TITLE: 'Out of Africa' 24/31
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.
Pain.
His world had been filled with pain - black, red, lightning white pain. There'd been the physical impact, the merciless punishment that had hammered into dead flesh, the unbearable sensation of being pierced through the heart - and, along with it, the anguish of his soul, the torment of his imprisonment and his comprehension of the price his Slayer paid with every blow.
Then - for a bewildering moment - there'd been nothing at all.
No up, no down, no light, no dark, no sound, and no sensation. He'd been ripped into breathless nothingness, an absence of everything; the transition had been so abrupt that - if he'd had a voice - he probably would have screamed.
A heartbeat later, he was plunged back into a maelstrom of perception, an overload of sight and sound and sensation. Everything hit at a rush; colours and light and sound tore through his senses. He was falling and he was flying, buffeted by phantom caresses, shivering with heat and cold, feeling as if he were being stripped to the bone with agony and yet pleasured beyond ecstasy. He was drowning in pain and euphoria in equal measure, fighting for focus, fighting for balance, fighting for self-control.
It was somewhat of a surprise when he actually got it
One moment he was in total chaos, and the next he was arcing up with a gasp, his body reacting to the demands of desperate struggle. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, his lungs were labouring for air - and he was sitting on a bed, in a room filled with smoking, unlit candles, staring straight at Willow as she collapsed into Oz's waiting arms.
Giles blinked, trying to assimilate the memories of his metaphysical roller coaster ride, and feeling distinctly discombobulated by the whole experience. His perceptions were busy violently disagreeing with the sensations which still echoed through his soul - and his body ached with blows it had never felt, reflecting the protests of someone *else's* broken bones and scorched skin.
"Friend or foe?" a voice demanded firmly from his left. He turned his head, and blinked a second time. Angel was standing right beside him - and the vampire was lifting up the gleaming length of a sword blade, poised as if to strike. "Speak or die "
"Err - " Angel with a sword in his hand was a completely different entity to an Angelus with mayhem in mind, but one echoed the other, and for a brief second or two Giles wasn't entirely sure which of them he was looking at. He realised he probably ought to say something, but his lips, tongue and vocal chords refused to work with sufficient co-ordination to achieve recognisable words. He still had the taste of death in his mouth; while a part of him wrestled with the need to formulate speech, most of him just wanted to throw up.
"Put that - bloody thing down, you pillock," he managed after a moment, gulping down much needed air. His body might have been breathing while he'd been out of it, but he felt as if he hadn't taken a breath in centuries. "You'll t-take someone's head off, waving it about like that."
The words were instinctive, an irritated, defensive reaction, totally unconnected to the shiver of irrational terror which had torn through his soul. No doubt he *could* have come up with something pithier, or more erudite, but he was too busy taking stock of his situation to worry about being polite - or particularly restrained either. As it was, the peeved remark seemed to be exactly the right thing to say. Angel relaxed with a smile - and there was the sound of a decidedly relieved sigh from somewhere on the other side of him.
"Welcome back, Rupert," the vampire said, lowering the sword.
"Yeah," Xander's voice agreed, its owner appearing to his right with a very happy grin on his face. "Lots of welcome backness. From all of us. You had us worried for a while there."
"R-really," Giles acknowledged bemusedly, a little taken aback by the fervour of the young man's greeting. Xander wasn't just saying that. He meant it. The Scoobies had been worried about him - and that was rather nice to know. "I-I'm sorry to have -caused you such concern. Is - is Willow all right?"
"I think so." That was Oz, crouched somewhere at the foot of the bed with his girlfriend in his arms. "She's out, but she's breathing easily. That was major mojo she was working with. Cool stuff. But scary."
Giles took a perplexed glance around the room, registering the pattern of candles, the still smoking incense burner - and the cat, sitting up among the monitors with smug expression on its face. "I'm … sure it was," he acknowledged warily. His befuddlement was beginning to subside, and he fought to gather his thoughts and achieve a little focus. Given his recent state, and the paraphernalia currently scattered around him, it was pretty easy to identify the kind of magic Oz was talking about. The rites of Thoth were dangerous things at the best of times - but using them against someone with Lilithu's power was literally playing with fire. Willow had taken a frightening risk. Any one of a thousand things could have gone wrong.
He blinked and flexed his fingers, feeling the incredible pleasure of being able to do so, the certainty of his own flesh working to his own will, and he breathed a silent prayer of thanks to whichever higher power watched over Watchers - not to mention would be witches, anxious Scoobies and vampires with souls. "She'll be more c-comfortable up here," he suggested, tugging off the tangle of monitoring wires and swinging his feet off the bed. "Can someone find me some clothes? I have to go. We don't have a lot of time."
"Whoa there, G-man," Xander reacted, reaching to catch him as his attempt to stand practically pitched him onto the floor. "Coma-ness and convulsy things been happening here. You're not going anywhere. Not 'til you've seen a doctor."
"No time," Giles insisted, straightening up with an effort. His sense of disorientation was being replaced by one of urgency; while the memories concerning his return were still bewildering, the ones from before were beginning to focus with crystal clarity. "Buffy's in trouble. Lilithu has her - I - I have to get the museum right away. And don't call me that," he added, giving Xander an irritated glare. The young man grinned - a reaction just as much a reflex as the remark - and then his expression creased into anxious concern.
"The bitca's got the Buffster?" he registered worriedly. "Did you - dead you that is - manage the 'lets let the unstoppable evil loose on the world' routine?"
Giles blinked yet again, taking a vital second to translate the question from Xander speak to something that approximated English. "Uh - no. No - y-you pulled me out just in time. But … Buffy - " The image that sprang to mind - the last thing that dead eyes had seen - was stark and stomach churning, his Slayer, held in the merciless grip of two powerful vampires. It might already be too late.
"She's got backup," Xander protested, not entirely with conviction. "Wesley's there …and Cordy."
"All the more reason to hurry," Giles decided grimly. "All of them are in mortal peril. Lilithu will do anything to be free. *Anything.*"
"Giles," the vampire observed warily, "You barely have the strength to stand. You really think rushing over there is going to be a good idea?"
"No." Giles had no illusions about that. But sometimes desperate situations called for desperate measures. "I - I know the ritual," he said. "Get me to the staff and I will stop her. Once and for all."