8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
Disclaimer: I own nothing save characters not appearing in King Arthur, Buffy, or Angel. This story is not meant to insult, impugn the dignity of, or otherwise cause difficulty for the reader. Flames will be used to heat my house, constructive comments will be welcomed and used to improve the story.
Author's Note: Thank you for all the wonderful feedback. And thanks for letting me know that you're enjoying. As always, reviews are at the end of the chapter.
Italics: Latin in modern times
88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
Anywhere's Better Than Cleveland
Chapter Six: Job Description
8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
Jols stared mutely at the oats that had spilled from the tear in the bag. The bag had been brand new. He'd set it in the stores only the afternoon before. What could have destroyed this bag?
For destroyed it was. It dimly reminded the squire of one of Bors's foes after the barrel-chested knight had been playing with his fist daggers. The only difference was that there were no slashes by a blade. No, this was all damage done by a fist.
He sighed. If the knights wanted to punch a bag, all they had to do was ask.
8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
Father James Corcoran looked down at the girl lying on the couch in his quarters. He wasn't sure what to do with her. He'd carried her from the chapel where she had collapsed to his rooms and was now waiting.
Patience had never been a virtue he'd been good at practicing.
He rolled his cup of coffee between his palms and looked, again, at the girl. She was wearing something he might have expected at the renaissance festival in Tuxedo. Her legs were encased in a set of pants that looked suspiciously like real leather. Her feet were shod in a pair of comfortable looking boots. And her torso was wrapped in some kind of wrap shirt that bared quite a bit of cleavage as well as belly.
He sighed.
Would she wake up anytime soon? He glanced at his watch. It was three o'clock in the morning and in a few hours he would be presiding over morning mass for elderly widows and young mothers. He frowned. He didn't want to leave this girl alone. Not when he wasn't sure if she would do harm to herself. His frown deepened as the girl on the couch began to move, tossing in her sleep.
He moved from the chair he'd been sitting in to crouch at her side. "Miss, you're having a nightmare." He touched her shoulder with what he hoped was a comforting grip. A fist slammed into his jaw and he tumbled back onto his buttocks, rubbing his jaw. For a tiny thing she packed one hell of a punch.
She was awake, dark eyes looking at him suspiciously. "Who are you?"
Father James rubbed his jaw, popping it. "Father James Corcoran. Nice to meet you. And before you ask, you are still in New York. Where are you supposed to be?"
The girl twitched and pulled herself into a tight ball on the couch. "Vindolanda," she replied softly. She watched for any reaction and was disappointed when the blank look remained.
He grinned as a thought came to him. He moved to his desk, to the computer, and quickly typed in the name she had given him. His eyes widened as Wikipedia spat out an answer. Roman Britain? He glanced at the girl, who had an expression of curiosity on her face at the contraption he was typing on. "What year is it?"
Ylith looked at the man as if he were truly crazed. Perhaps the monsters of this place drained sanity as well as blood? "It is the year of our Lord 467."
James blew out a breath and let his head fall into his hands.
Honestly that was not the answer he expected.
8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
Tristan arched an eyebrow as he watched a leather bag being suspended from one of the rafters to the side of the practice arena. Jols was directing one of the stable boys in the hanging of it and the scout wondered what the squire had come up with this time. Deciding to investigate later, he proceeded to draw his sword and practice the art that had served him so well for the last fifteen years.
The other knights soon joined, each pairing up save Arthur, their commander having been called to a meeting with a visiting Roman commander from Londinium.
Something about a string of recent deaths in Londinium was the topic of the meeting. Apparently the Romans were concerned that the murderer might be traveling towards the north and the wall. Though he had some suspicions that those murders had been related to the monster that the girl Faith had killed. He wondered yet again if he had made the correct decision in not telling Arthur what he had seen.
What would his Roman commander make of the girl? Would he think her some monster for hunting monsters?
She had gone out every night, climbing out of the window in her room and stalking the alleys and shadows of Vindolanda. He had always been a creature of the night and shadows as well, finding his peace when his brothers were asleep. It had seemed only natural for him to shadow the barmaid. After all, he reasoned, he had a responsibility to make sure that his decision not to tell Arthur would not cost another their life.
Squaring off with Gawain, each man testing their fighting styles against the very different one of the other, he forced his mind to focus on the tawny-maned knight. As he blocked and parried, swung and advanced, he noted that his brother knights seemed to be itching for action.
It had been days since Lamorak's death and they had still not left for a proper patrol, that being defined by the knights being away from the fortress for several days. Instead, they had done quick reconnaissance missions within a day's ride of the fortress. Tristan had still gotten his quota of revenge in those short missions, his blade always bloody and his quiver empty by the time they returned to the fortress.
But soon they would have to go on longer patrols or Arthur would be throwing at least one Sarmatian in the fortress's dungeon or ordering floggings. Or Arthur would begin to punish himself for his perceived sins and failings.
Yes, all around it would be better for the knights and their commander to be doing something productive and far from the constricting walls of Vindolanda.
88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
Vanora sighed, resting her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands.
"Hey, V, who rained on your parade?" asked Faith, once again sending a silent thank you to Sister Mary Margaret for beating Latin into her brain. It was funny. She used to curse the plump nun who wielded a ruler like Jason Varitek with a baseball bat.
Vanora looked up glumly. "The knights are going on patrol in the morning," admitted the tavern owner.
Faith nodded, setting down the cup that she had been drying on the counter, and walked to the table where Vanora was seated, perching her hip on the tabletop. "Just means they'll come back all the quicker."
Vanora cocked her head to one side, crimson hair falling in a sheet over her shoulder. "Are you always so certain?"
Faith shrugged. "Part of the job description."
Vanora shook her head. The girl's language was beyond strange but she claimed to be from a village far to the east. "Well, part of our 'job description' is getting ready for the men who will wish to drink their heart's desire."
Faith grinned at the older woman, though Vanora was likely not much older than the slayer. "Then we better get off our asses and start getting this place ready to rock."
Vanora allowed the smaller woman to help her to her feet and raised an eyebrow. "Rock?"
Faith grinned and rolled her hips in a decidedly provocative manner. "Rock."
Vanora chuckled. "I'm not sure that we're ready to 'rock.'"
Faith shrugged, though her smile widened. "Never know until you try."
88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
Buffy stared down at her fingernails. She needed to get a manicure. Her nails were looking decidedly ragged.
"Buffy?" came the soft voice of her watcher.
Buffy looked up, seeing exhaustion edging at the hazel eyes of her friend. "Any news?"
Giles shook his head and stepped into the kitchen, heading to the refrigerator. "Apparently Faith's line was, um," he scratched his neck as he tried to find a polite way to phrase it, "prolific." He glanced at Buffy, the blonde slayer smirking. "The problem is narrowing down the ancestor since the blood sample merely lets us know of her blood relations."
Buffy nodded and picked up the soda that she had been sipping, making a face as she realized that it had gone flat. "So her family is a bunch of bunnies and we need to weed through them?"
Giles pulled open the refrigerator door and snagged the box of pizza that was resting on the top shelf. Cooking had gone to the backburner in the manse while slayers, watchers, demon and witch tried to determine the whereabouts of their onetime rogue slayer. "Precisely. It should be simple enough. After all, I'm sure that her alternate reality ancestor is not fitting into this world."
88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
Gawain frowned and took an experimental swing at the bag. His punch connected and rocked back up to his shoulder, earning a grin from the leonine knight. However, the bag swung back with the force of the punch and Gawain had to scamper backwards.
"I think we need to hold it," offered Dagonet, stepping behind the bag and grasping it in his hands.
Gawain nodded and began a series of punches, hair and sweat flying.
"Alright, Jols, where'd you come up with this?" asked Bors, leaning against the practice ring and watching Gawain pummeling the leather bag.
Jols gave Bors a fisheyed look and motioned to the bag. "Better to have you lot hitting that than tearing apart bags of oats." The squire strode off, leaving a bewildered Sarmatian in his wake.
"What was that all about?" asked Galahad, watching the normally even tempered squire heading off in what could only be described as a snit.
Bors shrugged and filed it away to be reviewed later.
88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
TBC...
88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
To My Wonderful Reviewers:
Bleeding Twilight: We'll try to get Buffy to be patient or at least stymied. And, yes, poor Ylith. Though I'm kind of feeling sorry for the priest at this point. And so happy you liked Faith not succumbing to Lancelot. Yay! And, don't worry, Tristan will eventually confront our slayer. Oh, the fireworks. (evil grin)
Kim: Thanks for reviewing. I appreciate any and all feedback and I love that you are enjoying the slamming together of the Buffyverse and King Arthur. And thank you. I appreciate being told that it's well-written. It means a heck of a lot to me. Again, thank you.
Anime Princess: So glad that you're enjoying the fact that Ylith ended up in New York, of all places. Yup, had to stay true to Faith's whole sexual component. And you like Tristan being conflicted? Excellent. And you like Lancelot being "heartbroken"? Again, excellent.
Gargoyle13: So glad that you like the concept. You're right, Lancelot vs. slayer--especially Faith? We could sell tickets. Don't worry, we're seeing more. And finding out more. And we're not dropping any of the threads. Hopefully.
Pastel Shades: So glad that you're enjoying. And I'm also glad that you like that it's Faith who got pulled to the King Arthur reality. And here's two chapters. I got a little creative.
BornWithAFever: No worries. And thanks for pointing out that it wasn't clear. There's a reason I ask for reviews. So, thank you, thank you, thank you. And thank you for saying that Faith is keeping in character. And so glad that you like the idea of Tristan and Faith.