Parts 13 and 14
by Cathryn and Mary M.
**********
He knew immediately that he was dreaming, because he had gone to a moment in his life that he would always remember with crystalline clarity.
Wesley stood outside the Academy one last time, hand on the doorknob, frowning in consternation at the sticky moisture he felt on the bottom of the knob. Just as he had before. The sole difference was that he was not half-way drunk from spending time and what little money he'd had at that tiny pub.
Not that it really mattered. What he would find inside would have shocked him into sobriety just as it had before.
There was no reason, it seemed, not to open the door. What was inside would be there whether he did or not. So Wesley pulled the door open and stepped inside.
He was struck instantly by the smell, a bright choking copper that had also been present at Graduation. He felt himself go pale as he looked at the hand that had touched the wet patch on the knob, knowing what he would find.
Blood.
The sight of it, combined with the oppressive stench, triggered his gag reflex so violently that he was incapacitated for several minutes after he had emptied his stomach. He leaned heavily against the wall, gasping for breath and at the same time trying not to take in any of that grim stench.
It was some time before Wesley was able to move on. He was only able to because of a need to know what was going on, because of a desperate hope that he was wrong about what he smelled and the substance on his hand.
The first classroom door he pushed open crushed that hope.
This was a class that focussed specifically on chaos demons. It was supposedly elective rather than required, but all students learned quickly that even the "optional" classes were expected to be on their itineraries.
This class had been full.
The teacher, a man Wesley had rather disliked, lay crumpled at the front of the room. His head had been smashed in.
In reality, Wesley's mind had shut down at this sight, allowing him to move through the devastation mechanically, checking for heartbeats and pulses on the less mutilated bodies, finding none. In this dream, though, his mind remained clear as, with a feeling of inevitability, he turned to see the students. Slashed throats, crushed chests, broken necks. He didn't bother to check each body for signs of life. He knew he would find none.
Next room. Mangled limbs, spattered brains, protruding bones.
Next room. Missing throats, missing limbs, missing heads.
Next room. His own - former - class. Slashed throats, protruding bones, pools of blood. Here, Wesley had found the body of a bright, argumentative girl who had reminded him of Rupert Giles. He had had high hopes for her.
Now, he found her in this fourth room, as expected. But there was also a new factor, one he knew for a fact hadn't been there before: a young girl was kneeling next to her body. Her head was bent, and he long, black hair fell forward to obscure her face from Wesley's view. As he watched, she reached out and tenderly closed the dead girl's eyes, then slowly rose and turned to him.
"Hello, Wesley." She smiled in greeting, but the smile did not reach her sad, vividly purple eyes.
"Hello, Sharna," he found himself replying calmly, as if his dreams were always invaded by dead Slayers.
"I've been waiting all summer for you to know enough to come to me," she told him.
There was no real reply to this, to Wesley's brain spewed out the first inane remark that came to mind.
"Your English is excellent." Since this was, after all, a dream, this non sequitur made perfect sense to both of them. Sharna smiled again, this time with a small sparkle of amusement in her eyes.
"I'm not really speaking. That's simply how your mind is translating what I'm telling you, because it is easier for you to understand."
"I see," Wesley murmured. Sharna nodded, then sobered, looking around at the bloody hellhouse that had replaced the pleasant atmosphere that Wesley had worked so hard at creating for the students. She moved over to another young man, one of the youngest students at the Academy, now sporting an efficient slit across his throat.
"Some of what my people are doing is good," she said quietly, not looking up from the still form. "It is important to eradicate evil, especially when it is masquerading as good." She carefully closed the boy's staring eyes, then looked up at Wesley. Her next words were formal, sounding ritualistic.
"I weep for the price these children have paid for their fathers' old crimes. I weep for the losses suffered by the Untrained Ones. I weep for your trauma in finding the dead innocents."
Indeed, her violet eyes had filled with tears, reminding Wesley that, despite her maturity, she was still a little girl, frozen in time by an unjust death. He reacted as most people do to a crying child - he crossed
the room to her and embraced her gently.
The tiny girl rested her head on his chest for a moment before stepping back, eyes dry once more.
"It must stop," she said urgently. "My people have damned me by making this slaughter of innocents in my name. The only way Dhara will allow me to enter her arms is if it stops *now*. I did not cross before because those who killed me had not paid for their crimes, and I cannot cross now because the wrong people have. If my people continue this brutality, my chance for peace will never come."
Sharna shook her head. "Ethan and Sir would just dismiss it as wishful thinking, something concocted by the subconscious. And appearing to my people would only incite more violence, no matter what the message. But they do take dreams very seriously. You must speak to the Elder. He will confirm that this dream is real. That I have chosen to speak to you will catch my peoples' attention."
"I understand," Wesley murmured.
"The Council as it was before was evil," Sharna continued. "It no longer truly worked for good, but for its own purposes. My people are right in changing it, but they are doing it wrongly. Their crimes are beginning to eclipse those of the Council. Its poison is spreading to them. This has to be stopped before it sets and they destroy themselves."
She paused suddenly and looked alertly away from him, glancing somewhere beyond them both. "You must go now. Your slayer is trying to awaken you."
She grinned, a fun, warm smile that fit her age better than the sadness. "If she doesn't succeed soon, she's going to have a panic attack."
Wesley smiled back briefly, then said solemnly, "I will do my best by you, Sharna."
"I know." She hugged him. "Thank you," and he awoke.
"Finally!" Chloe exclaimed. Wesley blinked up at her, momentarily disoriented.
"You had us worried," Ethan added. "What was going on? I don't remember you being that deep a sleeper."
"Well . . ." Wesley began.
His eyes narrowed as he saw more movement in the first floor of the house, and saw the figures of…Ethan Rayne! What the hell was that wastrel doing inside Giles’s house?
A small sense of gratification filled him as he thought about his decision to fire Rupert Giles as the Slayer’s Watcher. Clearly, he was correct in sacking the man. The curtains moved again and he saw the familiar figure of Wesley…and that insolent little girl, Chloe. Anger filled him as his fists clenched. When everything was back to normal and all the assassins were dead, he would make sure that the girl would never go near that failure again. She would learn to obey him, learn to respect her calling. Even if it would be the death of him, he would prevent the residents of Sunnydale from tainting her. Especially, since Wesley and Rupert had obviously taken up with that brat Rayne again.
He thought about what he would do as he saw Chloe curl up against Wesley’s side. Wesley might have to be dealt with in a more direct manner. It was a pity about Wesley. He and his grandfather had such great hopes for the boy. Unfortunately, since January, Rupert Giles was a bad influence for Wesley. And that-that insolent Slayer of his, that Buffy Summers, could not be brought to heel. She could not be taught to properly respect her birthright or the wisdom of her Watcher. Rather, it was the other way around. The pair of them caused Wesley to wonder about the teachings of the Watcher Network and question hundreds of years’ worth of tradition.
His jaw tightened as Chloe smiled up at Wesley. This simply would not do. He would not allow the Mantle of Watcher to fall upon Wesley’s shoulders again. He would not allow everything that he built, to be destroyed by that sniveling whelp. No matter who his grandfather was.
But first things first, he needed Rupert and the Slayer’s help in stopping the assassins before they killed the entire Watcher Network. And then, when this was all over, he would deal with them as well.
With a last baleful glare at the house, he disappeared into the night.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“Well, what? You hurt or something, Wes?” Chloe asked worriedly. “You want some aspirin? Or some pillows?”
Wesley held his hand out to Chloe and smiled tiredly at her. Chloe immediately took his hand. And to his credit, he didn’t wince when she held his hand in a crushing grip. He drew her to the couch, seating her beside him. “I’m fine, Chloe. Don’t worry, I’m not going to die on you, child.”
Chloe bit her lip, then nodded as she snuggled closer to him. “Okay, but don’t do that coma imitation on the couch again. You promised.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Wesley walked along the corridor cautiously, his stake in one hand, and a gun in the other. His senses took in every movement, every sound, every scent, as he patrolled. Calling on reserves that he didn’t even knew he had, Wesley went through the house, swallowing only when flashbacks of the gruesome scenes became too much. His mind’s eye flashed scenes of him turning the bodies of the dead over. Touching and closing their unseeing, horrified eyes. Saying the last rites for some. Then a small prayer for the bodies he had to leave unburied. They were his comrades, his friends, and they deserved a decent burial. But he could not, would not, do it alone.
Shaking off the memory, Wesley resumed his nightly patrol. He had removed those who had survived the massacre. Most of them, unsurprisingly, were the untrained Slayers. The girls were already recovering from the physical wounds they received, but as to their mental state…he shook off that worry. As it was, only a handful of the house staff had survived the carnage, most of them just barely.
It had been days since the massacre at the Academy, and the survivors were in the small safe house. It had belonged to a wealthy couple who had been grateful at the help an untrained Slayer and her Watcher had given them. Donated recently, only a few knew of its existence, which proved to be a boon for them all.
The Meeting Place had been flooded with Untrained Slayers, but there were still more out there. One of the academy staff, a most capable and intrepid woman called Adama, had returned with several more. So far, most of the assigned Watchers he knew were dead.
God had a strange sense of humor, he thought. He was a Watcher that had lost two called Slayers under his care. One to the dark side and the other due to his unyielding adherence to tradition. And now, after accepting his disgrace, he solely responsible for over twenty untrained Slayers. He, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, was responsible for them. Responsible of training them to take care of themselves, to think for themselves, like Buffy. The mantle of being a Watcher never felt heavier.
Startled out of his musings, he stopped walking. Then he heard it again, a small noise. Walking even more carefully, he pushed open the door to the general living room. He looked around, spied a small huddled figure on the couch, and sighed. He touched the small, miserable figure on the shoulder, heard a scream and then he saw nothing.
Pain rained on his face as Wesley struggled to get back to consciousness. He moaned as he tried to stop the pain. “Stop that hammering on my face, please.”
“One would hope,” Wesley groaned. He opened his eyes and saw a small girl with red hair with a frown on her face, looking down at him. He rose slowly. “Who are you, little one? Who was your Watcher?”
Tears filled her eyes and her lower lip trembled. “My name’s Chloe and my Watcher was Michel Mathers. He’s-he’s dead and he was killed by those assassins. They came-they burst into the house and-and-I tried to stop them, but they were to fast and I’m just a baby Slayer and-I was just brought here today.”
Wesley didn’t hesitate as he gathered the sobbing girl in his arms. “Hush, now you’re safe. You’re safe now, Chloe.”
“Why’d they kill Michael? Why?” Chloe sobbed as she grabbed on to his shirt. “He didn’t do anything! He took care of me! Who’s going to take care of me now?”
“Hush, Chloe. Hush, don’t you worry, I’ll help you,” Wesley said as he stroked the soft red hair. When she finally quieted, he lifted her chin to make her look at him. “And as long as you need me, I’ll teach you to take care of yourself.”
“You won’t die on me, will you?” Chloe sniffled as she looked at him. “You won’t die on me like Michael did, will you? I can’t take care of myself-”
“Yes, you can, Chloe,” Wesley said firmly as he placed a hand on her mouth. He gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s inside you, you can take care of yourself. Don’t worry, I’ll help you learn how to care for yourself, think for yourself, Chloe. And, then, you can survive anything.”
“Will you die on me?” Chloe asked through trembling lips. “Like Michael?”
“I’ll try not to, Chloe,” Wesley promised, knowing that the girl destined to be a Slayer was still a child. And that child still needed some reassurances that life had to give her. He gave her a rueful smile. “At the very least, I’ll promise to try and not fall into a coma in front of you.”
“Cross your heart and hope to live?” Chloe asked. Solemnly, Wesley crossed his heart and held up his hand.
“Yes, I did. I won’t do that again,” Wesley promised. He looked at Ethan and Mr.Wilson, both men lost in their own thoughts. “Ethan? Mr.Wilson?”
Wilson looked at Wesley and smiled faintly. “Sorry, just remembering something from a long time ago.”
“Sharna’s first night,” Ethan said softly. Wilson looked at his former pupil and nodded. Wesley watched as their eyes held each other’s, both men lost in the same memory.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Wilson shook his head, his heart aching for her as he looked at the young girl. Instead of holding the young girl, as he was wont to do, he shook his head. “No, Sharna. You know you can’t go back home, you must stay.”
“Why? Why Sharna stay? Why here?” Sharna asked as her lower lip trembled. “Elder say Sharna Dhara’s Chosen. Why Sharna? Dark here. Want fire, want home.”
“You can’t go home, Sharna, you must stay here and train,” Wilson repeated again. More tears rolled down her eyes. Desperately, he looked at the tears fall down on her face and felt his panic rise. He was like any other male when faced with a crying female. Desperate and at a complete loss. “Stop that crying this instant! Stop! You must train to become the Slayer, do you understand?”
As her voice hitched, Sharna shook her head. “Want fire, want Clan. Home.”
He was about to repeat his words when he heard the front door bang open. Inwardly, he cursed the person at the door, knowing instinctively that it was Ethan. For some unknown and strange reason, he had taken a liking for Ethan Rayne since the day he had his fisticuffs with the Fletcher boy. Even stranger, the boy had taken a liking for him and now barged upon his home whenever he wanted. “Hey Wilson! You in here?”
Sharna squeaked and ran behind Wilson, to dive behind the couch, confounding him even more. He stepped forward, and she moved away. He feinted right, she moved left. He made a step towards his left, she moved to the right. Frustrated, he looked at her imperiously. “Sharna! Stop that! It’s only Ethan! Sharna! Come back here this instant!”
Just then, the insolent brat sauntered into the study with a smirk on his face. “Hey, Wilson! Chasing the maid’s daughter around the couch, you randy old goat? Thought you were different, old man.”
Wilson glared at the boy, missing the disappointed look in Ethan’s eye. “Do be quiet, Ethan. Sharna, you will stop evading me right now, and come right here.”
“Cold here, dark here,” the girl said as she shook her head defiantly and tears rolled down her eyes. “Want fire, want Clan. Home now. Take Sharna now?”
“Sharna, you can’t go home now,” Wilson said gently as he could, trying to curb his impatience. He had been a bachelor for the past forty years of his life, unused to having someone else defy his will. “You must train, to become the Slayer. You must stay here.”
“No,” Sharna said with a shake of her head. “Sir no take, Sharna go alone. Go home.”
“I say, this is the potential Slayer you’re supposed to train?” Ethan demanded as he watched the proceedings with interest. “The one that’s not human?”
“Trust me, the girl is human enough,” Wilson bit out, keeping one eye on Sharna as he glared at Ethan. “She has developed a sudden case of home sickness. Keeps taking about fire and going home. If you’re not going to be useful, leave.”
Ignoring the terseness of Wilson’s statements, Ethan shrugged as he sat on the couch. The girl moved away from him warily, moving closer to the windows. He took a cigarette out as he looked at the girl and smiled charmingly. “Hello, there, Sharna. I’m Ethan, so you’re going to be the new Slayer.”
“Oh, that’s a way, Ethan, antagonize the girl,” Wilson bit out. “And if you light that here, I’ll paddle your ass.”
The girl remained silent, then looked at Wilson. “Home, Sharna go now.”
“Tough luck, Wilson. Now why would you want to go home, Sharna?” Ethan asked as he lit the cigarette, he never saw the arrested look on Sharna’s face as the lighter lit up. “Don’t you like it here in merry old, wet England? Hey!”
Ethan stared as he looked at his empty hand, then to the place where the girl had stood. Sharna had moved from her previous place, and she scooted herself off to a corner of the study. She shook the lighter desperately, ignoring the tears on her face. “Fire! Where fire? Fire come back!”
Revelations hitting his head like a stone crumbling from Harridan’s Wall; Wilson gently approached the girl. Cautiously reaching out to her, he said softly, “Give it to me, Sharna. I can show you, Sharna. I can show you how to bring the fire back.”
“Bring fire back?” Sharna asked as she looked at him warily. She moved away from him, not allowing Sir to touch her. “Bring fire here? Dark here.”
“I’ll bring the fire here, watch me,” Wilson said as he backed away from her. He made no sudden movements as he went over to his fireplace and soon had a roaring fire going. He held out his hand. “Come here, Sharna, here’s your fire. Warm yourself by the fire.”
Like a skittish animal, Sharna gave a wide berth around Ethan as she approached the fire that Sir made. She avoided Sir’s hand and leaned as close to the fire as she could. Sir moved away to grab the throw blanket off the couch.
“What’s going on? She an arsonist or something?” Ethan demanded as he watched the girl. “What she want with fire?”
“She’s from a culture and race different from our own, Ethan. The concepts of family, honor and death are the cornerstones of their culture. Her people worship, use and respect the elements,” Wilson said as he placed the blanket near her. He rotated his shoulders wearily. “She came from a small place in India, near Tibet. Very hot, she’s not used to England yet. Having the element of fire near her obviously is used to be a source comfort and heat in the night, like in some primitive cultures. I suppose I’ll have to move her room to one that has a fireplace if I don’t want her to be sleeping in my study.”
“Oh,” Ethan said as he looked at the girl. “Think she’ll give me back my lighter?”
“No,” Wilson said as he looked at the boy, then at Sharna. “I hope she won’t sleep here for the night.”
“Oh, bloody hell. Let me have a go at it,” Ethan said as he crouched down to face Sharna. Ethan lifted the blanket, and Sharna scooted closer to the fireplace. He smiled at her reassuringly. “It’s all right, Sharna. No one’s going to hurt you. This will help keep you warm, like the fire. Want me to show you how the lighter works? That way you can light the fire any time you want.”
Wilson held his breath as Sharna looked at him silently, then slowly handed Ethan the lighter. Ethan took the lighter and demonstrated. “See, you roll your thumb down quickly on this thing here, and press this button here, and you get fire. Want to have a go at it?”
Wilson shook his head sadly. “No, Sharna. You must not go home, you must stay here, in your new home, with me.”
“Want old home, want Clan,” Sharna sniffled as tears started rolling down her face. She brought her knees up to her chin. “Sir come too. Take Sharna home.”
“I can’t take you home, Sharna. I don’t know where your old home was,” Wilson said gently. “Honor demands that you stay with me. Your Elder decreed it, you know that.”
Miserably, Sharna nodded her head. Then she looked at him. “Sir stay with Sharna?”
“Always,” Wilson promised. Suddenly, he found his arms filled with his Slayer, he small arms wrapped around his torso tightly. Hesitantly, he hugged the girl back.
“Congraters, Wilson, you’ve got yourself a Slayer,” Ethan smirked at him. “I’ll give you a fag if you want, but I’m keeping my lighter.”
“She was so young,” Wilson said hoarsely as he turned away from Ethan. “So tiny.”
After a minute, Ethan just nodded. “That she was.”
“Ethan? Wilson?” Wesley asked as he looked at the two men. “Are you both all right?”
“I’m fine, Wesley,” Wilson said brusquely. “Now about the sleeping arrangements-what was that?“
Ethan blinked as he heard a shout coming from Ripper’s room. He lifted an eyebrow at Joyce’s high-pitched noises and Ripper’s loud roar of satisfaction. Wesley looked up at the second floor door in horror. His horror quickly became mortification as Chloe bounced up off the couch and started to head towards the rooms. Ethan caught her arm, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“They’re in trouble! It could be the assassins!” Chloe said as she wrenched her arm away.
“My dear Chloe, I can quite assure you, if you go up there, you won’t be finding any assassins,” Ethan drawled. “Just Ripper and Joyce.”
“Then what was all that shouting about?” Chloe demanded. Ethan just looked at her. Then she grimaced. “Oh. Ick. Gross. Aren’t they too old to do that?”
Ethan grinned. “Obviously the answer is no.”
Chloe grimaced as she stepped further away from the steps. “I’m going to bed and cover my ears, where do I sleep? Which is the farthest room from them? Am I sleeping in your room, Wes?”
Trying to ignore the increasingly sounds coming from the second floor as he blushed furiously, Wesley coughed, “Well, when I-I explored the place, I found that Giles has two guest rooms. Well, actually a library with a bed and a guestroom with twin beds. So, Chloe, I suppose that you’ll sleep with-“
“No, you’re going to have the same room as me, Chloe,” Wilson said before Wesley could say anything. “No arguments.” He looked pointedly at Wesley and Ethan. “These two have much to discuss.”
“You don’t snore, do you?” Chloe demanded as she looked at him suspiciously. “Cause Wes doesn’t, but he does talk in his sleep. And who gets the floor?”
“They’re getting the library, so there are two beds, so no one gets the floor.” Wilson said as he made a shooing motion. “So off to bed with you, young lady, we have to get up bright and early for research.”
As Chloe scampered away, Wilson looked at Wesley, and then he looked at Ethan. He was too old to play matchmaker, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Ethan, don’t be your usual stubborn, close-mouthed, know-it-all noddy self and talk to him, boy,” Wilson ordered. Then he looked at Wesley. “If he gets too cheeky, you have my permission to knock him flat on his ass, worked quite well for me twenty years ago, should work now.”
With that, Wilson left the two men staring at each other. Ethan looked at Wesley, then winced as he heard more cries coming from the second floor of Ripper’s flat. “Never knew Joyce was a screamer. Shall we discuss whatever we have to discuss this in our room or here, tiger?”
“Let’s discuss thing in the bedroom.” Wesley slowly rose from the couch. He blushed furiously as steadfastly refused to look and speculate at the closed door of Giles’s room.
