A large box full of books sat on the floor; there was room enough for one
more, a small one, no more than one hundred hand written pages, with
leather binding and ink marks on the cover. That space was reserved for
that particular book, that particular Watcher's Diary.
Rupert Giles sat alone in his magic shop. It was early, but he was technically open for business, the odd hours he kept, the recent, and multiple short-term closures had all taken a toll on his business. However, he didn't mind, especially not today. Today was Buffy's funeral.
Buffy's Funeral.
The words bounced around and echoed in his skull. She was never supposed to die. He had honestly expected her to beat the destiny of every Slayer before her and live.
His diary sat open on a blank page, he was supposed to record her final battle. She had wanted him to do it with as many details as possible. He remembered how frustrated she had been when they had researched those past Slayer's final battles, no details, and no clues; only "she was killed while battling a vampire."
Buffy had wanted more than "after a successful battle with the Hell-god Glory, she died when she saved the world and her sister from certain doom." She wanted to help the next Slayer understand and survive. Rupert had tried so hard to fulfill that wish. He had kept as detailed a diary as possible, recording every significant and insignificant thing. Her training regimen, her choice of footwear, her relationship with Angel, her choice of shampoo, her insistence that stakes be more substantial instead of really pointy because they were easier to use in a fight.
Rupert didn't even have to flip through the pages to remember everything he had written. The blank page that he stared at while he sipped his tea told him everything. Everything about Buffy the Vampire Slayer was in this diary.
Everything except how she died for the final time. He couldn't write it. Nevertheless, he had to; the Council was demanding the return of The Watchers' Diaries, including his masterpiece of nothing. They were all ready pulling strings for Faith, and had the nerve to ask him to take over her training and rehabilitation. He hadn't gotten angry, he didn't yell, he just cried.
The children would be arriving soon. He didn't know what would happen. Dawn had been tranquilized for the last few days; Willow and Tara had handled almost all of the arrangements because Xander had been nursing Anya's injuries. All he could do, all he had been doing, was sitting numbly while they each cried on his shoulder, his own silent tears mixing with theirs. Dawn's cuts were healing, but her heart was cracked. Spike, if he could manage it, never left her side. Rupert had expected him to leave immediately, to give up and go, but he stayed, camping in the Summers' basement. He hid when anyone came to the house, he didn't say a word to anyone, except Dawn. What promise had he made?
Probably one a lot like mine, thought Rupert, a completely anti-instinctual and psychologically destructive promise.
Two creatures (Rupert kept asking himself which one of them was the monster?) as devoted as he and Spike could do nothing else but keep promises. Fearfully made promises had shaped his life and were continuing to do so, and probably would into infirmity. He had never failed to keep one of them, no matter the regrets or pain.
He took off his glasses and squinted at the book, with his vision blurry Rupert could almost imagine that words made an ant-march across those blank pages. His eyes stung with tears, his head ached from the whiskey, his stomach burned from the churning acid as he considered what he was about to do. He closed the book and picked it up from the table, walked across the shop and put it in his secret drawer. He would write those final pages when he was ready, when he could do justice to Buffy's memory. For now, they would remain empty.
He returned to the box of books on the floor, and closed it up. He sealed the seams with packing tape, and addressed it.
The Council would get a copy of his diary when it was finished. An abridged copy, that left out the personal information. His copy would keep Buffy real and alive for him, and maybe even for Dawn.
Someday.
Rupert Giles sat alone in his magic shop. It was early, but he was technically open for business, the odd hours he kept, the recent, and multiple short-term closures had all taken a toll on his business. However, he didn't mind, especially not today. Today was Buffy's funeral.
Buffy's Funeral.
The words bounced around and echoed in his skull. She was never supposed to die. He had honestly expected her to beat the destiny of every Slayer before her and live.
His diary sat open on a blank page, he was supposed to record her final battle. She had wanted him to do it with as many details as possible. He remembered how frustrated she had been when they had researched those past Slayer's final battles, no details, and no clues; only "she was killed while battling a vampire."
Buffy had wanted more than "after a successful battle with the Hell-god Glory, she died when she saved the world and her sister from certain doom." She wanted to help the next Slayer understand and survive. Rupert had tried so hard to fulfill that wish. He had kept as detailed a diary as possible, recording every significant and insignificant thing. Her training regimen, her choice of footwear, her relationship with Angel, her choice of shampoo, her insistence that stakes be more substantial instead of really pointy because they were easier to use in a fight.
Rupert didn't even have to flip through the pages to remember everything he had written. The blank page that he stared at while he sipped his tea told him everything. Everything about Buffy the Vampire Slayer was in this diary.
Everything except how she died for the final time. He couldn't write it. Nevertheless, he had to; the Council was demanding the return of The Watchers' Diaries, including his masterpiece of nothing. They were all ready pulling strings for Faith, and had the nerve to ask him to take over her training and rehabilitation. He hadn't gotten angry, he didn't yell, he just cried.
The children would be arriving soon. He didn't know what would happen. Dawn had been tranquilized for the last few days; Willow and Tara had handled almost all of the arrangements because Xander had been nursing Anya's injuries. All he could do, all he had been doing, was sitting numbly while they each cried on his shoulder, his own silent tears mixing with theirs. Dawn's cuts were healing, but her heart was cracked. Spike, if he could manage it, never left her side. Rupert had expected him to leave immediately, to give up and go, but he stayed, camping in the Summers' basement. He hid when anyone came to the house, he didn't say a word to anyone, except Dawn. What promise had he made?
Probably one a lot like mine, thought Rupert, a completely anti-instinctual and psychologically destructive promise.
Two creatures (Rupert kept asking himself which one of them was the monster?) as devoted as he and Spike could do nothing else but keep promises. Fearfully made promises had shaped his life and were continuing to do so, and probably would into infirmity. He had never failed to keep one of them, no matter the regrets or pain.
He took off his glasses and squinted at the book, with his vision blurry Rupert could almost imagine that words made an ant-march across those blank pages. His eyes stung with tears, his head ached from the whiskey, his stomach burned from the churning acid as he considered what he was about to do. He closed the book and picked it up from the table, walked across the shop and put it in his secret drawer. He would write those final pages when he was ready, when he could do justice to Buffy's memory. For now, they would remain empty.
He returned to the box of books on the floor, and closed it up. He sealed the seams with packing tape, and addressed it.
The Council would get a copy of his diary when it was finished. An abridged copy, that left out the personal information. His copy would keep Buffy real and alive for him, and maybe even for Dawn.
Someday.