Humanitas | For the first several minutes of sparring, Buffy blocked Marcus' moves or dodged them, trying to gauge the length of his arms. Her eyes flickered between his body and his hands, guessing when he'd feint a punch instead of reaching for her open-handed. About half the time, she guessed wrong, and barely escaped the talons. Marcus began picking up the pace of his attack as Buffy struggled to sense the talons before he struck. "Those things must be awfully handy when the mail arrives." She quipped, keeping her distance. "Hard on the girlfriend, though." I don't believe I just said that. Marcus blushed. "I, um, actually have pretty good control." He feinted with his right hand, and Buffy ducked. The movement exposed the top of her shoulder, and a flick of his left hand drew a line of blood across her skin. Ow. That stung. Following her momentum, Buffy spun around and punched him just below the ribs. Ow, again. His muscles really are hard, and not just... ripple-y, she thought, surprised. He staggered back, bumping into the heavy punching bag hanging from the ceiling. Recovering his balance, he advanced on her, keeping his hands open. A quick series of slashes made ribbons of the bottom half of her tank top before she managed to block his wrist, grab hold, and pull him into her upraised knee. "Whuff!" His breath rushed out of him. He instinctively wrapped his hands around her thigh, and, gasping for more air, tossed her back. Her surprise at his quick recovery gave him an opening. As she flailed her arms in an attempt to regain her balance, he landed a solid uppercut on the end of her chin, and followed it up with a jab to her solar plexus. "Oh, you know, Italian fashion." Buffy held the shirt by the collar in her left hand, letting it dangle. Leaving her right side open, she held the shirt off to her left, and inched closer. Marcus took the bait, and sliced at her side, fingers fully extended. She whipped the shirt up, catching its tail in her other hand, and twisted it around Marcus' outstretched hand. "Plus, silk is really hard to cut." She pulled him forward sharply, released the collar of the shirt, and backhanded him across the face. As he reeled back, she hooked his knee with her foot, and he sat down heavily. Buffy quickly spun the shirt into a tight twist, and snapped it towards his eyes. His right hand flew up and caught the shirt. Balancing on his left hand and foot with his right hand holding onto the shirt, he snapped off a kick to her hip. Buffy shifted her weight and yanked hard on the shirt. The force pulled Marcus onto his feet, then off them and into the air. He let go at the last moment, and tuned his flight into a diving roll, coming back to his feet. He turned to find her running towards him at top speed. He slashed at the air in front of him, bringing her up short at the last moment. He relaxed his talons and shoved instead at the center of her chest, toppling her backwards onto the floor. Marcus leapt at her and was astonished when he felt her feet catch his weight. Buffy pushed off, sending him flying across the room. He landed heavily on the couch. One of the couch legs snapped under the impact. By the time he struggled off the couch, Buffy was on her feet again. They met nearly in the center of the room, exchanging blow after blow, with neither able to gain any further advantage. Finally, Marcus extended his fingertips and opened a gash right down the center of Buffy's tank top, exposing the pink bow at the center of her bra. The unexpected sight distracted Marcus for a split second and Buffy had her opening. She leaned back for a solid kick, and her heel crashed into his sternum. He fell back, and barely recovered enough to get his feet under him, but she was already charging him at full speed. He aimed a wild cut at her back as she rushed past him, leaping for the chains holding up the heavy bag. That was stupid, thought Marcus, as he stood with effort. It's not like I've never seen a pretty girl's... The thought died as he turned to see Buffy's feet coming toward him once again, this time connecting brutally with his shoulder. The impact sent him sprawling onto his side. Buffy landed gracefully on her feet. Boy, am I glad Xander reinforced that thing. Aloud, she asked, "Had enough yet?" as she placed a foot firmly on each of Marcus' hands. He laughed good-naturedly. "All right. Just don't bear down, or I'll never play piano again." "You play piano?" asked Buffy, as she rocked back on her heels. "Sure," said Marcus, looking her in the eyes with an effort. "Go ahead. I promise not to look." |
| After an hour's work, Giles had finished the painfully slow process of translation, stunned at his discovery. Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, Giles put the pages he had been reading on the coffee table. The transference rituals Charles described were appalling in their thoroughness and gruesome in their details. And that they had been performed on a child was unbearable, Giles thought. Taking off his glasses, he placed them on top of the translations he was studying. He pressed his fingers against his eyes as if to erase the images the rituals' descriptions had generated in his mind. Shuddering once, Giles drew his hands down his face, feeling the light stubble on his cheeks and chin. He sat for a moment longer considering what could be done, and what must be done. Standing slowly, and feeling much older than his forty-some years, the former Watcher staggered to the kitchen, exhaustion taking its toll. Tea, the balm of the British Empire, might not solve his ills, but at least it would give him something else to do, something else to think about for a moment or two. Fortified with a mug of freshly brewed Earl Grey in his hand, Giles walked over to the crates of books in the corner of the living room. Half the books were stacked on the floor from his and Marcus' earlier search. Sipping his tea, Giles pulled an eight-hundred-year-old copy of the Kabbalah from one crate and a volume of Jewish folklore from the floor. Retrieving his glasses from the coffee table and taking a seat in the wingback chair, he began flipping through the folklore book searching for the story of the Golem. He seemed to remember something about a reversal spell, to undo what had been done. Yes, here it is, he thought, scanning the text. It was as he remembered - the magickal being was reduced to its component dirt when the elements of the animation spell were performed in the reverse order. In other words, the transference of energy was returned to its source when the ritual was reversed. Giles left the volume turned to the story of the Golem and put it on the floor next to his chair. Then he opened the Kabbalah and began to skim the arcane and ritualistic language. About halfway through the book, he suddenly slammed it closed, the noise shattering the quiet of the apartment. This is religion-based magick. There is nothing here that could help us reverse rituals devised by demons, or even half-demons. If demons believe in a god, he thought grimly, it certainly isn't the Judeo-Christian deity. Frustrated, Giles paced back and forth across the living room. He considered the rituals he had translated and read. Bloodletting was a common theme that ran throughout - from a few small cuts to numerous long, shallow cuts crisscrossing a person's back. The last ritual demanded so many cuts that the subject would literally be bathed in their own blood. Giles' stomach turned when he thought what Marcus had endured over the years - all in the name of a mother's love. Turning back to the crates and stacks of books, he began looking through them once more. He ran his fingers along the spine of each book as if they were talismans that would aid him in his dilemma. Pausing over a copy of the Apocrypha, he steeled himself for what he knew he must do. If the Slayer energy is completely diverted, then the prophecies and warnings of Esdras might easily come true. Giles pulled out a very thin volume he had forgotten he owned, a book of demon prophecies collected by some obscure medieval scholar. Most people, including some of his former colleagues, considered the book a hoax, a work of fiction masquerading as fact. In their eyes, demons were monsters, hardly better than animals, and had neither the intelligence nor the sophistication to produce prophecies. Giles poured himself another cup of tea before settling down to read. An hour later, the former Watcher closed the volume of demonic prophecies and rubbed his eyes. Everything has a common theme, he thought. It's all to eliminate man's hold on this dimension and to rule the Earth once more. What would be an apocalypse in the eyes of man would be the demons' paradisium, to use the scholar's phrase. In essence, it was an inverted view of the prophecies of humanity. Reversal. Inversion. The beginning of an idea flashed in Giles' brain. From the coffee table he picked up the pages documenting the last ritual performed on Marcus. He read it again. This is it, he thought, exhilarated. If the steps of the ritual were reversed, then the energy transfer would be reversed as well. We'll have to begin with the last ritual, the longest and most harrowing, and work backward to the first one, drawing off the largest amount of energy first and working until the last trace had been returned to its original source. But the original sequence of rituals had taken years to perform. Could we work any faster without killing Marcus outright? And would Marcus agree to go through the process again? The young man seemed genuine enough when he claimed to not want the Slayer energy. But will he change his mind when he learns what reversing the transference will entail? I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, Giles thought. What I need to do now is reverse the most recent transference ritual. He took a pad of paper and a pen he set down to work. Some parts of the ritual were easily reversed, other parts required more thought and checking of reference books. After a while, Giles leaned back and read over what he had written. While reciting the first incantation, use an obsidian knife, slowly make a dozen shallow cuts across the subject's back from right hip to left shoulder. Then make an equal number of cuts from left hip to right shoulder. During the second incantation, wrap heavy chains around the limbs of the subject and leave them on until he can bear their weight no longer. Then remove the chains to symbolize the spiritual release. During the third incantation, hold a candle flame to each of the subject's palms and to the soles of their feet until the flesh begins to redden. Sponge salted water over the subject, making sure to cleanse each part of the body thoroughly. During the fourth incantation, have the subject drink a tincture of thyme, parsley, and garlic from an iron goblet. Then allow the subject to dress in their own clothes to return to their own identity. "O szintén abszolvál, az ajtó szintén kozelí," Giles whispered. It is ended, the door is closed. He was confident that the ritual would begin the reversal of the energy transference that had been performed on Marcus but he was reluctant to submit the son of his old friend to more pain and humiliation. On the other hand, he had sworn to preserve this world against the powers of darkness. And though he was no longer an active Watcher, he would keep that oath. He would return the Slayer energy to its rightful inheritors, no matter what the cost. His mind relieved at the decision, he carefully organized the notes and put them away. The last thing he'd want, he knew, was for Marcus or Buffy to return and find this out on his or her own. When the table was cleared, he stretched his back and leaned over to click off the lamp. There was a knock at the door. |
Lolling sideways across the sofa arm, Marcus shook his head at Buffy good-naturedly as she closed the storage closet's door. He sat up, and grabbed his own shirt off the floor and pulled it on, groaning as he moved. "Okay, this is a sign that I'm terribly old, isn't it?" He wrapped a hand around his chest and took hold of his opposite shoulder. Giving his shoulder a strong yank, he stretched out his back with a grimace. "You kicked my ass." "I didn't..." Buffy started to say as she dumped the first aid boxes on the sofa next to him. Seating herself, she looked at him a second time. "So maybe a little. But you didn't go down easy." She blinked. "In the sense of falling, I mean, not in the, uh..." Her voice trailed off as she focused on investigating each individual item in the first aid kit. "Unh-hunh. You've done this before." Marcus cocked his head at her, amused, as he finished buttoning up his shirt. "Yeah. I mean, no... I mean, what do you mean?" Flustered, Buffy pulled out the box of antiseptic cleaning pads. "Beating guys up in my training room?" Marcus pulled out one of the bandage boxes and fiddled with it, feigning cool as he retorted. "As a matter of fact, yes." Buffy was quiet for a minute. "You're only the second. That, uh, I've sparred with here." Looking around the room, her expression was wistful as she added, "This room's seen a lot." Shaking her head, she made a face and looked down at the tank top on the floor. "But I don't think it's ever seen shredding action." "Sorry." Marcus handed her an antiseptic wet tissue. "Ever consider getting a job as a cheese grater?" "I tried, but I don't fit in a dishwasher." Buffy laughed, crinkling her eyes at him as their fingers touched. Equally taken aback by the display of wit, Marcus grinned back at her, and after a pause, exhaled suddenly. Buffy finished dabbing cotton at the shallow cuts across her stomach, and set the bloodied tissue aside, glancing at him curiously. "I'm..." Marcus hesitated. "I'm surprised. At myself. I mean... normally I can never think of what to say." "You." Buffy's statement was a question, or perhaps simply a statement. Marcus wasn't sure. He raised his eyebrows at her as he started to open another antiseptic package for her. It didn't cooperate, so he put it between his teeth instead when he couldn't get it to rip. After a second, Buffy took it out of his mouth and opened it herself with one swift tear. Marcus rolled his eyes at her. "Mayo syndrome," she explained. Marcus gave her a perplexed look, and she shrugged. "Last person to open the mayonnaise jar." Seeing he didn't get it, she tried again. "After everyone else has tried and loosened it?" "I'll leave it in your capable hands, then." Marcus lifted his hands in surrender before letting them fall back in his lap. His eyes were studiously affixed to her face, Buffy noticed. She pulled the shirt up a bit higher over her stomach, tucking the bottom of it under her bra. All business now. Remember, self, we're through with tall, dark, and handsome. "So... you?" Marcus nudged her kneecap where it almost touched his thigh. She settled herself more comfortably on the sofa, sideways with one leg under her as she continued to clean the last of the cuts. "What do you mean, 'you'?" "Just that you seem," she replied wryly, "like someone who always knows what to say. And in more than one language, too." Marcus shrugged. "It's a new thing. I'm still not used to it." "Not the languages part, the talking to people part. I didn't grow up with a lot of people around." Marcus' eyes jumped to her shoulder, and he frowned. "Turn around." Confused, Buffy did so, and heard another package of antiseptic tissue opened. Marcus shifted on the sofa behind her, and she felt him pull his leg up under him as he turned towards her. Twisting her head around to see, she asked, "What is it?" "There were... cuts, on your back," Marcus told her, his voice chagrined. "Sorry if it stings." "Right," he replied, his fingers catching the shirt and carefully pulling it up to the center of her back. He held it there with one hand while he carefully dabbed at the deeper cuts across her back, pausing whenever he felt her body quiver at the harsh antiseptic. "My parents divorced when I was six, and after that it was just my mother and me." Buffy nodded, but didn't interrupt. After a minute, he discarded the first tissue and let go of her shirt to open a second package. Without thinking, Buffy reached behind herself and pulled her shirt up to her shoulder blades, leaning over with her arms close to her body. There was a pause, and he replied, "Thanks. That's easier," then added so quietly she almost couldn't hear him. "Knew you were modest." She didn't respond immediately. She was too distracted because he'd placed his hand on her waist, holding her as he carefully cleaned the many small cuts. He continued, conversationally, his voice level and even as if they were discussing the weather. Heart, you can stop pounding now, we're not sparring anymore, she told herself, and grimaced. The stern reminders weren't working, and her concentration was divided between the husky sound of his voice and the warmth of his hand on her side. "Anyway," he continued, "I had private tutors, and I saw my family regularly – my mother's family, that is – but there weren't many kids my age. Actually, there weren't any, at all. My cousins were the closest to my age. Everyone else was ancient." Marcus' voice got softer as he removed his hands to open another package of tissue. "When my mother died, there was a huge custody battle between my father and my mother's parents. The result was that I went to boarding school in London, saw my father on school holidays, and spent summers in Italy with my mother's parents. Boarding school was a shock." "The classes?" "No, the dormitories. I was used to having a whole wing of the house to myself, and here I was in a room with forty other boys, all my own age. That's when I started learning magick." "You turned them into newts?" Marcus chuckled, and tugged at her shirt, indicating that she could let go. When she did, he pulled it smoothly down over her back, letting it drop into place as he leaned back. Buffy turned and began collecting the trash, nodding at him to keep speaking. "No, just learned enough from my mother's books to make them leave me alone. Nothing big, just whatever seemed like it'd work." Marcus tucked the unused antiseptic tissue packets back into their box, and handed it to her. "Things like shoving people mentally, minor healing meditations for when it was pick-on-the-new-kid day, and being invisible." Buffy dumped the used tissues in the trash and replaced the first aid kit in the locker, shutting the door quietly. "I knew someone who was invisible..." but it wasn't like that girl could be un-invisible, she reminded herself. Clicking off the overhead light, she left the single floor lamp on as she returned to the sofa. "She died last year," Buffy interrupted, unexpectedly. Marcus froze, realizing he'd tread on sensitive ground, and wondered what had prompted him to mention her mother. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and Buffy looked at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of her sad expression. Marcus replied by telling her of his father's death, and getting the news while on a business trip, and making it there in time to speak with his father one last time. He told her about the key in his father's wallet, and the locked chest in the storage facility outside London, and finding his father's journals and the wooden box. Haltingly, he told her about reading whatever he could understand, and the frustration of knowing there was information in the rest of the journals but he couldn't read it. Buffy listened, and returned his open admissions by telling him about being called as a Slayer, and how she burned down her high school's gymnasium. That got a startled look from Marcus, who replied, "By accident?" When Buffy nodded, he told her thoughtfully, "I burnt mine down on purpose." Buffy's eyes widened, and Marcus grinned, shrugging. "I was an angry youth." "I knew you and Giles had something in common," she told him gleefully. At Marcus' request, she told him about the first time she'd met Giles. Then she told about Ethan Rayne, and Marcus listened closely, laughing when she described Ethan's attempt with the band candy, and about finding Giles' and her mother wandering Sunnydale together. She saddened for a moment, but it was forgotten as she began to describe Ethan's attempt to turn Giles into a demon so she'd kill him, finishing the story with Ethan being hauled off by the GI Joes. Marcus was stunned. "My father was going to send me to this guy?" "Oh." Buffy bit her lip. "He probably hadn't talked to Ethan in years." Marcus snorted. "Where's Ethan now?" "Military prison, I think. And the good thing, no more Sunnydale visitation for him, but it always did improve my day to give him a good beating." Buffy grinned, and Marcus scrunched down on the sofa, his long fingers splayed out across his thighs. "So who were the military guys that hauled him off? Why would they get involved?" Buffy was astonished to hear herself telling Marcus about the Initiative. Mouth, you can stop chattering now, she rebuked herself. Drat. Nothing's working. Maybe it's a spell. Narrowing her eyes at Marcus, she interrupted herself mid-stream to demand, "Do you know a spell to make someone talk?" Marcus nodded, his eyes lingering for a moment on her lips. "It's called listening." Buffy halted, registering his comment, and rolled her eyes at him. "Let me try it, then. You talk some." Marcus obliged, and bit by bit his life rolled out in front of her, wrapped in his baritone voice and story-telling gift, hidden by shyness most of his life. He told her about Hong Kong in spring, Warsaw in summer, and London in autumn. He drew pictures in the air for her of wine festivals in Burgundy, May dances in Stockholm, and the museums in Frankfurt. He described his apartment in Venice, the creaking churches and mysterious alleys, and how the water glittered at dawn on the canals. She leaned closer as he told her about his mother's plans for his arranged marriage, the argument with his cousins, and fleeing for London with his father's journals on a compact disc and whatever clothes he could shove in his old rucksack. "Arranged marriage," she whispered, astonished. "Old tradition in the family," he replied. "Don't have much interest in getting married." "Oh, me neither." "Really." "I was engaged once." "You were?" Marcus' brows lowered. "It was because of Willow." "Willow?" "The redhead?" "I know who Willow is. You've lost me on the rest." Buffy smiled, embarrassed, and told him the story of her friend's Willpower spell and how it'd backfired. She detailed Giles' blindness, Xander's demon magnetism, and her own engagement. Most of it, at least. "So who was the lucky guy?" "The what?" Marcus tilted his head at her, unconvinced of her sudden memory loss. "The lucky guy, the one you were engaged to?" Marcus frowned, and leaned even closer. "In my ear, darling. I don't seem to be hearing too well these days." Smiling wryly despite herself, Buffy leaned forward and softly whispered the name in Marcus' ear. She was rewarded with a soft shudder going through Marcus at the touch of her breath on his ear, and leaned back suddenly. No, we're just talking, she rebuked herself. Just talking. She realized Marcus was watching her. In the half-light from the single lamp, she could see his eyes were dancing merrily. "Spike, hunh. You were engaged to a vampire." Buffy made a face at him. "Well, it's not like later, when he really was -" She cut herself off, but Marcus didn't let up. "When he really was... engaged to you, not just magickally engaged? You've been engaged twice?" "No, not engaged, the second time he was just in love with me," she said, giving up. "Yeah, it's ludicrous, I'm a vampire slayer, and he's a vampire, they're not supposed to fall in love with Slayers. Hello, I hunt vampires for a living." "It's the chase, darling." "It's the fight." Buffy's voice was flat, but still amused. Marcus nodded, and she leaned against the sofa back, digging her finger into the crease where the stitching was coming undone. "Spike does care for you," he offered. "And the rest of your... group." "I suppose." "No, he does. Don't know if that makes him worth loving, but he does." Catching herself, she began to explain how Spike had fallen in love with her, stalked her, and then had a robot made that looked just like her. Protectively, she omitted mentioning Dawn, or Glory, or that night... and Marcus, she was relieved to find, didn't pry. At random points in her story, she stole looks at Marcus' face, but it was impassive. Whatever he's feeling, wish I could tell. He's as bad as Angel, she thought, irritated. Impulsively, she decided to ask. "What are you thinking?" There was a long silence before Marcus responded. He'd turned his head, and she couldn't quite make out his features in the shadow thrown by the lamp. "I'm thinking of loving someone that doesn't love you back, might not even know you exist." His voice was wistful. Buffy waited, and he continued after a pause. "I guess it's just a crush. If you can have crushes on someone you've never met." Buffy nodded. "Course you can. I used to want to marry Brian Boitano, except that he's like way older than me. Oh, and gay." "Brian who?" "He's an ice-skater." "Oh." Marcus shifted again, and her kneecaps tingled as he bumped them with his thigh. Rather than pulling away, he kept the touch between them, and sighed as he relaxed into place. "This girl... I've been dreaming of her for the past three years. Never had any idea who she is, but she's been in my dreams. A tall brunette, proud, fierce. At first, she was angry, violent, but now she's just sad. She never seems to know I'm there." His voice was lonely. Buffy smiled sadly, cocking her head as he continued speaking. "Then again, I can remember always having someone in my dreams, no matter what I was dreaming, there'd be a girl there. Just that this one is the most recent, and been around the longest." "It sounds better than dreaming of giving a report in class while naked." Marcus raised his head, staring at her, obviously startled by the visual. "While what?" "The girl in my dream," he whispered, hesitant, "is a Slayer." Buffy nearly choked. Angry, now sad, tall brunette. "And the other girls? What do they look like?" Faith, he's dreaming of Faith. Quietly Marcus described Faith, as well as a dark-skinned girl that Buffy silently identified as Kendra, and a blonde she was startled to hear him pointedly identify as her. Then he began describing a willowy redhead in Germany, and a shy serving girl in Hong Kong, and she realized these were the slayers before her. He fell silent, shrugging. "The dreams didn't start until after my parents divorced, and my mother and I began moving around. Every time we moved, just before we moved, there was... a funeral." A chill went up Buffy's spine, and her sharp breath seemed loud in her ears. "A funeral?" Marcus nodded, but didn't look at her. His voice was subdued, and sad. And... scared, she thought. He's scared. "My mother would... pay her respects, and then we'd return home. That night, there was another major ritual. Within a week, we'd be packing for some foreign city. Every two years, sometimes three, usually only one... until I was 16, and she was..." The room was silent, except for a strange sound. Buffy realized Marcus' breathing had grown jagged. Instinctively she reached out a hand and placed it over one of his, and was relieved when he didn't pull away. "I suppose," he managed to say, "that I should be masculine and stoic?" He attempted a crooked grin, and she smiled in return before she saw the tears brimming in his eyes. He looked away from her, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I just never knew... who they were. All my life, I only knew that I dreamed of them, and then they were dead. The rituals, I know my mother told me..." Marcus gasped, and turned his hand over to clench Buffy's tightly. "She told me I would be ill unless she did the ritual, that I wouldn't survive being half demon, half human, without the rituals. But in my head, I had to do the rituals because I had to make up for killing those girls." Every muscle in Buffy's body was taut as she arched forward to hear his halting whisper. Marcus looked away from her, but he clung to her hand as if to a lifeline, and slowly moved his to cover her hand in both of his. "And all these years, thinking that... I find out it's true." Buffy started to shush him, anxious but feeling anger well up inside herself. His mother, she started to think, doubling back in her thoughts to catch another drift, the other Slayers, weakened by... she stopped herself. Be here, now, she reminded herself. They're dead. You can't blame him for being used and lied to. "It's true, it is," Marcus quietly insisted, recognizing the signs of her stiffened body. "Every time a Slayer died, the Source casts about, looking for the next one. My father details it in his journals. During that time, it's receptive, and during that time, my mother..." His voice trailed off as a tear dripped down his cheek and hung, crystalline, off his jaw. He made no move to wipe it, but laughed, a bitter sound. "I'm such a fool, I never asked why, I just believed her because..." "She was your mother," Buffy replied, releasing his hands. She leaned forward to embrace him tightly, and he wrapped his arms around her, burying his head against her neck as he silently cried. Laying half-on and half-off his lap, Buffy cradled Marcus against her until she felt him relax. After several more minutes, she realized his breathing had slowly deepened as he gave into the exhaustion. Numb, she considered moving, but then realized sleep was slowly overtaking her, too. A quick rest, she told herself, and then we'll put this right. | |
~ continue to next chapter ~ | |