energy barrier, green to Schwartz's purple. It gives her a few seconds to scorch the air with more light, this time as a wide laser beam. A quick smile—she has nearly mastered this one—and at last she has time to do a proper casting.
There are no incantations or spell names to shout on the world of Herane, where she is meant to be, but she lets fly her rain of shooting stars with a triumphant cry. As the blazing points of light sear the monsters before her, she hears Schwartz's answering cry, her voice harsh—and heated. She can never maintain her emotionless demeanour in a fight for the inhabitants of a world, no matter if she fights against or with Grune.
She senses Schwartz's approach; a second later, her double's back is pressed against hers where her own veil has slipped aside. They stick to one another with sweat and the hair that has slipped from Schwartz's twin-ended tail presses against her shoulder. In no time at all, a second set of falling stars showers the graveyard; Grune follows Schwartz's spell with another laser to keep distance between them and the already much-thinned mass.
"We do not have time yet," Schwartz snaps out, frustration plain in her voice.
"We shall earn it," Grune answers calmly. "Do you recall Maelstrom?"
"That eres of Melfes?" Schwartz shoots away, flying forward to decapitate a too-quick demon, then returns. "You have always been too sentimental about that world."
Grune ignores the jibe. Perhaps symbolism is foolish now, but it will give her strength.
"As one?" she asks, flinging two more globes of light.
Schwartz does not answer at first; she strikes down more of the monsters with the heavenly rays of Herane.
Then: "Very well."
An opening has been cleared. In perfect unison, they began the incantation, strength of will and the echo of the void blending in passionate declaration.
"Majestic indigo ruler of all lands, let loose thy churning tempest to engorge upon this, our misfortune."
They fling out their hands, fingernails glowing, opposite in direction but united in cause, and their voices ring clear above the unholy cacophony—
"Maelstrom!"
Twin tornadoes of holy light twist into being. Taller than any tree, they wrench through the cemetery and the wind sings as evil vanishes in its wake.
They are so in tune now that neither needs to say a word. Schwartz's axe vanishes to be replaced by a flute of hollowed bone, and she takes only a breath before beginning to play what must be the melody of the end. Grune has never before heard it—she has always faded already from the world when Schwartz plays. But, hearing its simple, airy tones, she is not afraid for this Earth. Instead, she smiles and begins to weave.
The cries of the few remaining servants of the First Evil are distantly multiplying, but it no longer matters. In perfect concert, Schwartz is ending one path of the world while Grune is creating another.
She hears the howling of the First Evil, but she does not falter and Schwartz does not drop a note. Soon, it ceases, and she is left only to fold together the ends of time. When the melody comes to a close, she senses a second pair of hands come to work the last threads into a pattern of balance.
Then, easily, the work is completed. Grune lets go with a sigh, and she and Schwartz stand in an ordinary graveyard.
The First Evil has never existed here. There is evil—vampires and demons may still be found, although they are far rarer—but that malevolent entity is unknown by all save her and Schwartz. Together, they have shaped time so that The Powers That Be have a chance. Not dominion, but an opportunity to fight. Of course, Grune made certain that the ones with the greatest chance of all . . . are the humans.
She looks about what has always been nothing more than a place of rest, then turns to Schwartz. . . . She smiles.
"Thank you." Without Schwartz's strength and skill, she might have erred. She would not have been able to keep the shape of this Earth's lives largely whole. Working alone, while she could have ensured that many who died by the indirect hand of the First Evil would have lived, some who lived in that world that has never existed might never have been born. With Schwartz, those lives, too, have been preserved.
Schwartz shakes her head just once. "It was our duty."
The night air is warm and light. Without the oppression of evil weighing her down, Grune nearly feels like dancing. Certainly, she cannot stop smiling. "It was."
. . . Not until Schwartz takes a few steps forward with a speculative air.
"There is still much pain in this world," she says. "We have only partially eased it."
"No, Schwartz." Her tone is now commanding. "That is beyond our duty. Should we be called to this place, we may proceed further. Now we must return to Herane."
". . . Yes. You are correct." With reluctance, Schwartz turns back to her. "We shall return in time."
She takes a final look about with the air of one who is satisfied with her work, then melts into black feathers and vanishes.
A moment later, a moment to listen to the wind in the trees and to feel the warmth of the night on her skin, and she vanishes as well.
She does not tell Schwartz that the time before either of them will return shall be far shorter for her.
When she enters the Magic Box the next day (from the perception of the people of Sunnydale, that is), it is a young woman behind the counter, not Giles. She's already setting aside her book and calling out, "Welcome to the Magic Box. Can I help you?"
"Thank you, but I am only looking," she says with a polite smile.
"All right. If you need any help, just ask." The woman settles back and picks up her book again.
Grune moves slowly about the shop, memorizing it all. She takes in its colours; she breathes in the rich, mingled scent of magical ingredients. She will remember the dust motes in the sunlight and the sound of her boots on the wooden floor and the near smoothness of the shelves as her fingertips trail along their edges. She will remember, for after this day, she will only visit this place in her memories.
When she reaches the shelf containing essence of violet, she reaches into the bag over her shoulder and withdraws a small book. This she lays against the display after she has made certain the young woman's focus is on her novel.
She takes her time traveling to the door. Just before she leaves, the young woman looks up.
"No luck?"
She shakes her head. "I'm afraid not. Perhaps another day."
"Yeah, all right. Thanks for visiting."
She pushes open the door, steps out into the sunlight, and begins to walk. A little later, in front of a white two-storey house with a beautifully-kept garden, she stops.
The Weaver of Time reshapes the fabric of the world one last time.
Then, she departs from it.
Her hands had been careful and sure, but Grune had deliberately allowed just one thread to drop from her grasp.
Later that day, Anya will discover a book someone has left behind and will set it by the register. On his next shift, Giles will find it, pick it up, browse through it. He will come to the only page that is marked, by a carefully folded corner. He will read it out of mild curiosity, but in the end, he will be unable to see its significance.
The flower symbolism associated with the daisy is purity, innocence, loyal love, beauty, patience, and simplicity. . . .
later I will provide a proper review(?) but for now:
BAD. ASS.
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GOD I LOVED WRITING THAT. This was just one biiiiig looooooong fic of "This would be cool. LET'S DO IT."
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And oh my god, you made a daisy reference. My heart, it is happy~. I am actually smiling right here in the library.
More coherence later. ♥ I just couldn't take all the feels all at once.
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Awww! ♥ Always have to have a daisy reference.
/sits back happily to wait
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And you actually got the First Evil down pat - did you actually watch Amends? Because seriously, you've got its voice down. And vampires making mistakes like that and attacking girls they shouldn't is practically an evolutionary trait of Sunnydale vampires XD. All in all, beautifully described and atmospheric, especially when you're unfamiliar with the canon.
Of course, my favorite part was the look inside True Grune's head - it's always easy to forget that goddesses can get conflicted, too, and so especially satisfying to see it. You did a good job of writing the emotion - it was almost visceral. And portraying Giles, too, but I always have faith in you to manage that ;) . It's not often that he talks to customers in the Magic Box, he usually leaves that to Anya, so he'd definitely be nervous, especially for Grune, especially if he subconsciously remembered her.
And Grune and Schwartz teamup! *squee* I don't think words can even express how exciting that is.
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I suppose Giles also met with a gruesome, horrible end--he just took longer about it. :D;
I actually only ended up watching "Conversations with Dead People," which is why I was kind of uncertain whether I had gotten The First Evil down. I have seen a lot of Joss Whedon's stuff, though, so that's where I actually drew a lot of my inspiration. Now I'm kind of curious about what "Amends" is like!
And thank you very much! One of the reasons I really enjoyed playing around with True!Grune is she's this interesting mix of remote immortal and emotional mortal due to her role in the eternal conflict between her and Schwartz, and depending on the situation, one side can come out to play more than the other. With Giles and her other dearly loved friends, she tends to be a little more "human" --I guess you could say they're a good influence on her. :P
I imagine Giles would be particularly nervous around such a beautiful customer who seems to regard him so warmly, too. XD Why him?
And Grune and Schwartz teamup! *squee*
Once I had the idea that The First Evil would piss off both of them, there was no way in hell (haha) I could leave that idea alone--for obvious reasons. :Db There's nothing like remembering that those two are actually one being--and remembering while they're firing off the magical equivalent of the 4th of July, at that.
Thank you for the lovely, long, detailed review--it's very much appreciated. ♥
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(I kind of enjoy "Amends" for the fact that its the first and last time Giles and Angel wind up alone in the same room together since "Becoming". It's a short little scene, but the actors put a lot into it, and it winds up beautifully twisted up and generally uncomfortable because of it. Especially when the First-as-Jenny gets close to him.)
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(Oh geez, I can well imagine. Now I really do need to watch this episode.)
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(You really do. Overall, everyone comes off very well besides the First, and it's one of those episodes that genuinely made me ship Buffy and Angel and feel truly sorry for Angel, and Giles gets a bit of pathos in turn.)
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(Wow, that sounds like a winner, all right. ...Buuuuut I probably won't be watching it until I finish DS9. Whoops.)
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Frikkin' laser beams!This fic has everything!No but seriously ahaha it must really suck if Schwartz really does have to come save everyone. But Grune's interaction with Giles was really sweet! Everything she did was just a whole bunch of awwwww... ...Except maybe the memory thing.
PFFT Grune talking Schwartz into doing stuff. And also still being attached to Melfes ♥ Even if that is kind of sad.
...Also several million years and she's never heard the melody of the end. XD; Of course it makes sense, but it's still strange to think about Schwartz having been doing something over and over and over again that often that Grune has never witnessed.
And yiss, of course Grune has to go back for one last goodbye ^^
And yes, I enjoy the last line 8D
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One of these things is not like the others.... XD
I haven't seen much of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but what I have seen has given me "crapsack world" vibes to the max. It really does seem like a thoroughly unpleasant place to live, and The First Evil seems just so nasty that I think it would piss off Schwartz enough for this to happen. After all, she wants people not to suffer to just as much as Grune. She just has a slightly different way of solving the problem. :D;;
Thanks to losing her memories and going to Luceti, Grune got a lot closer to everyone from Melfes than she usually would let herself. She's not going to be able to set aside those memories for a long time.
Yeah, it's kind of weird to think about, but she really had no idea what Schwartz does after she loses. Apparently, there's a first time for everything, even when you've lived for millions of years.
Definitely. She couldn't just leave it at that.
Excellent. ♥
Thanks for reading! ♥