TITLE: 'Seeking Sanctuary' 1/8
AUTHOR: Pythia
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING: B/G
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated
E-MAIL: pythia@tiscali.co.uk
SUMMARY: Buffy is troubled, lost and drowning in despair. There is only one place left for her to go …
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. 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.
THANKS: To Gail, for taking time out to read this when I know she has a great many other things to do …
SPOILERS/TIMELINE: A slight variation on season six.
NOTES: Oddly enough this was actually inspired by a photo manipulation I was working on - I was fooling around and giving Giles a beard to see what he might look like with one. Then I added a background. And Buffy. After which the whole thing took on a life of its own …
The story is based on the idea that, after Buffy died and Giles went back to England, he sought escape from guilt and memory in the most remote place he could find. Which meant that Willow was unable to contact him when she called to let him know that Buffy was back.
I'm not sure about when the events of Season Six were supposed to take place, but the picture and the story demanded this occur mid-winter, with the world moving towards spring. So that's when it's set.
For those that may be interested, the picture can be found at:
www.mythic-history.co.uk/waw/images/Sanctuary2.jpg
Posting Note: * * implies emphasis and { } indicates thought.
'Exodus 21. V13. But if it is an accident and God allows it to happen, I will appoint a place where the slayer can run for safety …'
The wind that brushed the surface of the sea was cold. It billowed out the curve of the sail and it lifted little flares of white foam out of the undulating waves as the boat cut its way through them. The ferryman frowned at his passenger as she sat in the bow of his vessel, shivering in the wind's caress. She wasn't exactly dressed for a boat ride; she'd appeared at the dock wearing little more than a strappy sundress and a lacing of sandals - attire which might have been suitable for walking on the beach at midsummer, but was far from appropriate for a trip out to the islands in the middle of January. At least the day was still bright, although the sky was building threatening clouds low on the horizon and the bite of the wind had the weight of rain in it.
"Are ye aright, lass?" the old man asked, concerned by the pinched whiteness of her face and the way she was rubbing warmth into her bare arms. She was what he might call a bonny wee thing; her hair was long and very blonde, and the body beneath the thin fabric was delicate and slender. Too slender, he'd have said, studying her with a fatherly - or perhaps a grandfatherly eye. She was thin and her features were drawn with too many cares. It was more than the simple matter of the winter cold, he thought. There was something about her that suggested she was chilled though - not just to the bone, but to the soul itself.
"I'm fine," she assured him, not bothering to look back in his direction. Her eyes were on the horizon - or rather on the low curve of the island that breasted the horizon, its dark rocky cliffs and heather strewn slopes little more than a hazy shadow against the looming clouds. "How much longer until we get there?"
"Oh," he answered, leaning on the rudder to swing the small boat in towards the lee of the island, "not long now, lassie. We'll beat the rain in, that's for sure. Are ye certain ye want me to just drop you off at the place? The man might be out a fishing, or gone to Invaree - and if there's storm in the air, he might be away a while."
"He'll be there." The young woman's words were certain, the one thing about her that held no doubt. The ferryman wondered who she might be; the man's daughter, perhaps, although she had none of his look about him. None of his accent either. *He* was a sassanach and no mistaking it. She spoke with a soft American twang, one as filled with sunlight as the drape of her dress and the tumble of her hair. There was none of that light in her eyes though. Those had the same, haunted quality that'd he'd seen the man wear the day he'd first brought him out to the island. As if they were both lost, adrift without an anchor or a safe harbour to call home.
"Aye, well, if you're sure." He didn't want to leave her - and he hadn't wanted to bring her out to the island at all, not with the storm threatening, and her dressed for August - and no case or travel bag with her either. But she'd insisted - an odd, distant insistence, with her eyes already turned to the island and her thoughts ahead of her journey. And he knew the man would have a care of her, if he were there. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew; knew it with the gift his family had owned for generations, and which had given him cause to put the man's bags in his boat and take him out to the Sully all without question or charge. He'd felt the power in him that day - and he felt the power in this one too, a quiet strength firmly linked to the old ways and the old patterns of things.
"I'm sure," she said.
"And will he welcome ye, lass?" The old man didn't know why he asked, since he already knew the answer - but ask he did, concerned about this fragile creature. Concerned too about a haunted man and the shadows which constantly beset him. She might be *made* welcome - but he wasn't sure that there would be good in the meeting, or joy in the words which followed. The man had been running away from pain - and here it was, running towards him, for good or for ill, wrapped up in nothing but flimsy cotton.
"I - I don't know. But I have to see him. I *need* to see him."
"Aye," he acknowledged warily. "But after that? I can wait if ye wish it. Bring ye back, if there's need."
She turned then, dragging her gaze away from the looming shape of the island to look at him with haunted eyes. "There'll be no need," she said, her voice as pale as her face. Her words were colourless and empty, as if she'd no hope or heart to fill them. "I have nowhere else to go."
The boatman shivered, a response both to her sorrow and the sudden flicker of fear that it inspired. Did he ferry a living soul, or a ghost? There was an echo of the grave in her eyes, a whisper of places far from the witness or knowledge of living men. She was no ordinary traveller, that was certain - but he had no idea what she was, or why she had come to this place. His hand crept to cover the ornate cross that lay hidden above his breastbone, seeking the reassurance of its weight. There was no sense of evil or fell purpose about her, but he trembled just the same. Perhaps she was a spirit, a summoning or a revenant, sent to seek the man in payment or punishment for some past deed. Perhaps she was what he was running away from.
It wasn't his business - but he'd taken a liking to the man, for all his shuttered looks and the shadows that sat about his shoulders. He'd feel no pleasure in bringing him his doom, no matter how the fates determined it. His doom - or his destiny? He felt as if he were a witness to one of the old tales, a whisper of ancient heroes and older spirits woven around the wreaking of the world. Who was she?
And who was the man? Why had he chosen to bury himself in the ruins of the past, to disguise himself with scholarship when his soul was painted with sorrow, pain and power?
Old tales. Stuff and nonsense. She was just a tourist - and the man no more than a foolish sassanach, occupying himself with things better left well alone. It was none of his concern if she wanted to be abandoned in such a God-forsaken place, or that she'd chosen to freeze to death in the name of fashion.
The man had a good heart and would have a care of her.
No matter what it might cost him.
"Ye know your own mind," the ferryman decided, nodding towards their destination. "I'll drop ye at the old quay and ye can walk down to the beach from there. If his boat is up on the strand he'll be somewhere to be found. Up among the ruins perhaps, walking the beach or working in the croft. And if there's no boat … well, he'll be away and you'll need to find shelter where you can. I don't think he locks his door, so - "
"He never used to," she interrupted with an unexpected smile. "Thank you." The smile faded. Everything faded. The sudden flare of life and colour which had crossed her face was lost as she turned away. The old man nodded. None of his business.
But he'd be back, come the weekend, carrying the mail and the milk among other things. Plenty of excuse to see the end of this tale, one way or another.
Or the beginning of a new one, perhaps.
"Not long now, lass," he murmured, turning the boat towards the shore. "Not long at all."