Fic: I Ven Eden (A new road) FRT 4/9
Disclaimer in Part One
Names were easy. It was all the rest that made things complicated. The smattering of whatever language it was that Giles had somehow managed to recall was hardly tourist phrase book-y, and even if it had been it was obvious that it wasn’t their new companion’s native tongue. That reduced communication to mostly gesture and guess work, neither of which was up to the where are we, what sort of demon were those things, and do you have any idea how we might get home again questions that Buffy wanted to ask. The fight - a good, muscle stretching, workout - had warmed her up a little, but now the adrenaline was fading, so was the day - and a flimsy and now gunk covered gown was not the kind of thing she really wanted to spend the night in.
Giles clearly had similar concerns. The glances he was throwing her way came with a thoughtful and slightly worried frown. Not that he was glancing a lot; new guy - Halbarad, and what sort of name was that - was still bleeding and in need of attention; the slice across his upper arm was deep enough to warrant stitches had they had any sensible first aid stuff to work with. He’d offered no protest as Giles widened the cut on his damaged sleeve, and watched with wary interest as competent hands padded a wad of cloth against the wound and wrapped a makeshift bandage round it to keep it in place. The cloth, and the bandage, were strips torn from the bottom of Giles’ cloak-come-carrier bag. Buffy had offered to tear up her skirt for the task, and had earned herself an arched look, which she’d returned with a pointed one of her own. Maybe blood soaked silk wasn’t the best of bandage substitutes, but then neither was musty ex-grave velvet - although, she had to admit after a moment’s thought, it was probably cleaner.
Unlike the man, who had a gritty, lived in the wilderness look to him. He wasn’t homeless-guy filthy, and he didn’t actually stink - but his chin was stubbled, his fingers were grimy, and his clothes had that lived in look that only living in them could create. He also had a tousle of unwashed and mostly uncombed hair that was long enough to sweep his shoulders.
On him, it actually looked good.
Buffy wasn’t sure how old he was - older than Xander for certain, but still younger than Giles at a guess. A little weathered, but in the younger George Cloony/Harrison Ford kind of way - rugged, rather than ragged, and definitely with a hint of rogue in the mix. She smiled at him, and he smiled back, all white teeth and manly amusement - which was lost in a wince as Giles tightened the last knot and carefully tucked the torn ends of cloth into the depths of a blood stained sleeve.
Halbarad nodded a grim satisfaction with the makeshift treatment, flexing the fingers on the relevant hand to check that everything still worked before reaching to briefly clasp his physician’s shoulder in a gesture of thanks. Giles nodded and helped the man regain his feet, offering some well meaning and probably totally incomprehensible advice about taking things carefully for a while. He had lost a fair bit of blood, and he wasn’t entirely steady as he climbed back to his feet, but he took a deep breath, worked a few kinks out of his neck and shoulders and straightened up with confidence.
Okay, Buffy registered with a half smile. Not as tall as Giles, either …
Not that many people were, of course. She was so used to her Watcher’s self-effacing act that she tended to forget just how imposing - or intimidating, it depended on the effect he was going for - he could be, when he wanted to make a point. Right now, he was being pretty imposing, possibly because it would be difficult to be anything but in all that fancy metal work. Halabard didn’t look all that surprised at being loomed over; if anything, he smiled at it, as if it confirmed something he’d been suspecting. He glanced between the two of them for a moment, widened his smile - and put his fingers to his lips, letting out a piercing whistle that set Buffy’s ears ringing.
“Good lord,” Giles muttered, glaring at the man. “A little warning wouldn’t have gone amiss.”
It was a good glare, and its recipient looked vaguely abashed, clearly picking up on the complaint, even if he’d had no idea what had been said. He offered a terse apology - words that sounded apologetic, that is - and gestured out towards the rolling landscape that lay at the edge of the moor.
As if summoned by magic, a horse appeared in it.
Halbarad’s horse, of course. Still draped in saddle and travelling gear and conjured up by whistle, rather than spell. It trotted back to its master and whinnied a soft apology of its own, dipping its head and looking sheepish. Not that it was very sheep like, of course. It was very much horse, with a glossy coat beneath all the trail dust, and a high arched neck, and long slender legs that went all the way down to sturdy hooves. Halbarad greeted it with soft words and a gentle stroke to its muzzle that moved him - in Buffy’s opinion at least - one more notch up the probable good guy scale.
He went up several more when his first move after that was to fumble in one of his saddle bags and pull out a bundle of clothing. Within moments, Buffy was using the modesty of a large rock to peel blood spattered silk off her shoulders, wipe the worst of the stain off her skin with a horsey smelling piece of cloth, and climb into the warmth of a soft linen shirt and one of Halbarad’s woollen tunics. Both of them came down past her knees, which meant that - once she’d belted them in with her sword belt - she felt comfortably, and far more practically dressed.
By the time she remerged, Giles and Halabard had managed a little more progress with the communications thing. They’d dragged most of the dead ugly, fugly guys off the road and into a small pile, and had been swapping vocabulary while doing it. Buffy suspected that Giles had done most of the dragging, since Hal-bad was looking a little pale and not entirely steady on his feet; but the conversation had progressed from simple words into longer, if hesitant, sentences, which was a hopeful sign. She’d missed most of the exchange, but gathered that the corpses belonged to something call awks, or orcs, which apparently translated into that Giles-vaguely-speak as yrch - and she thought that was exactly the word to describe them, since it sounded like a spit of disgust.
“Did we get a keep the moor tidy memo?” she asked, a little amused to find that - despite shifting dimensions - her Watcher had still ended up with the demon-disposal duty. “Because I thought they were being fairly decorative the way they were.”
“Ah - Buffy.” Giles smiled at her, nodding approval of the new look. “That looks - a little more comfortable.”
“Totally in the comfortness zone,” she agreed. “A little lacking in the fashion one, but maybe I can start a trend. We building corpse tower for a reason?”
“We certainly are.” Giles frowned down at the offending pile, then glanced at Halabard, who was doing much the same. “Apparently these - orcs … which seem to be something akin to what we’d call goblins, by the way - aren’t the only things wandering around in this wilderness. The scent of blood is going to attract scavengers. Carrion crows, wolves …”
“Warg,” Halbarad agreed, miming something mean and growly. Buffy fought down the urge to giggle at his expression and managed to nod solemnly instead. She had the feeling that their new friend didn’t consider warg to be a laughing matter, and it was probably a good idea that she didn’t either. No matter how cute the mime had been.
“… even bears or … trolls,” Giles concluded, obviously pondering the implications of that particular possibility. “So it makes sense to dispose of the bodies if we can. Of course - ah - this place is a little short of kindling wood, which I believe was Halbarad’s plan. So we may have to resort to one of the more - esoteric methods of corpse clearance.”
“One of the - oh, right. Yeah. You up to that?” Dead demons - the ones that didn’t dissolve into dust, or mist, or weird blue goop, that is - had always been something of a nuisance. Giles had developed a whole series of disposal methods over the years, ranging from judicious use of a chainsaw and a very large shovel, right up to and including mystical banishment, which took lots of stinky herbs, white chalk and at least two altar candles.
Since he hadn’t grabbed any candles on their way out of the collapsing tomb, and stinky herbs looked to be in as short supply as chainsaw blades, that only left one practical option - which would be effective, but a little draining on his personal reserves.
“I believe so. And the sooner we do this, the sooner we can get on our way. Apparently there’s some kind of settlement a little further down the road, with at least one inn in it. He has comrades waiting for him there, and we can hopefully find shelter and gain some idea of where we might be able to go to get some help.”
“You got all that from all the nodding and pointing stuff?” Buffy was impressed. Obviously Giles’ mega-language skills were paying off big time. She’d still be at the ‘me Buffy, you Halbarad’ stage.
“Most of it. The map he showed me helped a little.”
Ah. Maps were good. Or possibly bad, now she came to think about it. “We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore, right?”
He spared her a wry glance before returning to his contemplation of the corpses. What he was about to do needed focus and concentration, and she should probably stop talking to him until he was done. “Not only not in Kansas,” he murmured, lifting his left hand and holding it out in a studied and commanding gesture, “but I suspect so far past the second star to the right that morning’s come and gone several times … Lacho!”
It wasn’t the usual word he used, but it was definitely an effective one. Flame crackled up from the tumble of bodies, leaping and flickering as it hungrily caught hold of leather and flesh alike. Buffy stepped forward in time to offer her support as Giles sagged from the sudden release of energies, and he leant into the curve of her proffered arm with grateful relief. “Should have brought some smores,” she observed, watching the flames paint the patterns of death with cleansing light, and he snorted.
“Well, yes, of course,” he muttered, half to himself. “Because everyone knows how good they taste smoked over a dead goblin or two …”
“Oh, absolutely,”she agreed with a grimace. “It’s the new flavour sensation. Essence of eww.”
“Yrch.” His correction was soft, as was his smile. She smiled back. They were in deep trouble, true, but - she had weapons, and her Watcher, and they’d successfully fought off a bunch of bad guys … and they’d found an ally, and there was hope of a roof over her head before the day was out … things were looking decidedly up from where’d they’d been back when they’d first arrived.
On the other side of the now leaping flames, fire touched eyes were considering them both with an odd mix of frowny thought and bemused wonderment. She guessed that the guy had had some experience of magic in the past, but not so much as to have expected that particular solution to their problem. He hadn’t reacted negatively, at least. If anything, it seemed to have confirmed some of those assumptions he’d been making - because his slow, considered nod was accompanied by the quiet quirk of a smile.
Names were easy. It was all the rest that made things complicated. The smattering of whatever language it was that Giles had somehow managed to recall was hardly tourist phrase book-y, and even if it had been it was obvious that it wasn’t their new companion’s native tongue. That reduced communication to mostly gesture and guess work, neither of which was up to the where are we, what sort of demon were those things, and do you have any idea how we might get home again questions that Buffy wanted to ask. The fight - a good, muscle stretching, workout - had warmed her up a little, but now the adrenaline was fading, so was the day - and a flimsy and now gunk covered gown was not the kind of thing she really wanted to spend the night in.
Giles clearly had similar concerns. The glances he was throwing her way came with a thoughtful and slightly worried frown. Not that he was glancing a lot; new guy - Halbarad, and what sort of name was that - was still bleeding and in need of attention; the slice across his upper arm was deep enough to warrant stitches had they had any sensible first aid stuff to work with. He’d offered no protest as Giles widened the cut on his damaged sleeve, and watched with wary interest as competent hands padded a wad of cloth against the wound and wrapped a makeshift bandage round it to keep it in place. The cloth, and the bandage, were strips torn from the bottom of Giles’ cloak-come-carrier bag. Buffy had offered to tear up her skirt for the task, and had earned herself an arched look, which she’d returned with a pointed one of her own. Maybe blood soaked silk wasn’t the best of bandage substitutes, but then neither was musty ex-grave velvet - although, she had to admit after a moment’s thought, it was probably cleaner.
Unlike the man, who had a gritty, lived in the wilderness look to him. He wasn’t homeless-guy filthy, and he didn’t actually stink - but his chin was stubbled, his fingers were grimy, and his clothes had that lived in look that only living in them could create. He also had a tousle of unwashed and mostly uncombed hair that was long enough to sweep his shoulders.
On him, it actually looked good.
Buffy wasn’t sure how old he was - older than Xander for certain, but still younger than Giles at a guess. A little weathered, but in the younger George Cloony/Harrison Ford kind of way - rugged, rather than ragged, and definitely with a hint of rogue in the mix. She smiled at him, and he smiled back, all white teeth and manly amusement - which was lost in a wince as Giles tightened the last knot and carefully tucked the torn ends of cloth into the depths of a blood stained sleeve.
Halbarad nodded a grim satisfaction with the makeshift treatment, flexing the fingers on the relevant hand to check that everything still worked before reaching to briefly clasp his physician’s shoulder in a gesture of thanks. Giles nodded and helped the man regain his feet, offering some well meaning and probably totally incomprehensible advice about taking things carefully for a while. He had lost a fair bit of blood, and he wasn’t entirely steady as he climbed back to his feet, but he took a deep breath, worked a few kinks out of his neck and shoulders and straightened up with confidence.
Okay, Buffy registered with a half smile. Not as tall as Giles, either …
Not that many people were, of course. She was so used to her Watcher’s self-effacing act that she tended to forget just how imposing - or intimidating, it depended on the effect he was going for - he could be, when he wanted to make a point. Right now, he was being pretty imposing, possibly because it would be difficult to be anything but in all that fancy metal work. Halabard didn’t look all that surprised at being loomed over; if anything, he smiled at it, as if it confirmed something he’d been suspecting. He glanced between the two of them for a moment, widened his smile - and put his fingers to his lips, letting out a piercing whistle that set Buffy’s ears ringing.
“Good lord,” Giles muttered, glaring at the man. “A little warning wouldn’t have gone amiss.”
It was a good glare, and its recipient looked vaguely abashed, clearly picking up on the complaint, even if he’d had no idea what had been said. He offered a terse apology - words that sounded apologetic, that is - and gestured out towards the rolling landscape that lay at the edge of the moor.
As if summoned by magic, a horse appeared in it.
Halbarad’s horse, of course. Still draped in saddle and travelling gear and conjured up by whistle, rather than spell. It trotted back to its master and whinnied a soft apology of its own, dipping its head and looking sheepish. Not that it was very sheep like, of course. It was very much horse, with a glossy coat beneath all the trail dust, and a high arched neck, and long slender legs that went all the way down to sturdy hooves. Halbarad greeted it with soft words and a gentle stroke to its muzzle that moved him - in Buffy’s opinion at least - one more notch up the probable good guy scale.
He went up several more when his first move after that was to fumble in one of his saddle bags and pull out a bundle of clothing. Within moments, Buffy was using the modesty of a large rock to peel blood spattered silk off her shoulders, wipe the worst of the stain off her skin with a horsey smelling piece of cloth, and climb into the warmth of a soft linen shirt and one of Halbarad’s woollen tunics. Both of them came down past her knees, which meant that - once she’d belted them in with her sword belt - she felt comfortably, and far more practically dressed.
By the time she remerged, Giles and Halabard had managed a little more progress with the communications thing. They’d dragged most of the dead ugly, fugly guys off the road and into a small pile, and had been swapping vocabulary while doing it. Buffy suspected that Giles had done most of the dragging, since Hal-bad was looking a little pale and not entirely steady on his feet; but the conversation had progressed from simple words into longer, if hesitant, sentences, which was a hopeful sign. She’d missed most of the exchange, but gathered that the corpses belonged to something call awks, or orcs, which apparently translated into that Giles-vaguely-speak as yrch - and she thought that was exactly the word to describe them, since it sounded like a spit of disgust.
“Did we get a keep the moor tidy memo?” she asked, a little amused to find that - despite shifting dimensions - her Watcher had still ended up with the demon-disposal duty. “Because I thought they were being fairly decorative the way they were.”
“Ah - Buffy.” Giles smiled at her, nodding approval of the new look. “That looks - a little more comfortable.”
“Totally in the comfortness zone,” she agreed. “A little lacking in the fashion one, but maybe I can start a trend. We building corpse tower for a reason?”
“We certainly are.” Giles frowned down at the offending pile, then glanced at Halabard, who was doing much the same. “Apparently these - orcs … which seem to be something akin to what we’d call goblins, by the way - aren’t the only things wandering around in this wilderness. The scent of blood is going to attract scavengers. Carrion crows, wolves …”
“Warg,” Halbarad agreed, miming something mean and growly. Buffy fought down the urge to giggle at his expression and managed to nod solemnly instead. She had the feeling that their new friend didn’t consider warg to be a laughing matter, and it was probably a good idea that she didn’t either. No matter how cute the mime had been.
“… even bears or … trolls,” Giles concluded, obviously pondering the implications of that particular possibility. “So it makes sense to dispose of the bodies if we can. Of course - ah - this place is a little short of kindling wood, which I believe was Halbarad’s plan. So we may have to resort to one of the more - esoteric methods of corpse clearance.”
“One of the - oh, right. Yeah. You up to that?” Dead demons - the ones that didn’t dissolve into dust, or mist, or weird blue goop, that is - had always been something of a nuisance. Giles had developed a whole series of disposal methods over the years, ranging from judicious use of a chainsaw and a very large shovel, right up to and including mystical banishment, which took lots of stinky herbs, white chalk and at least two altar candles.
Since he hadn’t grabbed any candles on their way out of the collapsing tomb, and stinky herbs looked to be in as short supply as chainsaw blades, that only left one practical option - which would be effective, but a little draining on his personal reserves.
“I believe so. And the sooner we do this, the sooner we can get on our way. Apparently there’s some kind of settlement a little further down the road, with at least one inn in it. He has comrades waiting for him there, and we can hopefully find shelter and gain some idea of where we might be able to go to get some help.”
“You got all that from all the nodding and pointing stuff?” Buffy was impressed. Obviously Giles’ mega-language skills were paying off big time. She’d still be at the ‘me Buffy, you Halbarad’ stage.
“Most of it. The map he showed me helped a little.”
Ah. Maps were good. Or possibly bad, now she came to think about it. “We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore, right?”
He spared her a wry glance before returning to his contemplation of the corpses. What he was about to do needed focus and concentration, and she should probably stop talking to him until he was done. “Not only not in Kansas,” he murmured, lifting his left hand and holding it out in a studied and commanding gesture, “but I suspect so far past the second star to the right that morning’s come and gone several times … Lacho!”
It wasn’t the usual word he used, but it was definitely an effective one. Flame crackled up from the tumble of bodies, leaping and flickering as it hungrily caught hold of leather and flesh alike. Buffy stepped forward in time to offer her support as Giles sagged from the sudden release of energies, and he leant into the curve of her proffered arm with grateful relief. “Should have brought some smores,” she observed, watching the flames paint the patterns of death with cleansing light, and he snorted.
“Well, yes, of course,” he muttered, half to himself. “Because everyone knows how good they taste smoked over a dead goblin or two …”
“Oh, absolutely,”she agreed with a grimace. “It’s the new flavour sensation. Essence of eww.”
“Yrch.” His correction was soft, as was his smile. She smiled back. They were in deep trouble, true, but - she had weapons, and her Watcher, and they’d successfully fought off a bunch of bad guys … and they’d found an ally, and there was hope of a roof over her head before the day was out … things were looking decidedly up from where’d they’d been back when they’d first arrived.
On the other side of the now leaping flames, fire touched eyes were considering them both with an odd mix of frowny thought and bemused wonderment. She guessed that the guy had had some experience of magic in the past, but not so much as to have expected that particular solution to their problem. He hadn’t reacted negatively, at least. If anything, it seemed to have confirmed some of those assumptions he’d been making - because his slow, considered nod was accompanied by the quiet quirk of a smile.