TITLE: 'All Mimsy were the Borogoves.' 9/12
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

"Bloody typical," Giles muttered angrily, flicking through Davenport's extensive wardrobe in search of a suitable change of clothes. "My Slayer is in danger and *I'm* the one responsible."

[The actions of the visszatük are hardly your fault,] Ari observed from his place on the bed. [Do not forget *you* are the victim here.]

"I'm her Watcher." The blue shirt was too small. The white one too impractical. He threw both at the bedspread and Ari leapt back as they landed. "I'm supposed to know about these sorts of things. And not allow myself to be targeted by a totally unknown demon from the other side of the Looking Glass. Damnit," he cursed, pausing with his hands clenched around reflected cotton as a moment of despair swirled through him. "How could I let this *happen?*"

[You did not *allow* anything,] the cat pointed out gently. [Just Giles, the visszatük pick their victims carefully. A glad heart and a strong soul can fight them away even without being aware that they do so. This one must be older and more cunning than most: one that has avoided our hunting and found a way to grow strong without us seeing him. He will have found you and claimed you when you were at your most vulnerable. After the death of your Slayer, perhaps?]

"Perhaps." The anger dissipated as quickly as it had arisen. Giles sat down on the edge of the bed and heaved a weary sigh. "I wish I could *remember*."

[Perhaps,] Ari suggested, padding over to nudge at him with a comforting nose, [that was the moment when he chose you. And perhaps there was another moment of despair - when your defences had been eroded by his constant presence and you no longer had the strength to fight against him - *that* was when he took your place.]

"Possibly," Giles agreed, taking comfort in the warmth of the cat's fur beneath his hand. "Certainly some time after Buffy came back … and I must have been in England when it happened, because I seriously doubt I would have found my way back to the London behind the mirrors if it had happened in Sunnydale."

[It will be a long journey.] The cat was clearly amused by his reasoning. [Although not as far as you think. You may be right, though. You were very lost when I found you.]

"Hah." The Watcher stood up and went back to his investigation of the wardrobe. Davenport had accumulated a great many things over the years, pandering to his vanity with Saville Row suites and expensive hand made shirts among other things. Items - strictly speaking - stolen from behind the tailor's mirrors, snatched from hangers after being tried on and paraded in front of the glass. "Tell me something," he asked, momentarily hovering over a tweed jacket before rejecting it with a wry smile. "When you first saw me. Did you think I was a visszatük? A stolen reflection, given form by someone else's life?"

[Yes,] Ari answered brightly, then opened his mouth in a silent laugh, rolling over to snuggle into the discarded shirts. [But that was days before we met. I caught a glimpse of you in a mirror - and came through the glass to hunt you down.]

"You were hunting me?" Giles threw the cat a bemused look. "I had no idea."

[You wouldn't. I'm good.]

Ari's smug confidence earned him a warm chuckle. "No," Giles corrected shrewdly, "well, maybe you *are*, but - I didn't know what to watch for. You might not find me such easy prey in future."

[Probably not,] the cat agreed with a laugh of his own. [But I am cunning and I am quick, and I am only seen when I wish to be seen. Had you *been* a visszatük, the first thing you would have known of me would have been my teeth and my claws.]

He'd found the perfect thing; a soft faux suede shirt the colour of warm butterscotch, just right for wearing over a t-shirt and jeans. "Then I'm relieved you realised I wasn't."

[So am I.]

"Now, now," Davenport's voice drifted in from the next room. "Don't fuss so. I'm perfectly capable of walking a few steps when I have to."

The old man himself appeared a moment later, making his way with careful, shaky steps, which he was managing with the assistance of a gnarled walking stick in one hand and - of all things - a sword in the other. There were several cats milling about his feet, which probably helped explain some of the cautious nature of his progress. "Ah - Giles, there you are. Find everything you need? I don't use this room much any more, so do feel free to think of it as your own."

"Well," Giles smiled, resisting the temptation to rush across and give the man a helping hand. "Don't get me wrong, but - I really don't intend to stay that long."

"Of course you don't," Davenport retorted, his eyes twinkling a little. He reached the nearest armchair and sank onto it with decided relief. "Now then … have something for you here. Knew I had it somewhere. Might come in handy." He lifted up the sword and pushed it onto the bed; Ari padded over and sniffed at it warily.

"I - um - do have a sword," Giles pointed out, having quickly checked that the one he'd brought with him was safely propped up against the coffee table.

"Not like this one." The old man waved at the blade with a smug look on his face. "This one is thrice reflected."

"Thrice …?" Giles dropped his chosen shirt onto the pile of clothing he'd been assembling and reached across to pick up the weapon, feeling it somehow shimmer and pulse under his hands. "I don't understand."

Davenport grinned. "Here, light is power. The clarity of a reflection gives it both substance and strength. Reflect something once, and it will exist, here in Looking Glass house. Reflect it twice - between two mirrors, or using an angled pair, and it will have much greater certainty, more … reality, if you like. But reflect it *thrice*," he leaned forward, making his point with a jab of a bony finger, "and you create *magic*. I found this blade years ago, hanging on display in the British museum. All set up in a special display case with three mirrors, set so a visitor could observe the intricate detail on both sides of the hilt at once. Thrice reflected, Mr Giles. It's as light as a good sword can be and still have weight to force a blow - and yet it's stronger than steel and sharper than a razor's edge. It's killed four jabberwocks and more dandygyre than I care to think about. *This* is my Vorpal blade. And it's yours. You're going to need it where you're going. If this place of yours - Sunnyday, or whatever it's called …"

"Sunnydale," Giles corrected absently, testing the weight of the sword in his hand and marvelling at the feeling of power that seemed to follow every stroke, every movement it made through the air. Ari, and a number of the other cats, followed the movement of its point with fascination.

"Yes, well, whatever. If it has an active hellmouth, then its mirror-side is almost undoubtedly going to be crawling with jabberwocks. Among other things. Ari, here, may scare a few of them away, but *that* will help you defend yourself. Got to get you back safely to that Slayer of yours. She needs you. Especially with … well, you know."

"I do." Giles swung the weapon with care, admiring its balance and measuring its reach. It was a far better weapon than any of the ones he'd acquired in his wanderings. "This is very generous of you, Mr Davenport. And most appreciated."

"Geoffrey, please. And good heavens, m'boy, who *else* am I going to give it to? I haven't been able to swing the blessed thing for years … and I hate to think of it gathering dust and rust in some forgotten corner of this cursed hotel, long after I'm gone. Take it. Go 'sniker-snack', and win your way home. Your Slayer will know you. I know she will. She'll know you and she'll call you out. You'll see. I never got home. But you will. You *have* to. For her sake. For all our sakes."

He lowered the blade and considered the old man on the other side of the bed with a mixture of sympathy and pity. "I'll do my best," he promised softly. Davenport nodded.

"I'm sure you will."

A whip tailed mackerel tabby padded into the hotel suite, making its way through the gathered felines, before leaping up onto the bed and sitting there, blinking eyes so green they could have been emeralds.

[There has been council,] she announced, her voice soft and sweet compared to Ari's masculine growl. [It has been agreed. If one of the shapeless ones has found a way to pass beyond the glass, then we have failed in our vigilance. We will not fail in our duty. Watcher:] she turned to Giles, tilting her head with formal politeness. [You have been the victim of this offence, and we recognise your right to seek redress before any other action can be taken. Ari will go with you as your guide and assist you in your quest - but should you fail, then others among us will hunt this creature down and make it pay for its crimes. We will avenge you, as she who was Mother of us all was avenged.]

[And if - for what ever reason - you are unable to find your way back, if your fate should be to stay this side of the mirrors, then you will be welcomed among us, as the White Knight was welcomed, long ago.]

[This we have agreed, and this we promise.]

"Thank you," Giles murmured, grateful for their willingness to give him a chance to recover his life, despite the fact that it was one of their most hated enemies who was thought to have stolen it. He was equally grateful for their offer of a place - a purpose - among them, should there be a need for it. He was rather hoping there wouldn't be; not just because that would mean living out the rest of his days behind the mirrors, the way Davenport had done, but because it would necessitate the Walkers having to hunt down and kill the thing that Buffy currently believed to be her Watcher - and even drained of spirit, numbed of feeling and, by now, possibly bereft of all hope, he had the temerity to believe she would defend him. To the death, if necessary.

Which it would be, since the Walkers would be equally determined to deny their ancient enemy a foothold in the outer world.

"Tell your council," he said with a confidence he didn't really feel, "that I will happily seek Salla Bu-shabis' revenge; that I will find this thing and find a way to destroy it. And that, once I have done so, you and all of those who walk the Way will be welcomed in my house and given my eternal friendship."

"Good show, my boy," Davenport murmured approvingly.

The tabby dipped its head in acknowledgement, offered Ari a friendly nuzzle to his cheek and turned to jump down from the bed. [You have ten days,] she said in parting. [May the Mother of us all guide and guard you both. Until we walk together once again.]

"Ten *days?*" Giles echoed with bemused astonishment as she left. He glanced across at the old man, to find him smothering a wheezy chuckle. "Bloody hell! I can't walk from London to California in ten days!"

[Of course not,] Ari denied with equal amusement. [It only takes three. If you know the Way …]

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