AUTHOR'S NOTE: Again many thanks to all the people reviewing this. To
answer a few questions: Yes, Willow will make an appearance of sorts, but
probably not in the way you'll expect. Will Diana ever remember being
Buffy? We'll see. As to the point someone made about resurrection, I know
it's been done to death. Speaking of death, though, remember what the PTB
told Buffy in chapter 1? That death for her is not what it is for others?
And we have also established that the PTB weren't entirely forthcoming
about everything, didn't we? The point is, just keep reading. I've dropped
a lot of clues so far and will drop more. I think you'll like how this all
clears up in the end.
Enjoy!
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The Angel's Knight #20 - Dreams of the Ripper
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Los Angeles, October 15, 2017
#
I haven't slept in over two days, yet I don't feel tired in the least. If anything I'm more awake than ever before. The thought of going to bed doesn't even enter my thoughts, which are surprisingly clear despite the lack of sleep. Too much to do, too many questions yet to be answered. In the course of two days my entire life has become unraveled and I need to find out the truth before I can allow myself to rest.
Somehow early morning seems the wrong time for doing a spell like this, but the preparations took all that was left of the night and I haven't got the patience to wait until dusk. Not that it needs to be at night in order to work, but doing a necromantic ritual in daylight ... it goes against tradition. Well, bugger tradition. I need answers.
Tara was kind enough to help me with the preparations and tired enough from an all-night research session with Wesley not to ask too many questions. It's been a while since I performed magics of this magnitude without anyone to back me up, but I have to do this alone. I am very much afraid of the answers I am currently seeking and the thought of anyone else learning them... no, I have to do this by myself.
I pushed all the furniture aside in my living room, clearing a large enough space to paint a conjuring circle on the floor. It's goat's blood, which will probably leave a stain after I'm done. Well, seeing as Angel owns this building I doubt I will get into any trouble with the landlord. Not that I care right now. I would sprinkle every wall in this building with goat's blood if it brought me answers.
The bones I brought back from England are in the center of the circle, arranged into the most life-like pose I could manage. The skeleton, which is definitely male, is almost whole, just a few finger bones and one foot is missing. A complete set would be better, but I wasn't exactly in the mood to search the entire junkyard for the missing parts and this should work as well.
My eyes are drawn back to the large hole punched right through the center of the ribcage. I am no forensic scientist, but I know this was not done with a knife. Just one more clue that these cannot possibly be Randall's remains. But whose are they then? Do I really want to know the answer? No, definitely not. But I need to.
I sit down beside the circle and pick up the book lying beside me. Necromantic magic is not something I am comfortable using. Playing around with the dead can have very ugly consequences. For the hundredth time my thoughts stray back sixteen years to Willow. I wasn't there to see her botched attempt to resurrect Buffy, but my imagination more than suffices to make up for that. The mere thought of my Slayer's remains being abused in that way...
Shaking my head I wrench myself back into the present. I am not trying to raise a zombie here. Whoever this poor fellow is, his rest won't be disturbed. Well, not any further disturbed than it already is considering I dug up his bones.
It is a well-known fact among practitioners of the art that, in the moment of death, tremendous power is released. That is why so many darker spells require a human sacrifice in order to work. This outburst of power also leaves behind an imprint. Sacrificial grounds, battlefields, places where many people have died are rife with these. A large portion of the power irradiates the remains, leaving an echo that can last for centuries and longer.
That is what I hope to see here tonight. If I do this right the spell should unveil the final moments of this man, like an afterimage burned into his bones. I am treading into dark magic territory here, I know that, but I have no choice. I have to know who this man is and how he died. I just have to.
Gathering my concentration I begin to read the spell. It's in English for once and I pronounce each word carefully, the slightest mistake could lead to grave consequences when dealing with this kind of magic. In the back of my head I can feel the prickle of gathering energy, magic hanging thick in the air around me. One of the reasons I seldom do magic anymore is because it always came so easily to me. Too easily. Magic is always tempting, the allure of circumventing the laws of nature always present.
A crimson glow begins to surround the skeleton in the circle, slowly seeping upwards like water dripping the wrong way. A swirl of energy forms above the remains, growing larger as I approach the end of the spell.
"Life's twilight moments," I pronounce the final words, "unveil thy secrets to me."
Images begin to form in the crimson glow and I find myself drawn into them. The living room around me fades as a familiar setting takes its place. The abandoned junkyard outside London, our magical playing ground. It's night and the stars are hidden behind the clouds. I look around and see the same scene I saw in my memories but hours ago.
The circle is closed and Randall is inside, his face distorted by Eyghon's demonic features. The creature mocks and laughs, telling us what it will do the moment it breaks free of the prison Ethan and I fashioned for him in a moment of desperation. Even in this afterimage I can feel the demon's power straining against the improvised magic. Soon he will be free and then there will be hell to pay.
Everything plays out exactly like I remember it. The argument over what to do now. Our pathetic attempts at exorcism. Our cold realization that we are not going to save Randall, that we are not strong enough for that. We thought we were powerful, the next coming of Merlin or something, but now we know that we are nothing but amateurs dabbling in something we have no hope of controlling.
I can see my own youthful face, see myself seemingly aging a decade as I come to the conclusion that Randall has to die. Only a living body can hold Eyghon indefinitely. Dead flesh disintegrates, leaving nothing for Eyghon to inhabit. The only way to get rid of him is to kill Randall.
We almost throw down over this, Ethan and I screaming at each other. Logical arguments are quickly replaced by spiteful words and obscenities as we tear into each other the way only lovers can. Yes, I remember. But hours before we shagged and kissed as Eyghon's presence drove us into ecstasy. Now that is forgotten as we scream and yell and nearly go at it with our fists.
Then the final tussle. The others holding Ethan back as I take the knife and step into the circle. It's weird seeing all this from the outside, but that's to be expected. The afterimages of death are not confined to the point of view of the dying person, it transcends all the senses. I see it all, every single moment. See myself plunge the knife into Randall's chest. See Eyghon strike back in retaliation before I can retreat behind the safety of the circle's boundary. See his claws slash deep into my chest. See myself stumble back as blood sprays from the gaping hole in my body.
Numbness spreads through me as I simply watch myself dying. I have seen this before, but I still know that this can't have happened. How could I have forgotten receiving a wound like this? How could I possibly have survived it? Yet here it is. The bones of the dead don't lie. Eyghon gutted me and I am lying on the dirty ground, bleeding my life away.
A shuddering breath escapes my younger version's mouth and I know he ... I ... he's dead. I feel incredibly cold.
Ethan springs up, his eyes drowning in black as he gathers every single bit of magic hovering in the air to himself. I can feel him brimming with power, more power than he can possibly control, riding a high of demonic energy and the power released by my ... my death. Energy sparkles around his hands as he turns on Eyghon, the demon still laughing as his flesh begins to disintegrate around him.
"A life for a life," I hear Eyghon say, chuckling. "And I will be back for all of you."
"You took him from me," Ethan screams and power crackles around him. Eyghon's smile fails and there is the tiniest trace of fear on his inhuman face.
"Little mage," he mocks, but his voice is less firm than it was. "You think you can harm me?"
Ethan doesn't even hear his words. "Give him back!"
I don't really have words to describe what happens next. The air shudders as all the magical energy Ethan has soaked up is released in one violent burst. I can hear Eyghon shriek, his voice still half that of Randall, and for a moment his body - his true appearance that we've only seen hinted so far - stands out starkly against a backdrop of pure white light. I can hear Ethan chanting, screaming. His hands are burning as he unleashes more power than his body can take.
Everything happens at once. I can see Randall's body disintegrate, leaving nothing but a transparent image of Eyghon, no trace of humanity to be found in him. Energy lances through him and he screams. His outline shimmers and wavers as he is torn apart by unseen hands. His body blows wide open and something comes oozing out of it. Energy, but it looks like blood and guts as the demon is turned inside out and torn in two.
The circle that has held Eyghon prisoner snaps and the energy spills out like water, flooding across the junkyard. Cars that have been long dead start up, engines roar and headlights flash. Huge mountains of rusted scrap metal tumble as their foundations are blasted out from underneath them by the unleashed power. I can see the others try and find some place to hide, but there is no such place.
Eyghon, or what is left of him after half his being has been torn away, screams once more and then vanishes, but something stays behind. That part of his being, the energy that has been torn from him is still there, shimmering, rippling, almost as if it's in pain. Someone screams and I can't make out who. I see my own body, my dead body, and it is still and lifeless, dead eyes reflecting the light playing in the air around it. Ethan is still on his feet, but his eyes are glazed over and I can see that he is on the point of incoherence, his features warped by insanity.
Then it all comes apart. In a final flash of light the tension snaps and moments later the darkness of night reclaims the junkyard, tinting everything black and gray. The only source of light left is the fire next to where the circle was and it's burning low. Bodies are everywhere and some of them are not moving.
I quickly look around, trying to account for everyone. Randall is gone, no trace of him left, but everyone else is there. Including myself, lying still on the ground with a no longer bleeding wound where my heart should be.
And one other who wasn't there before.
It's a man, little doubt about that seeing as he's not wearing any clothes. He lies in the exact same spot where the circle was. Where Randall and Eyghon were. It's not Randall, though, that much I can see immediately. I know what Randall looks like naked and this is not him. He is familiar, though, and it takes my now completely numbed thoughts a few seconds to figure out why that is.
It's been over forty years since I saw that body looking that way. And then only in the mirror.
The young man who looks exactly like me rises to his feet, a confused expression on his face. He looks around, taking everything in, but there is no comprehension on his face. Everything is blank, almost like a newborn child. His eyes find the dead body on the floor, the one that looks like him, but there is no reaction, no recognition.
"Ripper?" Ethan is back on his feet, a wild look on his eyes. He takes in the nude man, a grin of pure joy blooming on his face.
My doppelganger just stares at him.
"Oh my God," someone mutters. I see Deirdre, who is also back on her feet, look back and forth between the body on the floor and the standing doppelganger.
"Ethan, what did you do?" That's Philip, looking as if he might faint any moment now.
"It's Ripper," Ethan says, not even glancing at the body on the floor as he steps over it. "It's Rupert, don't you see? It's him."
There is a ripple in the air and suddenly the blank face of my doppelganger fills up like an empty cup. Where there was nothing but emptiness moments ago there is now someone looking out from behind those eyes. Someone familiar.
"Ethan?" he says, speaking slowly as if he has never used his voice before. Which he hasn't.
"Yes, Rupert," Ethan says, grinning and laughing. "You're all right."
"What happened? I don't..."
"You bastard!" Ethan is suddenly tackled to the ground and I see Thomas pounding on him, his face a mask of violent rage. The others quickly move to separate them, but my attention strays back to my doppelganger.
I look at him and the numbness around my thoughts slowly fades. I begin to understand what happened here, what happened to me. I should be screaming, denying, doing something to tell myself I am still sane, but I do none of these things. My mind keeps working, coldly putting the facts together until it arrives at the only solution that makes sense.
This nude man standing there with confusion in his eyes is not my doppelganger. He can't be, because that would mean that body on the ground is me and that I am dead. I am not dead, though. I never had a demon tear my chest open and rip out my heart. I didn't die in a junkyard on a rainy night 42 years ago.
But Rupert Giles did.
TO BE CONTINUED
Enjoy!
#
The Angel's Knight #20 - Dreams of the Ripper
#
Los Angeles, October 15, 2017
#
I haven't slept in over two days, yet I don't feel tired in the least. If anything I'm more awake than ever before. The thought of going to bed doesn't even enter my thoughts, which are surprisingly clear despite the lack of sleep. Too much to do, too many questions yet to be answered. In the course of two days my entire life has become unraveled and I need to find out the truth before I can allow myself to rest.
Somehow early morning seems the wrong time for doing a spell like this, but the preparations took all that was left of the night and I haven't got the patience to wait until dusk. Not that it needs to be at night in order to work, but doing a necromantic ritual in daylight ... it goes against tradition. Well, bugger tradition. I need answers.
Tara was kind enough to help me with the preparations and tired enough from an all-night research session with Wesley not to ask too many questions. It's been a while since I performed magics of this magnitude without anyone to back me up, but I have to do this alone. I am very much afraid of the answers I am currently seeking and the thought of anyone else learning them... no, I have to do this by myself.
I pushed all the furniture aside in my living room, clearing a large enough space to paint a conjuring circle on the floor. It's goat's blood, which will probably leave a stain after I'm done. Well, seeing as Angel owns this building I doubt I will get into any trouble with the landlord. Not that I care right now. I would sprinkle every wall in this building with goat's blood if it brought me answers.
The bones I brought back from England are in the center of the circle, arranged into the most life-like pose I could manage. The skeleton, which is definitely male, is almost whole, just a few finger bones and one foot is missing. A complete set would be better, but I wasn't exactly in the mood to search the entire junkyard for the missing parts and this should work as well.
My eyes are drawn back to the large hole punched right through the center of the ribcage. I am no forensic scientist, but I know this was not done with a knife. Just one more clue that these cannot possibly be Randall's remains. But whose are they then? Do I really want to know the answer? No, definitely not. But I need to.
I sit down beside the circle and pick up the book lying beside me. Necromantic magic is not something I am comfortable using. Playing around with the dead can have very ugly consequences. For the hundredth time my thoughts stray back sixteen years to Willow. I wasn't there to see her botched attempt to resurrect Buffy, but my imagination more than suffices to make up for that. The mere thought of my Slayer's remains being abused in that way...
Shaking my head I wrench myself back into the present. I am not trying to raise a zombie here. Whoever this poor fellow is, his rest won't be disturbed. Well, not any further disturbed than it already is considering I dug up his bones.
It is a well-known fact among practitioners of the art that, in the moment of death, tremendous power is released. That is why so many darker spells require a human sacrifice in order to work. This outburst of power also leaves behind an imprint. Sacrificial grounds, battlefields, places where many people have died are rife with these. A large portion of the power irradiates the remains, leaving an echo that can last for centuries and longer.
That is what I hope to see here tonight. If I do this right the spell should unveil the final moments of this man, like an afterimage burned into his bones. I am treading into dark magic territory here, I know that, but I have no choice. I have to know who this man is and how he died. I just have to.
Gathering my concentration I begin to read the spell. It's in English for once and I pronounce each word carefully, the slightest mistake could lead to grave consequences when dealing with this kind of magic. In the back of my head I can feel the prickle of gathering energy, magic hanging thick in the air around me. One of the reasons I seldom do magic anymore is because it always came so easily to me. Too easily. Magic is always tempting, the allure of circumventing the laws of nature always present.
A crimson glow begins to surround the skeleton in the circle, slowly seeping upwards like water dripping the wrong way. A swirl of energy forms above the remains, growing larger as I approach the end of the spell.
"Life's twilight moments," I pronounce the final words, "unveil thy secrets to me."
Images begin to form in the crimson glow and I find myself drawn into them. The living room around me fades as a familiar setting takes its place. The abandoned junkyard outside London, our magical playing ground. It's night and the stars are hidden behind the clouds. I look around and see the same scene I saw in my memories but hours ago.
The circle is closed and Randall is inside, his face distorted by Eyghon's demonic features. The creature mocks and laughs, telling us what it will do the moment it breaks free of the prison Ethan and I fashioned for him in a moment of desperation. Even in this afterimage I can feel the demon's power straining against the improvised magic. Soon he will be free and then there will be hell to pay.
Everything plays out exactly like I remember it. The argument over what to do now. Our pathetic attempts at exorcism. Our cold realization that we are not going to save Randall, that we are not strong enough for that. We thought we were powerful, the next coming of Merlin or something, but now we know that we are nothing but amateurs dabbling in something we have no hope of controlling.
I can see my own youthful face, see myself seemingly aging a decade as I come to the conclusion that Randall has to die. Only a living body can hold Eyghon indefinitely. Dead flesh disintegrates, leaving nothing for Eyghon to inhabit. The only way to get rid of him is to kill Randall.
We almost throw down over this, Ethan and I screaming at each other. Logical arguments are quickly replaced by spiteful words and obscenities as we tear into each other the way only lovers can. Yes, I remember. But hours before we shagged and kissed as Eyghon's presence drove us into ecstasy. Now that is forgotten as we scream and yell and nearly go at it with our fists.
Then the final tussle. The others holding Ethan back as I take the knife and step into the circle. It's weird seeing all this from the outside, but that's to be expected. The afterimages of death are not confined to the point of view of the dying person, it transcends all the senses. I see it all, every single moment. See myself plunge the knife into Randall's chest. See Eyghon strike back in retaliation before I can retreat behind the safety of the circle's boundary. See his claws slash deep into my chest. See myself stumble back as blood sprays from the gaping hole in my body.
Numbness spreads through me as I simply watch myself dying. I have seen this before, but I still know that this can't have happened. How could I have forgotten receiving a wound like this? How could I possibly have survived it? Yet here it is. The bones of the dead don't lie. Eyghon gutted me and I am lying on the dirty ground, bleeding my life away.
A shuddering breath escapes my younger version's mouth and I know he ... I ... he's dead. I feel incredibly cold.
Ethan springs up, his eyes drowning in black as he gathers every single bit of magic hovering in the air to himself. I can feel him brimming with power, more power than he can possibly control, riding a high of demonic energy and the power released by my ... my death. Energy sparkles around his hands as he turns on Eyghon, the demon still laughing as his flesh begins to disintegrate around him.
"A life for a life," I hear Eyghon say, chuckling. "And I will be back for all of you."
"You took him from me," Ethan screams and power crackles around him. Eyghon's smile fails and there is the tiniest trace of fear on his inhuman face.
"Little mage," he mocks, but his voice is less firm than it was. "You think you can harm me?"
Ethan doesn't even hear his words. "Give him back!"
I don't really have words to describe what happens next. The air shudders as all the magical energy Ethan has soaked up is released in one violent burst. I can hear Eyghon shriek, his voice still half that of Randall, and for a moment his body - his true appearance that we've only seen hinted so far - stands out starkly against a backdrop of pure white light. I can hear Ethan chanting, screaming. His hands are burning as he unleashes more power than his body can take.
Everything happens at once. I can see Randall's body disintegrate, leaving nothing but a transparent image of Eyghon, no trace of humanity to be found in him. Energy lances through him and he screams. His outline shimmers and wavers as he is torn apart by unseen hands. His body blows wide open and something comes oozing out of it. Energy, but it looks like blood and guts as the demon is turned inside out and torn in two.
The circle that has held Eyghon prisoner snaps and the energy spills out like water, flooding across the junkyard. Cars that have been long dead start up, engines roar and headlights flash. Huge mountains of rusted scrap metal tumble as their foundations are blasted out from underneath them by the unleashed power. I can see the others try and find some place to hide, but there is no such place.
Eyghon, or what is left of him after half his being has been torn away, screams once more and then vanishes, but something stays behind. That part of his being, the energy that has been torn from him is still there, shimmering, rippling, almost as if it's in pain. Someone screams and I can't make out who. I see my own body, my dead body, and it is still and lifeless, dead eyes reflecting the light playing in the air around it. Ethan is still on his feet, but his eyes are glazed over and I can see that he is on the point of incoherence, his features warped by insanity.
Then it all comes apart. In a final flash of light the tension snaps and moments later the darkness of night reclaims the junkyard, tinting everything black and gray. The only source of light left is the fire next to where the circle was and it's burning low. Bodies are everywhere and some of them are not moving.
I quickly look around, trying to account for everyone. Randall is gone, no trace of him left, but everyone else is there. Including myself, lying still on the ground with a no longer bleeding wound where my heart should be.
And one other who wasn't there before.
It's a man, little doubt about that seeing as he's not wearing any clothes. He lies in the exact same spot where the circle was. Where Randall and Eyghon were. It's not Randall, though, that much I can see immediately. I know what Randall looks like naked and this is not him. He is familiar, though, and it takes my now completely numbed thoughts a few seconds to figure out why that is.
It's been over forty years since I saw that body looking that way. And then only in the mirror.
The young man who looks exactly like me rises to his feet, a confused expression on his face. He looks around, taking everything in, but there is no comprehension on his face. Everything is blank, almost like a newborn child. His eyes find the dead body on the floor, the one that looks like him, but there is no reaction, no recognition.
"Ripper?" Ethan is back on his feet, a wild look on his eyes. He takes in the nude man, a grin of pure joy blooming on his face.
My doppelganger just stares at him.
"Oh my God," someone mutters. I see Deirdre, who is also back on her feet, look back and forth between the body on the floor and the standing doppelganger.
"Ethan, what did you do?" That's Philip, looking as if he might faint any moment now.
"It's Ripper," Ethan says, not even glancing at the body on the floor as he steps over it. "It's Rupert, don't you see? It's him."
There is a ripple in the air and suddenly the blank face of my doppelganger fills up like an empty cup. Where there was nothing but emptiness moments ago there is now someone looking out from behind those eyes. Someone familiar.
"Ethan?" he says, speaking slowly as if he has never used his voice before. Which he hasn't.
"Yes, Rupert," Ethan says, grinning and laughing. "You're all right."
"What happened? I don't..."
"You bastard!" Ethan is suddenly tackled to the ground and I see Thomas pounding on him, his face a mask of violent rage. The others quickly move to separate them, but my attention strays back to my doppelganger.
I look at him and the numbness around my thoughts slowly fades. I begin to understand what happened here, what happened to me. I should be screaming, denying, doing something to tell myself I am still sane, but I do none of these things. My mind keeps working, coldly putting the facts together until it arrives at the only solution that makes sense.
This nude man standing there with confusion in his eyes is not my doppelganger. He can't be, because that would mean that body on the ground is me and that I am dead. I am not dead, though. I never had a demon tear my chest open and rip out my heart. I didn't die in a junkyard on a rainy night 42 years ago.
But Rupert Giles did.
TO BE CONTINUED
