TDWP: On a Wing and a Prayer pt. 11
The sensation which washes through the brunette, slides powerfully through her skin and knocks her back to the ground. She lays where she fell, crumpled against a wall for support, her long, straight dark-brown hair askew and feathered over her shoulders. Anguish crosses her strikingly beautiful features, but she closes her brown eyes lest those around her see that the next feeling which runs through her is not pain, but outrage.
She should have been in Sunnydale.
No, Cordelia Chase corrects herself, she should have been in LA fighting against the wild-hare impulse to go to Sunnydale. She should have been griping about invasive dreams to her ghost, which now are not happening, and she should have been able to gloat when one of at least three of the women finally cracked and came to get her. She was now sure it would have been Willow. And she has the sense of her two others, who had been part of this new thing. In another life, which she had dreamed and seen, she had been looking forward to meeting the people who discombobulated Buffy's world.
But now, no. She didn't have any of that. Those she had been meant for had no idea they were missing a piece. They had no idea what they were doing to her, and apparently no inhibition to hold them back. She aches constantly for them and the days and months she has given up counting are passing with no obvious clue as to how to get back. All she has managed to do is carve out some sanctuary and personal power, because, for once, the gift Doyle passed on, is useful and accurate. Though it is still utterly, screamingly painful.
She wants to blame Angel. He would be such a convenient target for the rage and loneliness festering in her heart, but really, how could she? After all, he had come to Pylea to rescue her. It had been the return trip that was the trouble. She remembers jumping into the portal that was supposed to take them home, and the sensation of heading one way, then a magic cascade, pleasurable though it was, which pushed her in a totally other direction and boom, a bounce against a barrier that wasn't supposed to be there and suddenly she's not at home and not where she had originally been either.
A snarl curls her lips, just as human-looking, though some were not human at all, persons start to reach to assist her. They back away, wisely. They have learned that she will not always stay still for people to manhandle her into rest. The young woman is a force to be reckoned.
She forces herself to open her eyes and then to stand regally. She does not ignore them, as that would be rude, but her words are perhaps cooler than she might have intended. "I will be in my chambers. It wasn't anything important. Continue on."
"Shall we send someone to soothe the pain?"
"No," Cordelia says, too sharply. Then she backs off, again, striving to find her center. "I'll just have to deal with it." Like usual.
She pauses at the door, before exiting and turns, allowing her expression to soften. What she is going through now is not any of these person's fault and all they have ever done is helped. They might be used to her terseness after vision, but they do not deserve it; especially since this time it wasn't a vision that has incapacitated her. "I thank you for the offer and your kindness." Then she leaves, not knowing if it even matters that she tried to ease things a little.
It does, more than she knows. She has no idea how much these people love and respect her, nor how much they worry for her.
-TDWP & BTVS-
Cordelia has no real idea where she is, except elsewhere. The natives call the planet Torisa and somehow, they all understood her and she them. She finds it very ironic that she is much wealthier in this world than her own, though she doesn't even keep most of it.
She remembers.
It had been sheer luck all the way. She had arrived in the outskirts of one of the more popular cities, where adventurers, tourists and pilgrims flocked. Cerundus' citizens were used to foreigners and didn't even blink at her strangeness. She'd walked in through the great golden Gates of Miran, a protective edifice that made her think of roman pillars, and found shelter within a day of arrival.
She'd gained a lot of skill and self-sufficiency working at the agency. She had a working knowledge of things magical and mystical, she had fighting skills that had grown in leaps over the years and she was a very, very intelligent woman who knew how to play beautiful well. She had outgrown being a kidnap-magnet and become something quite other than what she used to be, including being known for her compassion. Though she still held the killer tongue and honest bluntness in her arsenal.
Understanding the possibilities of her location came together in one of those vast markets that seemed to be strewn about the city, where she contemplated whether she would have anything worth trading in her bag, which lucky her, had come through too, and she was discarding ideas left and right. Make up she could probably have sold, but there was no way she was giving up the thing that gave her an edge. Paper and pen were too valuable a commodity. She had a small arsenal, but that she might need. She saw people wandering around with swords, axes, knives and other weapons and that told her already she was in a dangerous world.
She considered that she might have to let go of her jewelry, and knew an instance of regret for the thought. She only had a few pieces, but she had finally moved past fake into the real again and she was going to feel the loss. However, if selling a ring meant she could get shelter, food and a bit of safety, then that is what she would do.
From there it was a matter of finding the local equivalent of a jeweler, watching how much things were bought and sold for and then bargaining. It wasn't hard or even inconvenient, just a matter of selection. She chose one based on the number of people who entered, the way they dressed and their expression of satisfaction. She even took a moment to interview one or two people, with short, easy questions of, "Is he fair? Is he good?"
"She is," was the answer and Cordelia knew she could do business.
While not necessarily brightly lit, the jeweler's space was open and welcoming; as was the jeweler herself. The woman had waited patiently while Cordelia browsed and observed and then, when it seemed like they were both ready to talk, the bargaining had happened as naturally as picking a flower.
The jeweler had been impressed with the ring, the small cut stones, which were interestingly arranged. She had even said, "I can not pay all this is worth..."
Cordelia had already known that. "Well, I don't need just money. I need a safe place to stay and someone who knows the layout of the city. I need food and..." She looked down at herself, "... clothes. And other things."
"I can give you gold and script. The script will help with the services you require and the gold can be exchanged for goods. I know people and I know someone who can help you find a place."
Cordelia had smiled then, forgetting the power of that smile for a moment, "Then we have an agreement."
"I..." the woman had been dazzled, but she had nodded and then mentally added to the original tally she had intended, "... yes. We do."
An hour later, by Cordelia's watch, and she had a place to stay and was being guided through the busy spaces by a smiling youth. He practically bounced when he walked, fast paced like a child of the city could be, yet always attentive to where he was and the fact he was her guide. He took her to a clothier, where she might find outfits that suited her purpose.
As soon as they walked in she felt immediately at home. Just as she knew jewelry, she knew clothes. The boy had introduced her to the matron and then it was a matter of making selections and getting fitted. She was suddenly grateful that slacks, though that wasn't the name for them, were not a forbidden item. The skirt length depended on the occupation and the time of day and some arcane details that she did not understand. She was simply grateful she did not have to dress like princess Leia. She'd said that out loud.
The boy, his back turned, had asked her, when he'd overheard her comment, "You know princesses?"
From the way his voice sounded, she imagined his eyes were very wide when he asked. She had considered for a moment and then, because it was a form of truth, had answered, "I used to. It's been awhile. At my last job I met a few too."
Because conversing is a way to pass time, the person assisting with the fitting had asked, "What was your last job."
Cordelia had choked back her first answer of, "Saving the world." But the woman had looked up at her as if she'd heard it and the truth behind the thought anyway. Then she'd quickly turned her head and Cordelia had answered with the more modest response of, "This and that. It's hard to describe. I got to travel some, but mostly tried to help people." Which was true. She just didn't mention all the fighting and bloodshed and aching headaches and learning to really be a team player that had become her life. She was a long way from being the made-herself-the-secretary she'd started out as and even farther from the teenager.
The seamstress had said then, "I will include warriors wear in your collection."
The boy had swiveled then, "You're a warrior?"
"Head turned," the seamstress had ordered, and the boy had forced his attention back to the other wall.
Cordelia had closed her eyes, "I can't claim that. I was going to be an actress."
"The gods put us where we are meant to be," the seamstress had said with equanimity, while the boy took that as an answer of yes. It was his, short, but expansive experience, that most of the good warriors were humble about it.
Cordelia had held the snap she felt wanting to burst from her mouth, bit it back. It wouldn't do to argue with the person who had the pointy, sharp scissors near delicate locations. The conversation lagged after that, but Cordelia walked out with more good than she entered, in local styles that flattered, but allowed for her modern sensibilities. The boy carried them. She found out his name was Kyledemen. She called him Kyle, which he did not mind, since his name got shortened all the time.
For the next day or two, while she acclimated and considered whether she needed to find a real job or not, he was her guide to the world. Kyle was with her when she visited the local savings and loan and stored what wealth she had, including the rest of her jewelry. He was with her when she visited the local library and discovered that while she might speak and hear well enough, writing and reading might be a problem. The boy didn't know how to write or read either. He merely shrugged at her dismay, "You can always hire a scribe."
"It's like having your own ride," she had tried to explain, "You don't know how convenient it is until you don't have it any more. I was hoping I might be able to use writing as a skill."
"Oh. So you're a scribe? I thought you were a warrior."
She looked at the boy very seriously and said, "It's possible to be both."
A grey-bearded man, who was passing by, had stopped and said, "The woman is wise, son. I'd listen to her," and then he'd introduced himself. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"I was hoping to browse, but I think I'll have to pass."
"I know someone who teaches. I will give you their name."
Thus, Kyle was with her when she went to visit the tutor slash scribe. The scribe, unfortunately, had not been as open minded as the man who made the recommendation. The boy had said, as they left, "I don't think he liked women much."
"Some people are like that," Cordelia had said evenly. Though she'd gotten in a few admirable wordy stabs at the so-called tutor, "They have issues. You can't wait for them to change, it'll just damage you."
"I can try and find someone else if you'd like."
"No. That's okay. I don't even know if I'll be here that long anyway. It was just a possibility."
"Oh. Well, what do you want to do next."
"Honestly, I think I want to go home." And wasn't that just a loaded statement? She'd relented though, since the boy wasn't ready to leave yet. "Maybe get dinner first."
"I know a place to eat close to here. It's not like the one Mom recommended, but their food is good and people say nice things about their ale."
"Ale. That's a relative of beer. I could use one."
The boy had grinned at her then and led her to the Red Talisman. Even if Kyle hadn't recommended it, Cordelia might have tried it, simply because it seemed to be popular and well lit. She bought food for both of them, ale for her, something lighter for him. They ate in companionable silence and watched the other patrons, which were composed of all sorts.
She supposed it was inevitable that some muscular, handsome type would decide she might be worth spending time with. The man swaggered toward her and she set what she was holding down and finished swallowing. She tried to gage whether this person was the type to take no for an answer, but it was hard to tell. The cocky walk to could indicate either. She noted he wore a jacket with patches on it, which spoke of organization, which might also mean this guy might be okay or this guy might be a gang member and they should run.
She hadn't arrived at a conclusion by the time he had made it to the table. He introduced himself, "I am Dyntor. My companions and I noticed that you and your young companion are here on your own ..."
"Greetings to you, Dyntor," Kyle had said as if he'd known who this guy was all along. "This is Cordelia and she is a …"
That was as far as he got when a vision hit Cordelia so hard that it knocked her over and onto the ground like she'd been punched. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as the vision overlayed what she was physically seeing. Her head felt a million miles wide and like it was splitting her down the middle, which is why she pressed against it with both hands for that first flash. The intensity was enough for her to know that the vision held something that was happening in the now and not a later thing. By the second flash, she had managed to grab her bag even though she hadn't stopped screaming and continued to ignore the frantic worried cries and actions of the boy and the stranger. By the third flash she had the notepad out and was sobbingly managing to draw a major symbol which she had seen with a shaking hand. By the fourth, she was trying to write, but the pain was so fierce even letters she knew wouldn't come.
She heard someone say, "Let me help you."
And, being in the state she was, she thrust the tablet to the person and she started saying what the vision delivered to her, while trying not to throw up from the pain or to crawl out of her own skin at what she was seeing. The words tumbled out as she attempted to describe, as clearly and quickly as possible what was seen, including the where and the what. She tried to observe as much as she could and follow the stream as far as it would take her and answer the questions that she normally tried to answer and some that were asked of her by the person writing the notes. As soon as the vision let go of her, despite the terrible agony she still felt, she struggled to stand and when hands would not let her, she batted them away, yelling that she had to be able to go help the mysterious," them," in her vision.
"My lady, we will see to it. You have my oath," Dyntor said. Even as big as he was, he barely held his grip on her. Yet he tried to hold her still, because it was obvious that this great gift came at an awful price.
Then Kyle, his face streaked with tears, said, "Please, Cordelia. If Dyntor says it, they will. They will." He too was holding to her, less trying to hold her down, so much as just to hold her
Cordelia glanced at the warrior who made the promise, then the boy who was crying and then at a woman in gold and white robes who held the notepad as if it were something very important and astonishing. "I can usually do this," she complained. "I never let it keep me down. Well, almost never. I've got to save them. I need my sword, but it's not here. It got left behind." She was speaking of the one Angel gave her, which was in a whole other world. Then, whether she willed it or not, her eyes rolled back and she passed blessedly into the haven of unconsciousness.
-TDWP & BTVS-
The Gates of Miran were situated at four compass points and acted as a very subtle weeding of the masses tool. It did not let everyone in, though anyone could freely try. The gates were an extension of the Temple of Miran, which was in the Abbey of Dreams, which was a very popular visitation point for pretty much everyone who came to the city anyway. Cordelia might have discovered it eventually on her walkabouts with Kyle or even on her own. They simply hadn't gotten that far. The city, after all spanned across a river, and was crossed by many bridges. The temple was on the other side from where Cordelia had arrived.
The brunette awakened in a room, with something cool lightly draped across her eyes. She felt slightly floaty and sick, like she usually did after an episode, but normally a vision did not incapacitate her. She hoped desperately this wouldn't become a usual thing. Her hand felt like a stone, but she lifted it anyway, to remove the cloth and started to roll into a sitting position.
Again she felt a stranger's hand pushing her down, far too easily.
"I have to..."
"It is done, Cordelia. Those that could be rescued, were."
"But not all..."
"It was not possible." The blow was delivered as gently as it could be, in soft tones and careful, neutral quiet.
It wasn't until the visions that Cordelia began to understand Buffy's horrendous bouts of depression and self-loathing. For every person saved, the one that was lost always hit her the hardest. "It hardly ever is," Cordelia whispered the grief she always carried and in spite of herself, and probably because she had been overwhelmed for days, she wept from the terrible weight of it all and they were not at all unfamiliar tears.
A hand took hers then, and held it for the longest time.
-TDWP & BTVS-
The Abbey of Dreams was not a small place, but rather like a University with walls, or even a small town. Its grounds were extensive, including carefully maintained farmland and green spaces. Like the Vatican, it had its own policing force, its own governance. Cerundus, the city that surrounded it, was ruled with a fairly even hand by a democracy of aristocrats and the few champions who had made it to the ranks. The Abbey was ruled by the Abbess, who ordered a small council of priestesses and clerics, who then saw to the rest.
After the experience in the tavern, where many people had witnessed the vision take place, including one of those priestesses, Cordelia was basically acknowledged and immediately claimed as one of Miran's. She was folded into their care with gentle near-zen insistence and persistence. What belongings she had was brought to the Abbey and she was given a set of rooms as her own. She took no oath, was not indoctrinated, but once she recovered, she was trained; in many things and as much they saw it to be necessary.
And, because she had nothing to prove to these people, she forwent her usual habits and threw herself into learning what they had to offer. It was like harnessing a bucking bronco, but Cordelia had always had a vast amount of willpower and a great sense of focus to go with her fashion. The training taught her more than mere meditation, though she meditated morning, noon and night. The priestesses helped her to expand her mystic and martial skills, honing what was already started in her previous life.
It was not at all easy, but it did get better, and she gained real confidence in her ability to speak to what the visions contained, to seek the answers out. Her new mentors taught her to walk the possibles and pathways, not just a vision's single point perspective. It wasn't about controlling the visions, which came when they would and fairly often, regardless. It was about giving her the skills to discover what needed knowing and then tracing back when one could, or forth, when one needed, or even to the side, when it was possible. It was also about learning to do more than crawl through the torment, though the pain was a given.
It was during one of the martial practices, one involving kicks, punches and speed, that a different kind of vision took her. Explosive pain rocked through her, but she managed to stay standing, if distractedly so. She didn't duck the punch, was already rolling her eyes back in agony's paroxysm, but she delivered a good one of her own, before signaling a desire to bow out of the session. If the instructor demanded she continue, Cordelia was prepared to do so, while striving to hold onto what little sense of here and now she could. They'd pushed her on the skill before, and it was not unknown for her to shout out the vision as she tried to defend against an "attack," which suddenly scaled up.
She was lucky. A halt was called.
The scribe of the hour, one of many assigned to follow her around for just this kind of moment, hustled to where Cordelia stood, forcing herself into a position of relaxation, pulse racing, and body sweating and panting as she rode the tidal pull of things that ought to have been.
In most ways it should have been her most private vision. It was a story of her life, one that had been more than potential, a truth and reality; but one that had been unspun on the web. Her inner eye followed a trail that showed her being with her bond-mates, explained the crazy feeling of her life having been meddled with; and it wasn't just that her father hadn't done his taxes. She called out names, and one that was sacred by every measure her friends held, as if it were torn out of her very heart. By the end of it, she still didn't entirely understand what had happened, and had no idea what words had been spoken or how deeply they impacted those around her. She only knew that a hole in her life suddenly had an answer, though the vision was now in pieces before her, and that the consequences would continue to impact her and she couldn't do a damn thing about it.
It hurt more than any other previous vision in her life.
-TDWP & BTVS-
Cordelia lets the memories wash over her, indulges both the ones she has lived and the ones that she ought to have, then she lets out a breath and opens her palm as an act of letting go. She knows the power of the symbol now and uses it to ease those aches that otherwise won't go. A knock at her door, timely, draws her attention. She considers ignoring it, but realizes that it would only delay the inevitable.
One thing about this last experience is that it has solidified a decision she was in the process of making.
"Come in," she calls and then she turns to look out the window at the blue sky with its cotton clouds. The door opens behind her, clicks closed. The sound of sandals crossing her floor add their tempo to the moment, then they stop.
"Will you share it?"
"It was just them." She doesn't need to say more. Those who know, know. Those who don't aren't meant to. Cordelia exhales a great sigh, but her shoulders straighten immediately after and she is finally at center again. She turns to see her friend. "And it wasn't a vision." Her smile is a little compressed, but there. Again she doesn't duck. "I'm going."
The Abbess folds her hands together, pressing them flat against her belly. Wise green eyes close for a moment and then open. "Your home is here."
Cordelia doesn't argue, because she believes it now. "But you know I need to go. I can't stay behind this time and a messenger wouldn't be fast enough. We have to get there first and no one else has seen the way. If they get the Stone of Winds before us, people are in for a world of hurt."
The Abbess nods, though her expression becomes more stern than Cordelia is used to seeing. "You will follow Dyntor's orders."
"Shouldn't that be the other way around?"
"Only insofar as the vision is concerned, but …," The Abbess paused and says, "Your well-being is important to many."
Cordelia considers and says, "I can't make that promise. My friends back home would tell you I'm actually horrible at following orders. It's why I know I was never meant for the army."
Despite herself, the Abbess grins. "Then, please, just... come back."
"If I can, I will," that is as close to a promise that Cordelia feels she could make.
-TDWP & BTVS-
