TITLE: 'All Mimsy were the Borogoves.' 2/12
AUTHOR: Pythia
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated
DISCLAIMER: The Slayer and her Watcher are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Sandollar Productions, Kuzui Enterprises, 20th Century Fox Television and the UPN Television Network. 'Jabberwocky' and 'Alice' were written by Lewis Carroll. Geoffrey wandered by and took up residence when the story demanded it, and Ari has been delightfully mine for the past two and a bit years. The story is written for the pleasure of the author and readers, and has no lucrative purpose whatsoever. Please do not reproduce this story anywhere without the author's consent.

Posting Notes: *-* indicates emphasis. {-} indicates thought. [_] identifies thought-speech

Night fell quickly in the world behind the mirrors. Realising that darkness was creeping on him apace, Giles had peeled himself away from the dingy glass and the squalid office it overlooked and gone looking for potential sanctuary. He was practically running by the time he found it, hounded by a sense of something stirring in the halls, of something that - should it catch a glimpse of him, should it sense his presence - would hunt him down without mercy.

He checked seemingly endless doors, racing through empty rooms and along twisted passages, trying not to look outside their darkening windows, or be caught by the tantalising images that now glowed brightly from inside the mirrored glass hanging on their walls. After finding - and rejecting - several furnished rooms with windows that were way too large, even if they only had a single door in and out, he eventually stumbled into somewhere much more promising.

The foyer of a hotel.

It was one of those old fashioned five star establishments with mirrored ceilings, gilt painted pillars and sofas that looked as if they could swallow you whole. The plush carpet was reproduced exactly, the mirrors above it producing a practically perfect reflection. There were paintings hanging in alcoves, a long low reception desk, and doors that opened into what looked an elevator car with mirrors on either side. There was also, he spotted with a distinct sense of relief, a decorative arrangements of shields and weapons hanging on one wall.

Something *snuffled* outside the foyer's entry doors as he started to cross the carpet; not a particularly loud noise but one impossible to miss in the otherwise heavy silences. He froze in place for a moment, not daring to breath until what ever it was moved away. The need to run, the need to find a place of safety, nagged at him like an unreachable itch. Part of him was arguing that this large open space might be a good place to spend the night, with time to spot danger before it reached him and bolt holes and exits in practically every direction - but instinct was crying out for somewhere more secure, somewhere with sturdy walls and a defensible entry, somewhere hidden and out of the way.

Instinct - and possibly some of those elusive and unfocused memories - won the battle. He had the distinct feeling that if he *saw* what threatened him, it would be too late to do anything about it. His only chance was to hide. To make sure it didn't see him at all.

A few moments later he was hitching a ride up in the elevator, two long daggers thrust into his belt, and a comfortingly heavy sword sitting in his left hand. He'd feared for a minute or two that he'd be unable to lay claim to, or even affect anything reflected by the mirrors, but the display had supplied him with just what he needed, and once the weapons were in his hands they seemed to have taken on his own, semi reflective properties. Looking back, he wondered if any of the hotel guests would spot that the reality of the display was no longer being reflected truthfully - but then he questioned whether anyone ever looked at a reflection *that* closely.

If they did, someone would have seen him by now.

Like the guests he shared the elevator with. They were crisp and clear in the mirrors, while his own image was little more than that of a ghost; he rode up in perfect comfort, occupying an empty car, while they shuffled and smiled awkwardly at each other, as hotel guests often do.

He stepped out of the car into a plushly furnished corridor, and hastily followed an unseen guest into their room. A typical hotel room, as it turned out. One high up in a tower block somewhere, its doubled glazed windows looking out across a cityscape filled with twinkling lights. It was hard to tell where, exactly, since most of the window space was almost immediately covered with a thick and heavy curtain. Giles was happy with that. He had no desire to see what lurked out in the night, and no wish to attract anything's attention either. There was a large mirror occupying one wall, one in the passage by the door and another on the door of the wardrobe, which meant that the room was more or less reassuringly normal in all directions.

It also meant that when the guest dropped the latch on the door the action was clearly reflected, locking him in. He heaved a sigh of relief and moved a little more confidently into the room itself. A locked door was no guarantee of safety, of course, but it certainly lessened the chance of something finding him by accident. He didn't understand the rules of this world he'd found himself in, and until he figured a few of them out, he was both vulnerable and at a distinct disadvantage. The hotel seemed to be a more stable setting among the shifting, random rooms that he'd been exploring earlier. Probably something to do with the multiplication of mirrors, and the many reflections which reinforced its sense of reality. Whatever it was, he was grateful to find a moments respite in this strange and unsettling dimension, and …

{Oh *Lord*.}

The mirror on the wardrobe was offering him a rather unexpected vision of his room mate. She was blond, slightly plump, somewhere in her late twenties - and currently getting undressed right in front of him. He gulped and hastily looked away, casting round to see which of the two twin beds she'd chosen to occupy. The one nearest the window had the covers turned back, so he took a calculated moment or two to check the softness of the other mattress before climbing onto it and settling himself there, crossed legged with the sword lying across his knees. His reflected company had wandered into the bathroom by then; he heaved a small sigh of relief and leaned back against the headboard, vowing not to look when she wandered out again. It wasn't fair to her, to have him sitting there, a silent and unseen voyeur - but it was too late to seek alternative accommodation. He needed to feel safe, and he needed to be somewhere where he could defend himself should the need arise.

Besides, there was something oddly comforting about her presence, a reassurance that there really was a world behind the mirrors - the real world, the one where he belonged. The memory of another blonde - of a pert smile and a very pretty face - surfaced from the murky haziness that currently flooded his past and he seized it with determination, closing his eyes and trying to focus on the tangled threads that lay around it. The young woman was important to him somehow. His consideration of her face stirred any number of emotions, including concern, pride and a fierce sense of protectiveness. There was a name that belonged with all that complexity and he teased it out with care, unravelling it from the almost overwhelming thoughts and feelings that surrounded her.

{Buffy.}

He lifted the memory of her name out of his mental fuzziness and laid it carefully beside his own.

{Rupert Emrys Giles.}

{Buffy Ann Summers.}

{My Slayer.}

The appellation fell into place with startling abruptness, almost as if he'd flicked a mental switch somewhere. Fragments of memory took shape around it. He was a Watcher. Buffy was his Slayer. Together they fought dark powers; the vampires, the demons, and the forces of evil …

He opened his eyes with a gasp, his heart racing and the sound of his breath harsh in the otherwise silent room. The sense of sudden terror that his recollections had stirred didn't go away. There was - *something* - very close by. Something that moved with almost silent grace, that stalked through the passages with purposeful steps. Something that brought with it a creeping, menacing chill. Something hunting in the dark.

Hunting *him*.

Giles held his breath, the fingers of his left hand creeping to curl around the hilt of the sword while his heart pounded too loudly inside his chest. The menace crept closer, the cold oozing in under the door and the clarity of the reflection shifting and shimmering as whatever it was paused outside the room. For a long, nerve stretching moment it lingered there, a hint of claws clicking at the wood. Sweat slowly trickled down his forehead and into his eyes; he didn't dare move to wipe it away. He feared that, if he so much as *breathed*, he would give himself away …

A fearsome hiss and an unearthly howl suddenly shattered the silences; a sound like a rumble of thunder raced away down the passageway - and the soul shivering *something* followed it, charging in pursuit with a nerve wrenching growl and what sounded like a sudden clatter of spines.

{Oh dear Lord.}

He relaxed back against the headboard with a disconcerted gulp, discovering that he was shaking from head to toe.

{That was close}.

Far, far too close for comfort.

The blonde came back, moving through the mirrors like a golden angel, taunting him with her indifference to the menace which had crept so close to her door. Would she have seen the thing if it had entered? Would she have seen the glass darken with its shadow? Or would his fate gone unnoticed in the real world?

Would *anyone* notice?

He was trapped, lost in a world he didn't understand, with less than echoes of memory to guide and advise him. He couldn't remember how or why he was wandering behind the mirrors, but something told him it hadn't been of his own volition. Did his friends, his slayer, already think him dead - or had he just vanished from their lives without sign or sound, leaving no hint of where he might be?

He didn't know - but nor was he about to give in to despair. He might not recall much about who and what he was, but it was enough to be certain of one thing; he had to find a way back. Find a way *out*.

Buffy needed him.

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