Arma virumque cano

Fic : The Notebook

2009-07-15T12:48:13Z

Title: The Notebook
Author:theoreme
Pairing: none. B/G friendship
Rating: FRT
Summary: A Watcher’s mind is like a cemetery
Warnings: none.
Length: 2604
Timeline : Season 7. Picks up at the end of LMPTM.
Disclaimer: I’m just playing with Joss’ shiny toys.
Note : thank you to the wonderful thisiszircon , who betaed this fic.

Buffy was fuming. How did he dare disappear for an entire day when so much was at stake? It was dangerous outside and she didn’t have the time to worry about him. Nor the inclination, she realized. Due to his little stunt with Wood earlier, she was more than angry with the man. He spent his time acting all moral and righteous and when someone put him back in place, he went sulking outside.

He could come back or not, see if she cared. Right now, she had a job to do and a war to win. And more precisely, she needed to go on patrol. She sighed and went to prepare her supplies.

Couple of stakes, check. Small dagger, check. Cross around the neck, check. Holy water? Damn, her bottle was nearly empty. She was already using the Scoobies’ last stock and none of them had had time to go to the church to bring back some. But she was sure that Rupert "Cautious Man" Giles would have some left. Maybe he could still help – or at least his ammunitions could.

“Will, do you know where Giles keeps his holy water supply? Mine’s empty and I really don’t want to go patrolling without.”

“Uh, he has some in his emergency backpack, I think. Buff, I’m not sure that he’s going to like that- ”

“Don’t care, especially when he isn’t here.”

***

His old and battered backpack –the one he carried on his Potentials rescue missions- was near the camp bed he used when he was in Sunnydale. Buffy frowned. She had no idea how someone so tall could achieve a proper night of sleep on that small and lumpy thing. It certainly didn’t help to improve his mood.

She started to go through his backpack. Stakes, an emergency kit, a few granola bars, cigarettes, a small dagger… Wait! Since when did Giles smoke? Buffy’s frown intensified. She had hoped it was only a Ripper thing, but he seemed to have carried on. Well, whatever. She finally found one of his holy water flasks. She was putting the backpack away when she noticed a black notebook in one of its pockets. Curiosity won and she grabbed the small object.

It looked old, with a soft and creased leather cover. The lack of title added to the mystery. It was surprisingly heavy even though it couldn’t have been bigger than her hand. She opened to the first page and immediately recognized the writing.

Rupert Adrian Giles, Field Watcher (1979), Chosen Watcher (1981), Active Watcher (1997), Last Watcher (2002)

Buffy could see that the words hadn’t been all written at the same time and that he had been shivering while writing the last ones.

Obituarium

Observo atque custodio

Buffy recognized Latin but she didn’t have the faintest idea of what it meant. The pages of the notebook felt weird, thin and pale, like the ones in her Mum’s old Bible, but strangely strong and Giles’ fountain pen didn’t damage them. She turned the first page, stared, read a little and started to turn the pages quicker and quicker. Something in this book was making her uneasy and she didn’t relish the feeling. She closed the book and ran in her room, closing the door behind her.

Sitting on her bed, she opened the notebook once more. The pages were covered with an endless list of names and dates, with sometimes a few comments from Giles.

The very first entry, whose ink started to fade, read Lucy Emily Hopkins (14/06/1970 – 16), killed by an unknown vampire, Father’s Slayer. Childhood friend and the very last, still fresh, Amanda Thompson (25/03/2004 - 18), killed by the vampire nicknamed Spike. Below the last entry were a few dots, indicating that Giles had other names to add but hadn’t yet done it, maybe for lack of time or sufficient knowledge.

Something went very cold inside Buffy’s throat as she began to understand what she held in her hands. To confirm it, she searched a date that she knew as well as her birthday. Buffy Anne Summers (22/05/2001 - 20), sacrificed herself to save the fucking world, my Slayer, my beautiful Slayer.

She choked, moved both by the words –the only acknowledgment she had of Giles’ grief- and by the act in itself. The book only contained names of dead people. All the dead people Giles had once known. He kept this awful list with him all the time and, Buffy felt slightly nauseous at the thought, he updated it. Furthermore, the pages looked well-worn, as if someone kept turning them, and Buffy could see only too clearly Giles reading the names over and over. The whole thing was sick, but she couldn’t stop herself from looking at it and started again at the beginning.

She had known that his father was also a Watcher, but not that he had been in charge of a Slayer. In the privacy of her bedroom, where she could let down her guard a little, she abandoned her general’s ruthless behavior and grieved for her fellow Slayer.

Randall’s name soon followed and for a long time after that, the young Giles only recorded Potentials’ deaths and victims of vampires and demons. A few Watchers too, killed in action. They were young and Giles’ lapidary epitaphs (such as Killed in exercise, Nice bloke or roommate) let her think that they had been in training together. She hadn’t realized that it had been so dangerous, even deadly. The Council had been even crazier than she thought, sacrificing not only the Slayers but also their own recruits.

She soon arrived at Sunnydale’s inked memorial and decided to only take a few glances, not wishing to remember all the deaths that had occurred. God, she didn’t want to find Angel’s. She still blanched at Miss Calendar's entry, killed by the vampire nicknamed Angelus, who had lost his soul. Giles had not been able to add a single comment.

However, there were more names than she could remember and she realized that she didn’t even recognize the majority of them. Had they been so many? She already felt so tired with all the ones she could remember, so why did Giles choose to carry them all with him?

And then she began to find comments she wished she hadn’t seen. She knew she would never forget them.

Killed in a brawl induced by a love spell. Alexander Harris’ fault.

Killed during an attack on my flat. Willow Rosenberg’s spell. Was a nice neighbor.

Tortured and left to starve by the U.S. military. My fault, couldn’t find him in time, should have realized, I’m so sorry, Ethan.

Died because Buffy could not see the demons. Spell cast by Tara Mclay.

Was burned alive because of a spell. Alexander Harris’s fault.

Died because Buffy didn’t know quickly how to defeat the demon. My failure as a Watcher, should have been there.

So many names were followed by one of their own. She hadn’t known, she hadn’t realized, she hadn’t tried to.

She slowly arrived at the last part of the notebook. And two terms filled the pages: Potential and Watcher. He hadn’t told her that so many girls couldn’t be saved (… Killed by a Harbinger. Killed by a Harbinger. Killed by a Harbinger. Killed by a Harbinger..), but she had at least thought about it. It had not been the case with the Watchers and suddenly pages contained only them, the majority killed by the explosion. She found Travers, whose second name was surprisingly Brian.

The worst came with a page devoted only to the Giles that had been killed that day and it seemed that the entire family had been working for the Council. Father, mother, a younger sister that Buffy never knew he had, an uncle, three cousins, a nephew and a great-aunt. Oh Giles. And he didn’t say anything, even when they had joked about Travers being blown up as well as the other “tweedy bastards”.

He should have told her. The burden of this list was too heavy for him alone and so many names weren’t his to carry.

***

“You already stripped me of my dignity. Could you at least respect my privacy?”

His voice was soft, as always, but held a blankness she had not heard in a long time. Buffy was startled. Engrossed in the notebook and her thoughts, she had not heard him coming. She closed the book and turned towards him.

She had heard his voice, so it had to be him. But he didn’t look like her Watcher. The posture was a classic Giles one: feet firmly on the ground, hands in his pockets, shoulders tensed in a certain way. However, something was amiss and she only discovered what when she reached his eyes. There was no warmth there, no emotion, as if Giles had carefully and methodically put away all his feelings before entering her room. He seemed not to care and it made him look like a stranger. She could do the same thing. Hell, she had been doing it for days.

“You’re in my bedroom, so I don’t think you can play the privacy-card right now.”

However, her voice wasn’t as hard as she would have liked it. The list, she thought, I’m still in shock.

“I’m sorry to importune you while you are rifling through my private affairs. Most inconsiderate of me.”

Snarky Giles at his worst. She tried to regain the righteous anger she'd had at the beginning of the evening, but it seemed too far (Father. Mother, Mum oh Mum. Damian, my sweet nephew. My failure as a Watcher. It’s my fault. Wasn’t good enough. Killed by the vampire nicknamed Spike. Helena Pimley, we were intimate once. I’m so sorry, Ethan. Had lost his soul). Damn, how was Giles able to function with this on his mind all the time?

Finally, she managed to find her voice, but it wasn’t the cold rage she had hoped for, only a shout that seemed too human and vulnerable for her taste.

“You should have told me! We should have known and maybe we would have made fewer mistakes.”

And Giles, because he was still her Watcher even though she had denied him earlier, noticed the difference in her tone. His eyes appeared a bit lighter and his voice was warmer when he spoke.

“You had the world on your shoulders, fighting the dead to keep the living safe and breathing. It already was an endless fight and you didn’t need that weight on your mind. It wasn’t your job; it was mine and still is.”

“How? Why?”

“It’s part of my duty. The Watcher observes, researches, trains and remembers. Remembers all that occurred, especially those who have fallen during his calling. Honoring their memory is one of the responsibilities he has to the world he has sworn to protect. Moreover, he is also the Guardian of the body, of the soul but also of the mind of his Slayer. As much as he can, of course, and this includes her peace of mind. You have no need to remember all the things that happened, because it would be useless and dangerous for your sanity. You sacrifice so much already. However, the Watcher must remember and provide you with remembrance of the past if the circumstances necessitate it. When it can help you to make a decision or to understand the ramifications of an act.”

Killed by the vampire nicknamed Spike. Had lost his soul. Buffy pushed the words to the back of her mind and concentrated on what Giles was telling her. He had used his "teacher" voice and had warmed to his subject during his speech. It was so much more interesting than his bogus lesson earlier in the cemetery and she suddenly realized how much she had missed speaking with Giles and sharpening her mind by doing so.

“It’s like research but with our past, then? It’s another part of the data.”

“Yes. Like the rest of the research, you don’t need to know or remember all of it, but you must know where to find it. And the… data of the consequences of past deeds, especially the deaths, is in this book. The Slayer must not be aware of it, because it can prevent her from making a decision, it can amputate her ability to react quickly and ruthlessly. So the Watcher tells her when he thinks she needs it.”

“And she’s supposed to consider it and thinks about whatever thing she was going to do.”

“Err, yes”.

“Giles, you should have told me that before today, don’t you realize that? You know how I act, you know how you need to hammer facts into my head and it certainly is not the time for watcher-y subtlety. Because then, I would have explained how your stunt with Spike was a stupid idea even though I now understand why you thought it was necessary, but I would also have explained my own reasons!”

She had shouted the last sentences, losing what remained of her general’s posture. Giles had a bewildered expression on his face and his eyes were no longer cold, but a maelstrom of emotions.

“Giles, you have to tell me things. You have to tell me your thoughts, you have to tell me when the Scoobies accidentally caused the death of someone and not keep it to yourself and you certainly have to tell me when your entire family is killed and it becomes too much, not bury it inside you until you have no feeling left and it turns you into a fucking robot!”

After rambling, Buffy finally broke down and felt her eyes dampening. Giles came to her and in an uncharacteristic gesture –but the day had been anything but normal for both of them- took her in his arms.

She remembered when he had tended her wounds after her Cruciamentum, his silent apology and their tacit reconciliation. She felt that it might go the same way today. She could count their hugs on the fingers of one hand but maybe this rarity explained their power. When he began to speak, she felt it, pressed as she was against his chest.

“I’m sorry, Buffy, I should have talked to you about... about a lot of things. However, this particular burden is meant to be carried only by the Watcher, it is my duty and I would say my honor now, as I, I am the l, last Watcher. About Xander and Willow, be assured that they know the consequences of their actions and they have paid a heavy price for them these last years. Please, don’t take away whatever fire they have left, they are going to need it.”

Their embrace lasted in silence for a while. There was still much to discuss, shout and mend but it didn’t seem as broken as before.

***

Later, when they learned about this preacher man and Buffy was ready to rush into the attack, a hand brushed against her shoulder. Eyes filled with sadness and hesitancy, Giles stood next to her and spoke, looking uncertain about the reception of his advice.

“I already wrote down so many names and I know I will write so many more before the end of this. But I don’t want to write them without a… unnecessarily. Please, wait and let us research first.”

Buffy thought about scrambled words and black ink. Every name in that notebook had a heavy weight; she didn’t want him to add one and know that it could have been easily avoided.

“Okay.”

Good to be back...

2009-03-07T11:55:19Z

Haven't been on LJ since December and I really missed it. I needed a break to study for my exams (which are in two days). I have been moody for months until I finally understood that I really didn't want to become a teacher. I'm still going to take the test but only because I have studied hard since September and by respect for my professors, who have encouraged me and put a lot of faith in me (I'm one of the best students and they really wanted me to succeed). And because it's fun to think on a subject for 5 hours.
History will still be a passion, but I don't want to teach it.
So now, I just have to find what I want to do. It's the first time that I don't know where I'm going and it's kind of unsettling. A few ideas here and here, so we'll see.

In a totally non-sequitur way, I haven't read BTVS fics since December and I'm sure there is a lot of good ones to catch on.
BTW, I received Firefly for my birthday. Wow. This is what TV is about, people. I need a Jayne icon.

Damn, it's good to be back.

Joyeux anniversaire!

2008-11-26T07:26:32Z

Happy birthday to antennapedia !
May this day be full of good things -cake, presents and friends singing loudly and off-key cheesy birthday songs.

Fic : A Mantle In The Tomb

2008-11-17T08:07:32Z

Title: A Mantle In the Tomb
Author: theoreme
Pairing: Giles/Jenny
Rating: FRT
Summary: Giles has to choose Jenny’s clothes.
Warnings: None
Length: 515
Timeline : After Passion
Note : the title comes from Flaubert’s Dance of Death. I loosely used Lori’s Great Frock Meme. No beta.
Disclaimer: Giles and Jenny are not mine.

She had not made her bed: the duvet was almost on the floor and the pillows laid in disarray. He had teased her more than once on her inability to get up in time. She used to switch off her alarm clock and go back to sleep until she was almost late. Almost. But then, she would open her eyes, jump out of her bed and into the shower in a graceful and seemingly linear movement, the over-sized cotton t-shirt she wore at night flying across the bedroom. She would come back dressed and ready to tease him, because he would have made the bed for her.

“You’re quite the domesticated man, Rupert. In fact, with these finely chiseled features of yours, I think I’m going to call you-”
“ Don’t finish that sentence. I’ve got your cup of coffee in hostage.”
“And he also made breakfast! I have to pack my things, do you think you’ll be able to iron my clothes in the meantime?”

Clothes, that’s right, you’re here for her clothes, don’t look at the bed and start searching for them. He entered the room and went to the closet. For a second, he wondered if he shouldn’t have let Buffy do this, because he certainly didn’t know a damn thing about woman’s clothing. However, he didn’t like the idea of anyone else entering Jenny’s bedroom.

His fingers brushed against the thin fabric of her shirts and the heavy softness of her sweaters. Wool and cashmere, tulle and viscose, cotton and lace, silk and leather, his hand was lost in all the sensations his touch evoked. Jenny did not pay attention at what fabric she wore, preferring to look at the colors and how she felt in her clothes.

He looked into the shelves, selecting slowly a few items and putting them on a chair nearby (not the bed, which she had not made). He looked at them, but did not manage to make a choice.

The casual white top she used to put at home after school?
The jeans she had worn so well on her beautiful body?
The short black skirt she was so fond of, especially when she discovered the effect it had on him?
The blue shirt he had taken off her body on the first night they had spent together?
The frock she had bought for him, because he had warned her to dress appropriately for the fine date he had organized?
The little black dress she had worn underneath and for which he had almost cancelled their reservation at the restaurant?
How do you choose the clothes in which your lover is going to lay forever?

He knew he was supposed to pick the black dress, because one wore black at a funeral, but it didn’t seem right. He could not imagine how a unique drab ensemble could be enough for a person who had been so bright and had so many shades. Too many, he thought, were the reason why she did not made her bed and he could no longer sleep in his.

Dulce et decorum est

2008-11-11T08:32:32Z

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

(Wilfred Owen / Otto Dix)

It's clearly going to be a hell of a year

2008-09-24T20:07:32Z

This is the best idea of the day : antennapedia and sahiya are thinking of running a Buffyverse Big Bang ficathon. This is so great, think about all the long and satisfying stories we are going to read !

I was going to say "Yes, count me in !", when my brain remembered me that I couldn't : I'm studying for the competitive examinations allowing me to become a history teacher and therefore I'll have no life this year (and maybe the next one), except for studying.
We have four historical and three geographical subjects (ancient, medieval, modern and contemporary ; France, Russia and one about "feeding the people"), we must also know historical and geographical epistemology and historiography, school programs, etc.
And the deadline is March, 9th. Yipee!
At least, the subjects are very interesting.

(makes me think : can somebody tell me how do you become a teacher in America? Do you need a diploma or do you have an exam?)

It saddens me because I've got that cool B/G plotline that keeps messing with my neurons and this ficathon would have been a great opportunity.
Well, at least I'm going to read some great fics and that makes me very happy !

And if a writer needs to bounce ideas off someone, I would be glad to help.

Buffy quote meme

2008-09-20T07:26:06Z

From ladyforash

When you see this, post another Buffy quote in your LJ. Let's see how long this can go on.
.

Giles: All right, I-I'll just jump in my time machine, go back to the twelfth century and ask the vampires to postpone their ancient prophecy for a few days while you take in dinner and a show.

Buffy: Okay, at this point you're abusing sarcasm.

Fic: Veillée d'armes

2008-09-06T09:36:35Z

Title: Veillée d’armes
Author: theoreme
Pairing: none. B/G friendship
Rating: FRT
Summary: Giles’ thoughts as he prepares for the final battle
Warnings: None
Length: 4009
Timeline : During Chosen
Note : First fic ever. Veillée d’armes means several things. Firstly, it is a knightly vigil, i.e. the night a future knight must spend in prayers before his dubbing. It also means the day preceding the battle. Finally, it can be literally translated as “Arms vigil”.
Disclaimer: Giles is not mine, alas. I also used Perez-Reverte's Fencing Master for several fencing terms.

Lowering his guard
Everything was neatly set out. Blades on his left, blanket under his legs, polish and soft rags before his eyes. The backyard was deserted, Slayers and Potentials training one last time in the front of the garden, Scoobies researching frantically, souled vampire brooding and Andrew doing, well, doing things. A soft light was fading on the end of a lovely afternoon. Not a sound, except the distant cries of the girls and the underlying pounding of the noise Dawn classified as music.
It was then the perfect moment to take care of the swords.
The blades were dirty, as the Potentials did not clean them after their last training. They seemed determined to accomplish everything as the two Slayers did and the lack of consideration both of them showed for the arms clearly passed on the younger generation. Giles smiled sadly. No one listened to him anymore, especially when rags and inglorious chores were evoked. But for once it did not matter, for he was relieved to be left alone with his swords.
It was in fact a task he had always enjoyed.
Firstly, it was the thrill of the warrior, the pleasure to take care of a lethal weapon which was sullied with blood, flesh and ashes of vanquished enemies. Being able to clean one’s sword after a fight meant being the one having won it.
Then, it was his duty as a Watcher and nothing reveled more his commitment that being sure his Slayer would go prepared to the fight, holding in her hand a weapon she could trust. And to do so, he felt the edge of the sword, he firmly grabbed the hilt and he polished the deadly sparkle of the blade. The army of Slayers would fight with weapons they deserved, and the arms would be as bright and cutting and beautiful as the hands which would brandish them. Magnificent Slayers, all silver, grace and strength against dark Harbingers and hideous Turok-Han. And it would be the blades that he, the Watcher, would have polished for them. Because no matter how the Council came to exist, he knew that many Field Watchers had acted the way he was now doing and had prepared the weapons of their Slayers – and their devotion should not be tarnished. He especially cleaned Buffy’s weapon because, although their relationship might not longer be, he remained his Watcher –and his Slayer would go to the final fight as much prepared as he could help. Even if it was only with a soft rag on the metal of her scythe. No more blood of that damned preacher on it. He would have preferred a sword for her, because he had always found scythes to be too macabre. She was maybe death, his Slayer, but she gave it as a warrior, not as… as Death itself. And the picture of harvest the weapon conjured in his mind made him wince. But he cleaned the scythe anyway.
He also took care of the weapons because his father had taught him how to properly do it, the ways his own mother had done it. And because as longer as he could remember, he had hold a sword in his hand. He grabbed the last blade, the one which would defend his life on the front line the very next day. It was heavy and familiar, cold and comforting. Aching for his past, his family and the Council, Giles authorized himself to reminisce. He was maybe living his last evening on earth and it was time for the past to be remembered –and honored.

Appel
“ Don’t be afraid, Lucy! No evil dragon is going to stop us! We’re going to win !”
“ I’m not afraid, Rupert! I can beat a dragon too, even better than you !”
“ I know. You go first and attack his right side. I’ll be right behind you and aim for the left.”
“ Let’s go !”
Oh, the sweet exaltation of the first fight. He welcomed it with the enthusiasm of a seven year-old armed with a wooden sword. The circumstances did not matter; a fight was a fight, especially one besides a Slayer. She was only his father’s Potential and he did not know what a Slayer was, but he had felt that he belonged with this girl. And with her running in front of him, her ponytail jumping as she went to fight their enemy, he experienced the exaltation of the fight, the rightness of the weapon in his hand and the love he felt for her. They were fighting against his father, who had been promoted the evilest enemy of the day and transformed into the biggest dragon which had ever walked on earth. Rupert had called him Smaug, because he had read that how dragons were called.
The battle was fierce. The beast fought hard but was no match against the two paladins.
“I slayed you, creature of darkness. You will not harm anymore!”
Lucy shouted her victory, as her sword was on the neck of the fallen beast. The words stirred something inside Rupert. He stood in awe of the young girl, his sword fell of his hand and he started walking towards her. He had to be near her. From the ground, his father looked at him and Rupert did not understand why his father’s amused smile suddenly disappeared. Of course, more than forty years later, he knew that his father had recognized the signs which marked his son as a future watcher.
But, as he evoked the summertime afternoon when Lucy and him had defeated Smaug and his destiny had been decided, he chose to only remember the exhilaration of his first battle.

Guard in Sixte
They all looked so young. They were waiting in line, dressed in immaculate fencing clothes. The foils seemed incongruous in their hands, especially with their points without buttons. They knew what it meant: they would not fence with each other this very day, but hold still and repeat controlled and careful movements until the foils fell off their trembling hands. They hated it. He hated it.
“Gentlemen.”
The old sadist had arrived. Rupert did not like him. Even the others teachers were intimidating too, they at least smiled and were not as severe as he was. He talked with an icy voice that scared the ten-year old boys more than everything.
“Today, we will review all the movements we have seen so far. You should have mastered them by the time being. As a matter of fact, I want them perfect. I do hope every one of you remembered their names. The French ones, of course. One shall always name with the proper term.”
The pupils looked grim at this idea, except Rupert. He loved languages and had reveled in learning new words. He softly breathed; he would not be the one punished this time.
“Those who do not remember the names go sit now. We will see later for your punishment. Those who believe they can do better stay.”
And then, they were four. Peter, Andrew, Thomas and him. He did not know them very well for he had only arrived to the boarding school after his birthday, while all the other boys lived here since their seventh birthday. He should have done the same, but his father had pulled a few strings to give him a few more years before the end of his dreams. Rupert was glad his father had given him more time with his family even if it meant that he was now the outcast among the schoolboys.
“I was hoping for more. The lesson shall be quick then. Harding, Forrest and Olson, our usual three musketeers. And Giles, what a pleasant surprise! Try to do better than the last time, if you please. More technique and less sterile enthusiasm.”
Rupert felt his face redden but stayed still.
“Messieurs. Si vous voulez bien saluer. Forrest, this was not a salute but an insult. Go sit with the others. En garde. Garde de tierce. Parade en prime. Good. Garde de sixte. Garde de trois-quart. Harding, you can leave, I never want to see a horror like that again. Parade en quarte. Stand still. A little longer. Fente longue en quarte. Contre de tierce. Well done. Tirez en prime. Parade en octave. Olson, you may go. Halte. ”
Rupert stopped and relaxed. He discovered with surprise that he was the only one remaining. He had been so concentrated on his movements, feeling the metal in his hand, hearing foreign words in his ear and moving his body automatically, that he had forget where he was.
“You did well, Giles. There is only one way to fence properly and it is with discipline. Raw talent is nothing without training and discipline. Raw talent is nothing against a Slayer or a vampire, but you can beat them with your concentration and your focus. Giles, you were too petulant and too emotional the last time and you lost. Try to apply the discipline and concentration you showed us today into your fighting. As Watchers, you need to discipline yourselves –or you will be dead even before the end of your very first fight.”
The fencing master had been dead for a long time, but Giles remembered his lessons well. Using feelings and emotions as a motivation was good for his Slayer, not for him. A good Watcher –a Watcher who wanted to live- needed to discipline himself.

Malparry
The running water was the only noise one can hear in the flat. No rock music playing on the battered record player, no one practicing guitar or learning new songs, no one laughing or arguing. Even he was not making a sound. He couldn’t anymore.
He had cried at first, and then he had shouted, he had murmured long guilty litanies, he had hit the walls with his fists, but nothing had helped. Then, he had fallen on his knees, head in his hands and had not moved for a long time. When he had raised his head, he had seen the sword. He had not remembered bringing it home after… after everything. He had felt sick when he had realized the very reason for the odd color of the sword. And then, he had grabbed it, sat himself in the old tub with it and turned on the tap.
He had only found an old sponge, but he scrubbed the blade as hard as he could. Reddish-brown water was tainting his fingers, slipping under his nails and he tried not to think about it. He could smell it, almost taste it. Oh god. He was relieved when the salt of his tears drove the metallic taste away.
He still did not understand. He had prepared everything. He had thoroughly researched the summoning, the cleaning rituals and the protection wards. He had only allowed the ceremony when he had felt that he was ready, that he was guarded against all risks. Going with the name Ripper did not mean he had forgotten his training. And he had been the only one to bring a sword to the summoning.
His fingers felt numb under the cold water. He realized then that he had sat long enough to run out of hot water. He would never salvage the blade but he did succeed in removing all the blood. However, the color of the steel had changed and diffused now a pale bluish reflection. This particular blue was forever burnt in his memory and he immediately recognized it. Eyghon’s blood seemed to be indelible. He wondered if the faint bluish marks on his hands would disappear one day. The thought made him shudder and he scrubbed his hands as hard as he could, tearing flesh away with his nails.
Hours later, Ethan found him in the same position: cold and wet clothes on his shivering body, hands covered with his own blood and a sword on his knees. The sword was covered with the blood of a demon, but he could still see on it the one of the man he had killed.
Giles had believed since that day that his destiny might have shattered his innocence, but it was the bloodstained sword he had tried so hard to clean that tolled the knell of his illusions about himself. He knew now that his sword was meant to be covered in blood –and it could be human.

Conversation
It was past midnight and only one light remained in the library. Under its halo, a man was still studying, his pale figure engrossed in the obscure writings and musty volumes scattered on the table before him. Even with the lighting, one could miss the man. It seemed he had tried to blend in with the shadows surrounding him. He was dressed in dark and old-fashioned suit which made him look older and had a self-effaced posture. The man was startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned his head. An older man stood in the shadows and only a left hand with an onyx signet was enlightened.
“Come on, son, time to go home. You’re the only one left here.”
“I’ve, I’ve got to find that prophecy.”
“It’s Christmas Eve, Rupert. The sodding prophecy is not going to happen before fifty years from now, it can wait a day or two.”
“ But…”
“ No. Besides, you’re exhausted. Falling asleep on this table –as you already did a couple of times, I might add- will not help anybody.”
Adrian Giles seemed even wearier as he was, but Rupert knew that his father had been looking older than he should for years. Fifteen years, his mind added automatically.
“And maybe I can tempt you with my well-known and greatly popular eggnog.”
“It would be nice. Haven’t enjoyed one of those in a long time.”
Giles stood and collected his belongings, while his father stored the books on the nearest book trolley. No one was allowed to put the books back onto the shelves, except the librarians. The two men left the library and started to walk in the somber corridors.
On their way out, as they were passing before the training rooms, Adrian stopped his son.
“Please, excuse me for a moment. I’m taking my crossbow home tonight, something is wrong with the mechanism and I want to look at it tomorrow.”
“I’ll come with you. I haven’t been there for years. Of course, if you prefer that I stay here…”
“Don’t be daft, Rupert. I’m your father, not Quentin.”
The two men entered the training rooms reserved for the senior members. Giles was not authorized to come here on his own and only knew the rooms because as a child, he had accompanied his father there several times. It was almost as impressive as he remembered, with the weapons displayed on the walls, the fencing space, the shooting ranks, the mats and the gymnastics equipment. A small corridor in a corner led to a small swimming pool.
“Fewer and fewer people come here these days. Martial training seems to be in disfavor amongst the new senior members. I have never seen young Travers train.”
“Probably too afraid to be near you, Dad. You could beat him up in your sleep.”
Giles enjoyed the brief smile on his father’s face. It did not happen often and it disappeared all too soon. Adrian stared at his son a few seconds and then walked to one of a wall. He slightly bowed his head and then turned towards his son.
“As long as you are here, I can show you something. The last gift the Council has brought for itself.”
Giles moved near his father and realized he was standing before a beautiful daishō. Although only the tsuka and the saya could be seen, both blades were obviously masterpieces. Giles bowed his head too.
“They are beautiful. One should be honored to fight with them. I would like to see you train with them. You’re the only person I know who uses the Nitō-ryū style.”
“Mastering a two blades technique was as much an obligation as a pleasure. I swore to myself I would never use a sword again. I swore it to her when I collected her ashes. Learning Nitō-ryū was like learning from the start once again, it has no memories. ”
“It has been fifteen years, Dad. You should let Lucy rest, even from your mind.”
“My sword was the weapon that… that beheaded her.”
“Not her but the demon that took control of her body. And you did avenge her by killing it. Not every Watcher has done it for his Slayer. Let her rest in peace now. ”
“Says the man who has buried himself into the depths of the Council. Since how long have you been hiding from the sun, Rupert? Five years? How many years is your penance going to last?”
“You don’t hold back any blow, do you?”
“ I’ve been holding back for years and you have been avoiding this fight for too long. I haven’t said anything to you because I have thought you needed time to heal and to forgive yourself. But it has to end right now, because you have wallowed in self-pity far too long.”
“Every morning, I woke up feeling sorry for what happened. I don’t know how… how…”
“Don’t be sorry Rupert, be a Watcher. If you came back only to lurk in the shadows, the gesture was useless. And the one of a coward. ”
“You’ve got some nerve, you know that? For fifteen years, you’ve been mourning your Slayer to the point that you can’t even touch a sword and now you’re giving me a lesson about regrets and guilt! Keep your hypocrisy to yourself, Dad. Goodnight, you know how I love to play pot and kettle with you but I’ve got research to do.”
Giles started to walk when the door when a cry stopped him.
“Rupert, en garde!”
He turned back. His father was in the center of the piece, his hands on a large broadsword. Giles could see the pale and tensed figure of his father, how his hands were shaking but firmly holding the hilt.
“I will save you son, even if I have to kick your sorry arse with that sword.”
His father had not carried out that particular threat and they had celebrated their quarrel with Adrian’s eggnog. But when Giles had woken up in the middle of the night, he had heard soft and heart-wrenching sobs coming from his father’s bedroom. That night, Giles had learned the acceptance and forgiving one could get from a sparring and that a fight that seemed lost could be –in fact- won. And that the costs were always high.

Body-to-body
Don’t make a sound, she will hear you. Don’t move until you have decided exactly where to strike, she will sense you. Maybe a false attack then. See if she is still overconfident in her reading of you. Rapid thoughts passed through Giles’ mind as he watched her blindfolded Slayer stood alert. God, she was beautiful. And she was his. It did not matter that she went back every night to an other man or that she spent more time with her younger friends than with him; it did not matter because she was his Slayer again and that once the door of the training room closed, she was only his. His to train, his to fight with, his to sharpen.
She had come back to him with bad fighting habits, grandiose and telegraphed movements and overconfidence, all dangerous defaults picked up by training with unimaginative soldiers. He had scolded at her, before tossing her a wooden sword when she had said that it couldn’t be that bad. I’m the Slayer, remember that speech of yours about me fighting against darkness and evil evil things? She had laughed at the safe weapon –until she landed on the floor four times in a row. Then, her eyes had blazed with fury when she had realized what she had lost. One week later, his Slayer was back on the top and he was back on the floor. At least, he had enjoyed that week as much as he could.
Smiling at the memory, he carefully planned his next move. She would expect an attack on her right and he aimed to give her that impression to obtain a riposte from her left side, which was always weaker and easier to intercept. He grinned and made his move. Mere seconds later, he was lying on his back, a smirking Slayer straddling his chest and fastening her blindfold on his hands.
“Oh Watcher-mine, I totally forgot to tell you that I don’t drop my left shoulder anymore. I was going to earlier but then you stole the last jelly and my revengeful stomach started plotting coups. You know, like that hunger thingies that happened all the time before. This is why you’re the first –and only- victim of the Jelly Revolution. You may go once you agree on my jelly-sharing conditions.”
Giles suddenly started to laugh with a happy, carefree laugh that surprised Buffy. He was not sure he could explain to her how delighted he was to have his Slayer tying him up for eating the last jelly, how relieved he felt that she displayed proudly her reflexes and technique, how thrilled he was to fight again with her. Bare-hands, with swords, daggers, axes or quarterstaffs – it did not matter as long as she was training with him, and he with her. This very afternoon, they finished their training with a ferocious and exhilarating fencing match that left them exhausted and grinning at each other.
Giles smiled, as he did every time he thought about his training sessions of that year with Buffy. They were cherished moments, when he did not have to hold back, when they felt that their shared destiny contained so much more than a deadly duty. In these moments, he had truly felt joy at being a Watcher. His Watcher, destined to service her and only her. Even in spite of herself. No matter what would happen in the fight the following day or with his –maybe already vanished- relationship with Buffy, she taught the true, beautiful and painful meaning of being a Watcher.

Salute of arms
He raised himself to his knees and took his sword by the hilt, point on the ground. His forehead touched the pommel and he closed his eyes. How he wished he had his father’s sword. But the old fool has insisted on carrying it with him everyday, even though it had been too heavy for him. He used to joke about wanting to polish it with Travers’s clothes. It was probably scattered to pieces in the ruins that used to be the Council.
But the sword he was holding now was a good sword and he supposed it would suffice. As the last Watcher alive and a battered and scarred middle-aged man, he was not the hero of the story. A good, anonymous and a little tarnished sword was oddly perfect for him.
He suddenly understood what had been missing all these years, what his old fencing master had tried to explain to him one day: the tranquility one experienced after having accepted the impending fight. The lack of hope he had felt since the blowing of the Council lost its overwhelming shadow. His mind seemed clear for the first time in months. All his training, his knowledge, his lineage and his life had been leading him to this moment: he finally knew where he stood - Rupert Giles, last Watcher on duty. He only felt serenity and quietness, and readiness for the battle to come. He breathed deeply several times and opened his eyes.
The blades softly shone in the evening light. He had polished them well. He grinned, rose to his feet and started collecting the weapons.

Looking for a beta-reader

2008-08-24T17:31:02Z

I finally took the plunge and wrote a fic about Giles. However, I have no beta, so I'm desperately looking for one.
It's a gen fic, about 4000 words, FRT-rated and written in English. It's of course the English part which confuses me the most and I'm looking for someone that a somewhat awkward English will not bother too much and willing to do a thorough grammar check. Please, help me to improve it!
The fic takes places in season 7 and explores Giles' thoughts before the final battle.

Thanks!

Orwell's blog

2008-08-12T07:17:58Z

Found this this morning. George Orwell's diaries, both domestic and political, are published as a blog. It goes from 1938 (2008) to 1942 (2012).
Should be very interesting.

http://orwelldiaries.wordpress.com/

Please, don't.

2008-07-20T17:43:05Z

Please, House producers, please, don't do this.
I'm begging you, don't make them come back.
Cameron and Chase were fading in the background -maybe to the point of oblivion- and we were perfectly fine without them.

http://blog.zap2it.com/korbitv/2008/07/ep-katie-jacobs.html

I must consult my books...

2008-07-12T00:32:21Z

... or how knowledge will save the world

I do suspect that my own attachment to the character of Rupert Giles comes -among other things- from my studies (I want to be a history teacher and I hope to specialize in early modern times studies).

As a watcher, Giles has a solid background in history, mythology, ancient languages and civilization (human or demonic) and he uses his knowledge to help with the crisis of the moment or the impending apocalypse. In other words, his knowledge has power –and the most precious that could be, as he helps with it to save many lives, even the world a few times. I do think any historian (especially the wannabes) is confronted with the difficult task to justify to the society the will to spend the rest of his/her life in obscure archive rooms, looking for small facts, events or studies of the past. The specialists of the 20^th century are the most honored as they study a recent past (and a very tragic one), but the others, we can encounter incomprehension, if not hostility, for we devote our life to something that happened long ago.

And here comes Rupert Giles, who proves how the books and the research can literally save you. You can be a scholar and be useful to society – this is a refreshing idea, especially at the times when humanities are frown upon (at least, it is what happens in France today). Giles searches in old musty books and antique items, studies ancient artifacts and it helps. And he has done it for three years, in a library of all places.

The character also represents the dream of every scholar : you can find an answer to your quest of knowledge and almost every problem has his solution – you just have to find the right book. Well, wish it were true, but it is a hope all historians have and that none achieve. One day, we hope that our research gives us the right answer and slays the demon (oblivion, ignorance, anachronism, negationism, etc.) for good.

Of course, not every problem has its solution in musty and academic books, and Giles does not say anything else at the end of Prophecy Girl. But they educate us, help us to think and they warn us –that should be enough.

We historians have a duty to guard the past (I apprehend the term "guard" with Paul Ricoeur’s metaphor of the cemetery : historians must guard the place but also perform the rituals and ceremonies for the dead). We don’t lead but we watch.

Politeness

2008-07-11T18:30:41Z

I have been lurking here for a while and it is now the time to be civilized.
Thus, the major purpose of this journal is to comment and thank the few writers I am currently reading.

As I only read fanfictions written in English, I'm going to use the same language : a task, while not unpleasant, bound to be awkward. I am already sorry about the spelling mistakes I committed (and the ones I am goint to commit).

Things that go bump in the night

2008-07-11T17:40:33Z

Something is bugging me.

When Buffy slays the newly-fanged ones, why do they immediately turn to ashes? Their human corpses should still be in decomposition and not only animated by the demons. Or is the natural process completelychanged/interrupted?
In Dracula, Lucy's body remains after it was staked.

I understand that a Slayer carrying a shovel on patrol would have been less effective, but Whedon did give us a strange vampire biology.