"Good," Miyoko nodded approvingly, as Faith sat down in a perfect seiza. "Hold out your arms in front of you, palms up."
When Faith had complied, Miyoko lowered her sheathed sword to rest on her palms. Faith closed her hands around the sheath.
"How long...?" Faith breathed after a few minutes. The sword was no feather when held like this.
"An hour or so should just about do it on a first attempt."
"An hour?" Faith gasped. Five minutes in and her arms were already starting to tremble slightly, Slayer strength notwithstanding.
"My great-grandfather once held the Nagisa family sword like that for two days."
"Ok, I'll try."
"Try?" Miyoko snorted. "I'm not going to repeat it, but what do you think Yoda would say to that?"
Faith sighed and concentrated on her task. After ten minutes her brow was damp with sweat, and she was gritting her teeth as muscles in her arms and shoulders were groaning in agony. After twenty, she let out a painful moan and dropped the sword on the ground.
"It's not possible," she panted, leaning her hands flat against the floor.
"Yes," Miyoko nodded and picked up the blade. "Because you believe it isn't. In five minutes you'll do it again and I expect a much better result this time."
"Just a minute!" Willow called in panic as she looked wildly around her room having almost finished her first joint of the day. She had only afternoon classes, and her roommate would be away for the whole day, so she had for the first time allowed herself the luxury of having one inside the room – by the open window, naturally.
Seeing no other options, she flung the smoking end and the hairpin out of the window and then rushed to her bedside cabinet. She took out a can of vanilla-scented air refreshener and sprayed it liberally around the room. Then, finding no other solution, pointed the nozzle at her open mouth and depressed the release.
When Buffy entered Willow's room after a second knock, she found the redhead on her hands and knees on the floor wheezing and coughing her lungs out. "Willow, what...?" she gasped in alarm and crouched down next to her best friend.
"Sorry, Buff," Willow hacked. "Mistook the refreshener for a breath spray."
"Breath spray?" Buffy asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Yeah. Forgot to brush my teeth and didn't want to knock you out, you know? So, what's up?"
"She's evil."
"Huh?"
"My roommate. She's clearly some demon from a Hell dimension. I mean... who initializes individual eggs in a carton?"
"Buffy..."
"She irons her jeans..."
"Buffy...!"
"She keeps listening to..."
"Buffy!"
"What? Jeez!"
"I'm sure all this hasn't been easy for her either," Willow tried to explain. "She's not like you... I mean, she probably doesn't know anybody here. I'm sure if you just gave it all a real chance..."
"I have!"
"Buffy!"
"Fine," Buffy huffed, standing up. "You're lucky, only having to deal with an excess of vanilla scent in the air."
"Lunch?" Willow offered weakly.
'Hmmm...,' Buffy contemplated smugly with the overflowing platter in her hands as her eyes followed Parker Abrams... of Kresge Hall to his table where he sat down with a group of friends.
When Buffy finally managed to make her way to where Willow had reserved a seat for her, the redhead was practically bouncing up and down in her chair, her "medication" now fully in effect.
"What was that all about, with the cutie-patootie?" Willow grinned with the tip of her tongue sticking out from between her teeth.
"I dunno," Buffy grinned back. "Nothing serious, I think. Just random adorableness... and very sound food-hoarding tips."
That alone had been very impressive. With her Slayer metabolism, standard cafeteria meals would soon lead to starvation as she no longer had a full fridge to fall back to every day, like back home. But Parker seemed to be familiar with every possible trick on how to extend the usage of a single punch card to its limits.
"Looked like more than that to me," Willow prompted further. "He got all googly-eyed."
"You think?"
"No question, he'll be back."
"Look, Willow, I'm sorry about earlier...," Buffy had time to start with her intended apology when she suddenly spotted the very last person she wanted to see entering the cafeteria. "... Quick, switch places with me!"
"What?" Willow blinked in incomprehension, her fork halfway to her mouth.
"Please," Buffy entreated urgently. She hadn't spotted them yet, so there was still time. "Now!"
Like they had practiced it on several occasion, the two girls switched seats in an almost seamless choreography. Once seated opposite to what they started with, Buffy motioned for them to exchange platters as well.
"Explanation, Buffy. Now," Willow demanded once she had her own food in front of her again. To her continued bafflement the Slayer kept her head low, her face no more than a few inches away from her plate.
"Kathy," Buffy hissed.
"Who?" Willow blinked again and looked around covertly.
"My roommate!"
"Your...?" Willow started and looked more closely. "Tall? Curly black hair? And... is that your sweater?"
"What?" Buffy almost screeched and snapped her head up and around.
"Hi, Buffy!" came the overtly cheery reply.
With a groan Buffy buried her face in her hands. She didn't need eyes to see Kathy sit down in the empty seat between her and Willow. She had already lost her appetite before the "'Hi, Kathy, I'm Willow', 'Hi, Willow, I'm Kathy'" exchange had even started.
Sitting on Rowan's bed in the back room, Giles let his gaze circle around as he brought the sweating bottle of beer in his hand to his lips. This room had lately become his favourite place for deep thinking, like now, as he reflected back on Buffy's latest visit and her half-hysteric ramblings about an evil roommate. Thinking back on what Olivia had told him earlier about the Slayer and her need to have a father-figure in her life, he was starting to realize that his all but dismissive attitude to what was clearly causing Buffy distress had perhaps not been the most supportive thing he could have done.
His eyes landed first on the chest of drawers on top of which sat an empty sword stand. Rowan had taken most of his few earthly belongings with him to England, but he knew the drawers still contained some of his personal items. Giles had to smile at that. It was as if Rowan had wanted to assure him that he would eventually return.
On the wall next to the chest hung a large, framed print of Hokusai's Great Wave with two smaller framed prints of ink wash paintings depicting sleeping cats. Opposite the bed stood the bookshelf on top of which a silvery strongbox was sitting. He snorted in half-amusement, half-distaste as he recalled the events surrounding the acquisition of the item in question. The fight against Balthazar and his Eliminati minions had really been one of the defining moments for their small group in Sunnydale's previous "Apocalypse season", dividing everything to before and after like the neck of an hourglass.
He finished his visual tour on the signed and numbered Enki Bilal lithograph hanging next to the door to the hallway and the rest of the apartment. It depicted a very goth-looking young woman half-sitting on a bar stool in what looked like a narrow, dark corridor. She was facing the viewer, full-frontal, with her eyes closed. One of her arms looked like it had been cut open from wrist to shoulder, showing the bones inside. He had found it at a garage sale a little after Rowan had officially moved in with him. His friend had taken an interest in the painting by his description of it, so Rupert had immediately gone back to purchase it. He had then given it to Rowan as a housewarming present. It wasn't until Olivia had pointed it out that he realised what a steal it had been. According to Livvy, a signed and numbered lithograph like this was worth anything between $500 and $750. The previous owner had been only too happy to be rid of it to avoid a marital crisis, so he had gotten it for $40.
His budding curiosity finally getting the better of him, Giles laid the beer bottle on the chest of drawers and stood up to take the heavy box from its shelf. He knew the trap mechanism inside had been temporarily deactivated but still he opened it carefully with the lid opening away from him. Nothing happened but then he blinked in surprise. Expecting to see only luxurious velvet, he had to blink again at the two items inside – a small folded card with his name on top and a simple key.
With a somewhat shaky hand, he picked up the card and opened it. He immediately recognised Rowan neat but archaic handwriting.
Rupert,
So, you got curious after all. The key unlocks the bottom drawer of the chest. Since you got this far, you might as well go on and open it.
Through fire,
Rowan
If finding a key and a note addressed to him had been worth a blink, what he found inside the drawer made his mouth fall open. There were stacks of money inside. Six stacks of $20 bills, labelled $2,000 each and a smaller stack tied with a rubber band. Approximately $12,500 altogether, he quickly calculated.
Next to the money lay a transparent, plastic sleeve with a few papers inside. He could see that the top one was a letter written in Rowan's handwriting. The first part explained how he had ended up with the money, which was by ransoming it from the courier transporting the Box of Gavrok. The rest and the additional forms described in detail a sword that was to be ordered for Faith with the money. For a change, it didn't come as a surprise that the blade was to be commissioned from Howard Clark and the polishing and mounting from Legacy Arts.
Giles sat there on the floor in front of the open drawer for a long time just staring at Rowan's letter – his beer totally forgotten. A plan started slowly taking form in his head.
Eventually he stood up and locked the bottom drawer again. Rowan's gift to his... girlfriend was truly special, but with a small contribution of his own, maybe he could make another commission in anticipation of the eventual return and homecoming of his flatmate and friend.
Almost as an afterthought he fetched his all but forgotten Polaroid camera and took a few photos of the strongbox from different angles before returning it to its place on the top shelf. He had no idea if his old Oxford mate, Matthew Rigby, still worked for the British Museum, but it was worth a shot.