Chapter 3: Spells and Potions with Wesley
Cordelia was just putting the last pin into Dawn's elegant French roll when they heard voices coming up the stairs.
Wesley's voice was the first they understood, and he was in full lecture mode. ". . . and while I appreciate that you can take more damage than the rest of us, getting stabbed through the chest with a Razoth Beast's spine smacks of pure carelessness!"
"Not my idea of fun, either." Angel's voice, coming with great effort. "It was going for Gunn, and I thought . . ."
"You're immortal, not indestructible," Wesley reminded him stiffly.
"Hey, he's less destructible than me. I'm not complaining." That was Gunn, sounding tired and in pain.
"Paramedic Cordy time," sighed Cordelia. "I've gotta go. The bandages and stuff are in Angel's bathroom. You don't want to come, believe me. Wounded vampire—gross!"
Dawn, therefore, followed Cordelia into Angel's room. She was the Key by nature, but a little sister by profession. She couldn't not snoop.
Inside Angel's room, Angel had taken off his shirt. His back was to Dawn, and Cordelia was just taping a piece of gauze in place high on the left side of his back. Gunn was sitting beside Angel, washing a deep cut on his left arm.
Wesley, meanwhile, was examining Angel's coat, which had copious amounts of grayish-white fluid all over it. "You said this is the Beast's blood?"
"That's what sprayed all over us when I cut off its head, yes," confirmed Angel. His voice was raspy.
"Stuff smells worse than the sewer," added Gunn.
"Well, I'm glad you brought some back with you, because—Dawn, you shouldn't be in here."
Three heads turned to look at her. Dawn tried hard to look nonchalant.
"Big deal. I've seen Buffy getting patched up before, and it's not like I've never seen a guy without a shirt. Cool tattoo, Angel."
To her amazement, the vampire looked shy. "Um, thanks. Would you mind getting me a shirt from the closet? Preferably a button-down." He winced as Cordelia patched up something on his chest.
Dawn rolled her eyes, realizing he was just getting rid of her, and went to the closet. "You want black, black, or black?"
Gunn guffawed. Cordelia sniggered. Angel sighed and winced again. Dawn brought him a short-sleeved button-down, which he started to get into as soon as Cordelia finished with his chest. "Thanks."
Wesley watched the girl with some worry. Angel had told him about her questions from the night before. It seemed to him to be a terrible load for her to carry, and from what he knew, things would only get worse.
Cordelia moved to Gunn. Dawn was looking on with some interest as the older girl began to close the cut on Gunn's arm with clear tape closures, something they bought in bulk around here. Wesley turned his attention back to the blood-soaked coat in his hands.
"I suppose I ought to get started on the curative for the poison. You're both going to need it, as I don't know what effect the Beast's venom has on vampires."
"I just got winged," Gunn protested.
"You still were infected with the venom," Wesley pointed out, "and it's much better safe than sorry. I'll make the potion."
"Potion?" Suddenly, Dawn's face lit up. "Can I help?"
Wesley started to form the word "no," but stopped. He, too, knew what it was like to feel left out and useless. "Certainly. I'd be grateful for your help. And incidentally, Dawn—you look smashing."
"For you two boys who don't know the meaning of the term, that's a compliment. Com-pli-ment. Look it up," Cordelia told Gunn and Angel.
Dawn giggled and bounced and happily followed Wesley down to the kitchen. Wesley measured a few herbs into a mortar, which he handed to Dawn along with the pestle.
"Would you be so kind as to grind those into a powder?"
"Sure. What are all these?"
Wesley told her as he put some water on to boil and began collecting the Beast's blood off the coat. To his surprise, she knew quite a bit about the properties of most of the herbs.
"Willow and Tara tell me some stuff. Willow even got me a book. Besides, Giles has that magic shop, and I do my homework there sometimes . . ." and she began to thoroughly fill Wesley in on her life in Sunnydale. Wesley listened while adding a few ingredients to the water.
"Is this good?" Dawn asked, interrupting the flow of her narrative.
Wesley inspected her work. "Perfectly. Would you mind getting the orange container from the refrigerator? There's a root inside we need. You'll need to grind up a few pieces of it. The larger mortar and pestle are in the appliance garage."
Dawn collected the root and, per Wesley's instructions, placed a few pieces of the root in the larger mortar and began to work on it.
"Wesley, can I ask you something?"
"Certainly."
"What did the monks do? To everybody's memories?" She looked over at him. "I mean, we never met, never really met before, but I've got all these memories of you from Sunnydale, and you remember me, too. Like, when I used to stop by the library and you'd be there, or when Buffy would complain about you and call you Wesley Wimpy-Spice, or . . ."
"I quite get the point, Dawn." Wesley thought a moment, reflecting only briefly upon how much he hated the Spice Girls. "There is a particular type of spell that has been used since the Middle Ages called Mnemosyne's Confessor. There was a particular sorcerer, one Teriatus, who actually used it to con wealthy families out of inheritances. You see, he would cast the spell, and the next day, he would turn up at their residence. They would believe him to be an older son. As the spell set in, he would become privy to their memories and begin to insert himself into them. Furthermore, the spell was self-perpetuating. Say he had inserted himself into a memory of going riding with a particular son. When that son mentioned the incident to the person who was actually there for that ride, even if that one had never met the sorcerer, he would suddenly have that same memory—and never be the wiser.
"My belief is that the monks used something similar with you. When they . . . created your body, they most likely placed a glamour on you to make you exude a certain familiarity. It would have had to work most strongly upon your family, of course, and from there, it spread to your sister's friends. It also reflected back to you, as you shared in their memories. The longer the spell has gone on, the more complex it has become; you're now bound up completely in the memories of those you've shared your life with."
Dawn seemed to take it in, still crushing the root. "So—you're saying it can't be broken?"
"I honestly don't know, Dawn. The monks who did this must have enormous power, for it isn't an easy spell to cast, let alone on this level. It's possible they could reverse it, but not altogether certain."
The girl nodded. "Is this good for the root?"
"Just a little more."
"So, you're saying they didn't really remember me at first?"
"No, not really." Wesley gathered his thoughts as he added some of the Beast's blood to the brewing potion. "They would have felt that they knew you, and that you were a younger sister. It's only as they began to think of you, to recollect those million memories we access every day, that they would have begun filling you into them in a logical fashion. Take, for example, someone who was in Sunnydale before you came—can you think of anyone?"
Dawn thought. "Oz, maybe."
"Excellent. Oz. Right now, he has no memory of you. However, the instant anyone mentions you to him, the spell would begin working on him. He would begin reflecting back their memories and adding his own, and a new level of complexity would be added to the spell. He would never recall not having known you, although in fact he does not, at the moment."
"Wow. That's weird. Now?"
"Indeed. And yes, we can add that to the potion now—careful, it stains horribly if you get it on your clothes. I'd imagine that for Buffy, with her Slayer senses and instincts, there would have been some amount of cognitive dissonance, at least at first."
Dawn finished scraping the mortar into the brew. "What's that mean?"
"Simply put, while her mind was telling her you were her sister, the Slayer in her would have been screaming that something was terribly wrong, and you were at the center of it."
"So that's it!" Dawn set down the mortar with a clunk. "She was being such a bee-otch last year, like she couldn't stand me, and then suddenly, she was okay." The girl's brow furrowed. "And that was right after she did the spell and figured out I wasn't her sister, I think. She told me I wasn't her sister, and then all of a sudden, she started being nice again."
"That would make sense," concurred Wesley. "Once she knew what was causing the cognitive dissonance, it became less. May I ask you a question, Dawn?"
"Sure."
"Why did you never discuss this with Mr. Giles? Surely he would have access to the same information I have, perhaps more."
Dawn shrugged. "Well, Giles isn't exactly the easiest person to talk to unless you're Buffy, you know?"
"As a matter of fact, I've noticed that myself on any number of occasions. One last ingredient here, and we'll be done."
"Cool." Dawn looked at the brew with pride. "Can I ask you another question, Wesley?"
"Of course."
"Why do they all call Giles by his last name, but not you?"
Wesley was examining some oil critically. "I would imagine because 'Wyndam-Pryce' is rather cumbersome. Step back; if I've done this right, this should be perfectly spectacular."
He poured the oil onto the mix, and immediately, purple flames whooshed up from the kettle.
"Cool!" Dawn's eyes were wide.
"I'd say so." Wesley turned and offered Dawn a hand to shake. "Thank you for your assistance, Dawn."
Dawn shook it. "You're quite welcome, Wesley."
Wesley poured the potion through a strainer into two mugs. Dawn carried one upstairs, Wesley just behind her. When they got to Angel's bedroom, Dawn handed hers to Angel while Wesley gave the other to Gunn, who declared preemptively, "I ain't drinkin' that." He tried to hand the mug back to Wesley
"What is that smell?" coughed Cordelia, eyes watering. Dawn and Wesley had become somewhat acclimated to it.
Gunn wasn't nearly so lucky. "Take it back, English, 'cause I ain't takin' it."
Angel eyed his mug, looked at Dawn, who was smiling hopefully, then downed the potion in one gulp. He made a terrible face. Dawn giggled. Angel winked at her, handed her back the mug, and turned to Gunn with a straight face. "It's not that bad."
"Says the guy who drinks microwaved pig's blood for breakfast. Not doing it."
Wesley sighed, trading looks with Angel and Dawn. "Very well, Gunn. No need to take it. Not unless you've got something against your central nervous system slowly deteriorating as the venom attacks it. The seizures and mental lapses should begin within a week, followed by madness, a vegetative state that should last no longer than a month, and death."
"I hate you, English."
"I'm aware of that. Bottoms up."
"Hold your breath," advised Angel. "It helps if you don't breathe."
"I hate you, too, Soul-Boy." Nonetheless, Gunn lifted the cup, pinching his nose, and knocked back the potion. Angel's face was nothing compared to Gunn's as the young man choked and gagged and finally managed to keep it down. "That stuff tastes like refried . . ." He caught sight of Dawn. "Crap."
Wesley calmly took the cup from him. "I believe my work is done. Mine and that of my lovely assistant, Miss Dawn Summers, of course."
Dawn was grinning from ear to ear. "I don't see why the Watchers fired you, Wesley. I think you're great at this stuff."
For some reason, that truly touched him. "Thank you, Dawn."
Dawn babbled on happily. "If you want, I could talk to Buffy and she could get you back in. She made the Council take Giles back. Xander says she's got 'em by the . . ."
"Perhaps we should run these mugs back downstairs," Wesley said hastily. "Come along, Dawn."