TITLE: 'Out of Africa' 22/31
AUTHOR: Pythia
E-MAIL: pythia@tiscali.co.uk
DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy,
Sandollar Productions, Kuzui Enterprises, 20th Century Fox Television and
the UPN Television Network. 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: *.* is for emphasis. {.} denotes thought and [.] implies
translation from another language.
[The stone sinks into the sand and is swallowed up The tree takes root and flourishes. It draws life from the desert, it devours the stone. It spreads its leaves above the sand, offering its protection. In the shadow of its branches is the serpent confounded.]
Willow had begun the second part of the ritual, slowly dripping wax from a burning candle onto the shrivelled snake's skin as Oz carefully coiled it into a shallow dish beside the incense burner. Angel could feel the subtle crackle of magic weave its way around him, around all of them, summoned by the incantation, yet still raw, still undefined - and very dangerous. Xander was looking tense and worried, his eyes flicking from the chanting witch to the patterns of light playing across the monitors. There'd been a subtle change in their messages as Willow had worked through the ritual 'opening of the mouth'; the slow beat of the man's heart had quickened just a little, and the bare ripple of brain activity had begun to take on more definition, more noticeable form.
The vampire could well understand the young man's anxiety. If anyone back at the duty nurse's station noticed the increased activity on the monitors, they might well come to investigate - and any interruption to the spell would risk both its subject and its caster. They just had to hope that the nurses had more urgent things to attend to than checking up on a coma patient that the doctors had more or less given up on.
The kitten - which had slept through most of the first stage - sat up and looked around, its eyes wide, bright and reflecting the flicker of candle flame.
[The brightness of the sun lures the serpent out of the shadow.
It uncoils in the light, it offers its belly to be warmed.
I will follow the path of the serpent, I will walk its coils,
Between this vessel and the spirit that is lost, I will find the way,
Seeking the hidden paths, seeking the treasures it guards.]
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Buffy " Cordelia's plea managed to convey both terror and exasperation all at once. "Don't just *stand* there. *Do* something " Buffy risked a look in her direction, seeing her lurking behind Kalskal's shoulder, all wide eyed and quivering. The German had an equally wide eyed but far more bewildered look on his face; he was staring at the dark skinned demoness as if he couldn't believe his eyes. Close by, Wesley had lifted his head from the tablet to identify the reason for Cordelia's demand. He caught Buffy's glance towards him and jerked his head towards the zombie with decided urgency in his expression. She nodded, fixing her own eyes on the tablet with equally urgent significance. He blinked, then realised what she meant and returned to his study with anxious haste. Lilithu had also glanced Cordelia's way, but she'd simply smiled and returned her attention to her shuffling slave, clearly confident in her moment of triumph.
"What can she do?" the vampiress taunted. "My children are many. She is but one."
"Yeah," Buffy agreed, twisting in her captor's grip so that she could drive the sliver of wood deep into the creature's heart. "The *chosen* one." Dust exploded around her with satisfying force, she stepped through it with a look of grim satisfaction on her face. "Don't you just *hate* it when a guy gets clingy?" A twist of her wrist turned the sharpened sliver into a makeshift dart; she pulled back her hand and threw it with determined force, her aim both firm and true. It flew through the air and embedded itself straight between the zombie's shoulder blades - where it stayed, jutting out like a misshapen fin. The impact swayed the zombie forward, but that was all; the thing continued to shuffle across the polished floor, one arm beginning to lift, ready to claim its intended prize.
"Excellent shot," Lilithu acknowledged, seemingly unphased by Buffy's regained freedom. "A slightly pointless gesture - except that," she laughed knowingly, "*someone* will have gotten the point."
{Oh god …}
Buffy's blood - already cold with horror - froze in her veins. A shudder ran through her, one almost sharp as the makeshift weapon she'd just used. The corpse had felt nothing. How could it? It was just a dead thing, a lump of meat and bone. But she'd forgotten - if only for a moment - that the man it *contained* would feel everything that happened to it. Which meant that Giles had felt that. Had felt the splintered wood sink into flesh, had felt the pain as certainly as if she'd literally stabbed him in the back …
Buffy threw herself forward with a gulp, grabbing for the zombie's arm and swinging it round so that she could look into its lifeless eyes. Except that they *weren't* lifeless. The decaying face might be slack and its expression vacant - but there was something in the dead man's eyes that mirrored the soul the body imprisoned.
Recognition glimmered there, along with disconcerting awareness and an echo of pain. She was greeted with a warmth of affection that might have been a smile, had he been able to move dead lips to match the moment - and then the look became one of determined and stern command.
The Slayer swallowed hard, reading the meaning that lay behind the look, the message her Watcher intended to convey. "I'm sorry," she whispered, knowing what she would have to do and already hating herself for it. "Oh god, Giles. I'm *sorry*."
Then she locked both hands together and hit him.
Hard.
The blow sent the zombie flying, in a tumble of uncoordinated limbs and dead weight. It arched through the air to land with a sickening crunch, right at Lilthu's feet.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
[I open the door and the words are spoken.
I call unto the one who is taken, and I send my shadow in search of him.
My shadow goes into darkness, seeking the light, seeking his name.
The coils of the serpent will be loosened.
The chains of the heart will be broken.
The spirit will be set free.]
The spell was taking its toll; Willow was shaking as she worked through
the measured gestures the ritual required. Sweat was beading her forehead
and she struggled to continue, her hands moving infinitely slowly, as if
she were pushing them through treacle - or solid rock. Magic shimmered in
the air, turning the dance of candle flame into curtains of light, filling
the room with tangible energy. Angel frowned, feeling the forces the
witch had summoned coil around him - around all of the them - as she
fought to find the weaknesses in Lilithu's ancient sorcery.
"This is *so* not working," Xander hissed, catching the look in the vampire's eyes. "David against Goliath stuff." He frowned anxiously, coming to the inevitable conclusion. Willow just wasn't strong enough to break through. "We need a bigger rock."
"Or a little help," Angel muttered, wishing he knew a little more about Egyptian magic - and a little *less* about what might happen if the witch lost control. The energies she was working with were powerful ones; unleashed, discharged without direction or intent, they would tear right through all four of them. *Five*, he corrected grimly, glancing down at the comatose figure beside him.
And blinked.
There was a serpent coiled around the still silent Watcher - a serpent made of smoke and shimmering hints of colour. It was wrapped over him, head to toe, its thick and muscular body wound round like a thick rope, its hooded head raised above his with possessive menace. There was evil in it, and old power. The energies of the spell crackled along its coils, seeking a way to push through them - and the serpent merely tightened its grip, its head rearing back as if ready to strike.
A flurry of movement lunged through the smoke and the shadows. A blur of grey and white leapt up in a sudden dance of teeth and claws, the twisting, hissing form striking through the smoke, through the magic, and through the serpent beneath. The hooded head writhed back and the cat pounced after it, shredding its shadowed shape into drifting tatters. Power shimmered into the gaps, sliding beneath the coils and adding to the serpent's dissolution. Willow's head went back with a jerk, her hands frozen in their last, effort filled gesture and her eyes turning a deep blood red.
[I call his name into the dark. I *command* it.
I summon the spirit from its journey, to the place made ready for its
return.
Let that which was taken be restored. Let that which was parted be made
whole again.
The way is open. The path is made clear.
The empty vessel *will* be filled!]