Disclaimer : Everyone knows who own Buffy and co ! Let's say it, it's not me!
This story is the 14th episode in a series called 'Rocky path' that begins around one year after 'Chosen'
( I strongly recommend to read the 13 first episodes to understand that one)
You can check the series out on my website. (see the url in my profile)
Sorry for the (very very) long delay since last episode, but unfortunately I can't really promise I'll do better next time... Time will tell.
Until then, hope you enjoy this episode!
Thanks to everyone who left feedback about the previous episodes and will take time to review this one.
The manor was nestled at the end of a short alley closed with a high wrought ironed gate which might have been majestic in the past. Nowadays, it still stood at the entrance but it would certainly need some serious renewal. Some snow could still be found on its top, last relic of the long-lasting winter, and long raindrops were running down its hinges.
Behind the old L-shaped house that could be partly seen from the gate, stretched a wide park surrounded by high hedges, where stains of snow were scattered around.
The park looked like it had somehow been upkeep recently, and the wet grass had clearly been walked on by many people not long ago. But the place had obviously deteriorated over the years. It used to be a boarding school for young girls of good upbringing who were sent there in the middle of nowhere to learn what young girls were supposed to know. When the school had finally closed for lack of applicants, the manor had been abandoned for a very long time and the remnants of this time of neglect and silence were still visible.
Later, a couple of rich British people had finally bought the place and they used to come regularly to spend their holidays and had finished their lives there. After both had died, around ten years before, the manor had become a jointly owned property and had remained again uninhabited for a long time. Until very recently.
For months now, the manor's resounded again with new calls, yells, noise, life.
Every owner had once worked for the Watcher's Council in some way or another, so when the Council's survivors and new members, who worked to gather a new Council destined to lead the newly called Slayers, had contacted them, it was not long before they decided to grant Rupert Giles' request and to donate this old family property lost in Oregon where nobody of the family had come for years, to the Watchers Council. The manor had finally regained its first purpose. Just like before, dozens of young girls now lived there and were given a singular training.
The dormitories were still on the second and third floors of the building. They had been refitted a little in order to allow more intimacy than what was possible at the time of the boarding school, but a former boarder would probably recognize the place. The dining hall was working again and had been largely modernized. It was the gathering place where everyone would meet for lunch and diner and spend some time together. On the other hand, the classrooms had nothing left of what they were once. Only a few of them had been kept for this purpose in the main wing of the building, but modernized and entirely equipped. Some dividing walls had been knocked down, the walls painted, all furniture replaced. No classroom could be found in the side wing. The complete first floor was now a wide gymnasium, filled from morning to evening. Several bay windows opened on the park and remained wide-opened during the summer when the good weather would allow the girls to leave the gymnasium to make the most of the good outdoor air.
For their part, members of the training staff resided on the second floor of the side wing where they could enjoy what little breathing space their frantic life would allow.
That night, dinner had been served at the same time as usually and was now over. The residents had then hanged about and gone about their business as their schedule allowed them. An hour exactly after the end of the diner, the old bell of the boarding school had rang out, inviting all the boarders to gather in the gymnasium for the last training session of the day before going to bed. For an hour now, in groups of two or three, the girls kept repeating the same kicking and punching gestures, the same dodging movements, the same small leaps, the same feints. Most of them were not much older than thirteen or fourteen years old, and the few being around sixteen, passed among the groups to correct a gesture or to give a tip or a word of encouragement.
Leaning in the doorway of the main entrance, a young, yet slightly older, redhead woman was watching the scene thoughtfully, an air of worry crossing her face. At first sight, it would have been difficult to say if Violet Stanford, known as a "second generation Slayer" - nearly a living Goddess for her protégées for having survived the now famous battle of Sunnydale - was really watching her group of Slayers, or if she was looking at the driving rain, streaming along the bay windows on the other side of the room.
She looked down a second to her watch on her right wrist, then to her cellphone she held in her left hand. Then, she looked up, and her eyes followed a group of girls who appeared to work particularly hard in front of her. She watched them for a moment longer and sighed. Finally, she dialed a number on her phone and turned on her heels to give her phone call in the corridor.
Faith was walking in the middle of the sidewalk with her hands deeply buried in her jeans pockets. Thin rain was falling upon her hair and shoulders and slided in her neck, but she did not appear to notice nor care. Whereas other passers-by were hurrying under umbrellas or awnings of the shops lining the street, the Slayer was walking slowly under the gray sky, indifferent to the water splashing on her already damp clothes. Her shoes were wet too from crossing more or less deep pools, and Faith could feel her feet soaking with humidity.
But it did not matter. A few more steps and the Slayer would be at the motel where she now stayed alone since the day before.
She automatically hurried when she finally caught sight of the purple neon which told visitors where the building stood. She crossed the porch which marked the entrance and stopped in front of the reception bay window. She glanced at the clock hanging above the desk and saw it marking quarter to eleven. Faith hesitated to open the door and come in to talk to the receptionist. But the woman was busy with a couple of late customers and Faith just shrugged before resuming her lonely walk. She crossed the small courtyard, walked quickly up the stairs leading to the second floor and stopped in front of her room's door. The curtains were drawn and no light could be seen coming from the room, but Faith delayed the moment she would open the door for a few more seconds. Finally, she slided her magnetic key in the lock and pushed the door. The room was dark and the brunette switched the lights on as she closed the door behind her. She stayed a moment right before the closed door and beheld the room, looking for something, a detail that would have changed while she was away. When she had to admit that nothing had moved at all, she sighed and threw the key of the room casually on the desk at her right. Then, she started to undress, discarded her wet clothes on the back of a chair or directly on the floor, before heading to the bathroom to take a hot shower.
