Year 5?
It took a year, at least, but I managed to talk Krannock into giving me what passes for paper and pencils. Gormless twit. And I'm talking about me, not Krannock. Ma would call me an idiot or worse for thinking a journal was more important than finding a way home.
Year 7, Month 4, Day 23
It's ten months since the first whisper of the rebellion reached us, and nothing more until last night. Hardly surprising, considering how badly Krannock reacted when he first heard the rumor making the rounds. I still get nightmares about him whipping me, but I do wonder why he went completely berserk over what he called foolish gossip.
Anyway, Krannock had the poor sod put to death in front of us all for speaking of it. But painful though his death had been, maybe S'Dev was the lucky one. He couldn't have been in his right mind, claiming the other side was led by a tiny human, of all things.
Year 7, Month 5, Day 18
Can't write much. That army — the one S'Dev tried to report — it's on the plains outside the city. Christ. Part of me wants the war to be real, but another part wants it to be a fantasy, nothing more.
I've been here too long. Time was, I'd have risked a whipping or worse just for the chance to join them, but now? Now I'm just another poor bastard too messed up in the head to do anything but hide under the covers.
No. I won't do that. I can't. I may be dead in the morning, but I can't just wait here any longer. I can't let anyone else rule my life like this.
Escaping from his cell had been absurdly easy, and it took George about two miles of walking to figure out why — he'd been tame for so long that they stopped guarding him. He was disgusted with himself, but at the same time, he was impressed as hell that he'd found some last fragment of hope hiding in his soul. If anyone had asked him a day earlier, he would have said that hope was gone, never to be seen again.
Three or four miles after that sad epiphany, he was getting winded, even though he was in his braachen form. He'd been doing translation work for so many years that he'd lost any hint of physical fitness he once had. He was sweating heavily by the time he reached the first of the watch fires, and he all but collapsed when the guards pointed guns at him.
They dragged him to the back of the encampment and put him in a pen with other prisoners. No one seemed to know what to do with him, and he couldn't manage to find a common tongue with any of the guards on duty that shift. At some point the next day, the absurdity of the situation hit him, and he started chuckling to himself over it, trying to figure out how it was that a half-human braachen had managed to find himself a prisoner not once, but twice over.
He was still laughing when she appeared, and he stopped cold, his eyes wide as he took in her appearance. Human? Most definitely. Hard to say where she claimed home, but she had to have come from somewhere with hair dye — the last few inches were blonde, and the rest was brown. Her eyes, though, they were her best feature. They were light and clear, and he was willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that he could see her soul shining through them. He swallowed — gulped, really — and barely noticed when his features slid back to human.
She frowned at him and said, "Okay — human or demon?"
"Irish," he answered, blinking as she snorted.
"I know a guy who might actually understand why you answered that way. But what I'm asking is are you human pretending to be a demon, or are you a real demon?" As she stood there all small and cute, he thought she should give off an air sweet innocence. Instead, she had an energy that sent sparks along George's veins, and he thought there was a pretty good chance that there was more to her than met the eye. But for all that she sent him into a tailspin, he couldn't take his eyes off her.
"Both. Da is human, Ma is braachen," he said, unable to generate even a mild self-reproof for how utterly besotted he'd become in just the two minutes she'd been standing there.
"Braachen? Never heard of them. So. You're Irish, and you're half-and-half. Got any ideas about what you want to do with yourself?" It had been so long since anyone spoke to him with anything other than an order that he wasn't sure how to answer.
When he realized he was still staring at her, he shook himself and said, "I want to follow you."
Year 0, Day 2 of the rest of my life
Dear God in Heaven, her name is Buffy of all things. What was her mother thinking? What self-respecting warrior goes around with the name of Buffy? I wonder if she'd consider a name change — just for professional reasons.
George watched as Herself strode through the camp with a lot more confidence than he'd been able to scare up on his own over the last few years. In the weeks since he managed to put one foot in front of the other and escape from his self-guarded prison, he'd been watching her like a lovesick fool, wondering when he might get up the courage to say more than what he already had — namely the fact that he knew a shitload of languages and could probably help her talk to a great many of her soldiers.
"George!" He turned and watched Melkin bear down on him. Of all the people he'd met in her army so far, Melkin made him the most uncomfortable. He wasn't sure if it was the fact that Melkin was a mage or that he was a shaman that made him cringe, but since he'd been raised Catholic, it was likely both aspects that made him want to recoil. There was also the fact that he was a right bastard who'd as soon rip a man's head off as speak to him.
"Yes, Melkin?" A respectful tone seemed to be the key to avoiding a beating by him, and George had been hit enough in his time in Hell to be able to show a submissive face when he had to.
"You'll be wanted at tonight's meeting. Make sure you clean up before you get there. The bitch doesn't like her army to smell bad," he said, contempt coloring every word he spoke.
George felt his blood pressure rise, but he said nothing. Melkin was a good three feet taller and could tear him limb from limb without a second thought. He didn't know why Herself kept him around, but it wasn't his business to understand such things.
"I'll clean up beforehand," he answered to Melkin's back. Though he would have bathed in rotted meat if she had asked it of him, he was grateful for the chance to demand soap from what passed as the quartermaster. Strange how things got turned around. When Krannock held his leash, he could have all the soap he wanted, and paper went begging. Now he had all the paper — real paper — he wanted, but soap was at a premium. Of course, if the lazy sods ever got off their arse, they could make their own, but his attempts to point this out had met with blank stares or outright hostility.
Considering he'd have to bathe in a cold stream, he was surprisingly cheerful. He'd be clean for the first time in a long time, and maybe she would see that he cleaned up well. Or maybe he wouldn't. It had been a damned long time since he'd seen himself in a mirror, and for all he knew, he could look like Charles Manson. 'Christ. I probably do look just like that freak,' he thought as he waited for the requested cake of soap. 'Long, dark hair, frizzy beard. Hell — I even have the same deep-set eyes.'
"Bloody hell!" George blushed when he realized he said that last bit out loud. Lucky for him, there was no one near who spoke —
"What is it with you British and Irish types and that particular phrase?" He stood still for a long moment before turning slowly to see Herself standing right there.
"I — um — I apolo —"
"Don't," she said, holding her hand lightly to his mouth. "It brought back a happy memory. Thank you."
Since he couldn't have spoken — even if her fingers weren't just barely touching his lips — he swallowed and bobbed his head in acknowledgement. He almost groaned when she took her hand away, but he managed to find a small speck of pride to stiffen his spine.
On the bright side, she was still standing there, looking at him. "Did you get the message about tonight's meeting?"
"Yes, Melkin told me," he stammered. The only explanation for what happened next was the look of distaste on her face when he mentioned Melkin. It gave him courage to say, "I know it isn't my place, but you don't need him — not with the way he talks about you."
Her face went a bit hard at that, and she said, "You're right. It isn't your place. Get cleaned up. The meeting is right after we eat."
He watched her stalk off and called himself a hundred times a fool for saying anything at all.
Year 0, Month 2, Day 16 (or 17, 18 or 19 — I think I lost a few days after Melkin beat me)
At least now I know why Herself kept Melkin around as long as she did — she was getting information from him. Too bad she won't be getting more. I'm told by Kathy that when Herself found Melkin gloating over my broken body, she pretty much dismembered him with her bare hands, then had a chat with the rest of the army while she waved around one of his arms. I'm told by a number of others that her speech was damned impressive, and that in-fighting has all but stopped.
I just wish I could remember what I did to set him off. Kathy thinks I'm foolish for worrying about it, and maybe she's right. He's dead, and I'm not. Isn't that what really counts?
He hadn't seen Herself but a handful of times since nearly dying from Melkin's free application of his fists and feet, and he missed the sight of her more than he missed the sight of Ireland. Most of the time, he was three times a fool to think she'd ever notice him, but on rare occasion, he'd permit a brief period of time to get lost in fantasy. In that fantasy, she saw him for the man he'd been, not the one he'd become, and she —
"George?"
He jumped half a foot, dropping the arrows he'd been told to deliver when he heard her voice right behind him. He sincerely hoped that one of these days, he might actually see her approach, so he wouldn't end up acting like a nervous virgin the minute she spoke. He turned, nearly falling in his haste both to respond to her and to pick up the arrows. Deciding at last to kneel down to pick up the arrows, he looked up at her, feeling around for the projectiles. "Yes? Ma'am?"
She squatted next to him to help, saying, "This has to be the craziest army I've ever heard of. Half of them won't go near guns, a quarter of them think anything more complicated than a spear is a sign of the darkest evil, and the rest think the others are crazy for not taking advantage of everything technology has to offer."
George stopped trying to gather up the arrows, stunned at the speech she'd just given him. "Ma'am?"
She paused in her efforts, looking him straight in the eye and saying, "Buffy. My name is Buffy. And I'm way too young to be a 'Ma'am.' Got it?"
"Yes, Ma —" He swallowed and said, "Yes, Buffy. It's just — you're in charge of all this."
"Yeah. I guess. But if I were doing even a half-assed job, Melkin wouldn't have —" she cut herself off, picking up the last of the arrows and handing them to him. "You almost died because I didn't want to hear what you had to say. I'm sorry about that."
He caught his breath at the sudden vulnerability and loneliness he saw in her face, realizing abruptly that she wasn't the distant warrior goddess of his dreams. She was a young woman doing the best she could under circumstances that would break most people, and she was doing it without a hint of real support. He'd heard the talk around camp. Most of the demons in the army were waiting for the day she met her match in combat, just so they could get out of the commitments made by their individual chieftains. Of the few humans that had survived to this point, only Kathy was worth a damn, but she was too awed by Hers — by Buffy's reputation to do little more than snap to attention and agree to whatever was asked of her.
Bringing out at long last the one remaining spark of the personality that used to get him into so much trouble with his teachers, he gave her half a grin and said, "I'm sure I did something to irritate him. Breathing, perhaps?"
It was enough to startle a small answering smile out of her, and he continued, "I nearly died because of Melkin, not you. Never you."
"But —" He held up a hand, not quite daring to touch her lips to silence her, but longing to.
"Never apologize," he said softly. "You're the leader of this army, and the whole lot of them will be on you like starving hounds if they think you're weak. And they're stupid enough to think an apology is a sign of weakness."
Something seemed to flare to life in her eyes as they looked at one another, and she gave him a slow smile that seemed to light up the dreary day. "Tell me, George. Do you like carrying arrows around?"
He gave her an answering smile and said, "Not really."
"I heard a rumor you're a demon with languages." She looked so innocent when she said it, that it took a moment for the exact words to filter through his brain.
With a bark of laughter, he said, "Some might say that."
"I could use a good translator," she said, relaxing slightly.
"I could use a job that doesn't give me splinters," he answered. His stomach was doing a crazy dance as he realized what he'd just agreed to. 'Lord in Heaven,' he prayed silently, 'please don't let me make an ass of myself.'
She looked like she wanted to say something else, but instead, she stood up all business-like, saying, "Deliver those, then meet me back at my tent. I'll tell you what I need the most help with."
As she strode off, looking like the queen of the world, he reminded himself that just because she was lonely for a friendly voice, it didn't mean she was interested in him as a man. He just hoped he could convince his reawakened libido of that fact.
to be continued...
