TITLE: MINDSCAPE 1/2
AUTHOR: Sandra Pascoe
RATING: PG
PAIRING: B/G
ARCHIVE: My website obviously – and anyone who has had permission in the past.
DISCLAIMER: The characters don’t belong to me … I’m only borrowing them for a short and exceedingly profitless time.
SETTING: I think this could probably be anytime after Season 3 … personally, though, I’m putting it slightly in the future …
NOTES: Useless trivia: normally I write fic to the strains of the Backstreet Boys’ "Millennium" album pounding through my headphones, however this time, it’s "Music For Elevators". Has it made a difference? Actually, I rather think it has …
SUMMARY: Giles is lost … alone … doesn’t know who he is … doesn’t know where he is … I think that just about sums it up!
DEDICATION: To Sonneta - for stepping bravely into the breach and beta-ing for me!
How long have I been walking? I really don’t know … there’s no sense of time passing … time itself appears to be meaningless here … wherever "here" is. Maybe it’s just my perception of time that’s slightly awry. In that case, though, why am I not getting tired? There’s so much here that doesn’t make sense … or is it all quite logical and I’m the one who's lost all sense, lost all reason? I wouldn’t know … I have no point of reference, you see, nothing to use as a comparison. The first thing I remember is walking across this barren landscape, my feet crunching through the stone and shale … exactly as they’re doing now. It’s a featureless place … stone, shale and a bluish sky … however, one of the many things that puzzles me is why is it so hot? There’s no discernible heat source … no sun, yet it’s bright and it’s hot. I’m sweating but not tired; I’m walking but leaving no impression, no footprints behind me. Maybe I should simply stop walking … sit down and go no further … no – something within me rebels again
st that thought. I think it’s important that I keep moving … I don’t know why. My memory appears to be reduced to mere generalities, there seems be nothing of "me" left, so I am forced to rely upon my instincts. Of course, I have no way of knowing just how reliable my instincts are but I seem to have little choice in the matter.
Currently, they're telling me that this is all wrong … it simply doesn’t feel right. There’s something bad here, something immoral … is it the landscape? The place itself? Or is it me? Who am I? What am I called? I should have a name … shouldn’t I? Why does my name seem so important to me? I thought my clothes might hold the key but they seem to change with my feelings … is that normal? Somehow, I don’t think it is. Whenever I feel nervous or apprehensive then I appear to be wearing tweed. When I relax it changes to trousers and a sweater and when I feel happier, more confident, then I’m wearing a smart suit and tie. At the moment, it’s tweed again … probably because I’m questioning my circumstances, worrying about what’s going on.
I can feel the sweat running down my face and, as I raise a hand to wipe it away, something changes. A sudden shift in atmosphere; a temperature drop. The sky darkens and I begin to shiver. I glance around almost wildly, trying to see what’s causing this sudden change. As I hug myself, trying to keep warm, I finally see it. There’s something ahead of me … some kind of ripple … a disturbance of some kind. It’s getting bigger … speeding towards me and I suddenly feel afraid. No … I can’t let it find me … can’t let it get … get what? My secret, of course … my words. That’s what it wants … I know that now. It’s not having them … the words I possess are mine … not yours. I have few options … there's nothing for me to hide behind … nowhere I can go. I drop to the ground, curling myself into a ball, my arms wrapped tightly around my head. I don’t look at it but I can hear it approaching. It … sizzles and I brace myself, not knowing what to expect. The urge to raise my head is almost irresistible … I want to see what
it looks like, I … need to see it, but something holds me back and I wriggle further into the stones, hugging myself tightly. Suddenly, with a roar, it is upon me and the force of the wind pushes me back. I can't stop myself … I stretch out, my hands scrabbling, trying to find some form of purchase, something to cling to. It's getting colder … my hands are clutching the ground desperately … then …oh, god, it hurts! Pinpricks … needles … scraping along my skin … digging in … tearing my clothes, ripping into my flesh. I try to scream but they're in my mouth, my throat … clawing at my eyes … the pain, please stop the pain …
"It's okay … hold on."
The voice seems to be all around me, soothing, caressing, and driving away the pain. Such a voice - full of light and hope - a beautiful, soft, gentle voice. I slowly open my eyes and sit up, wanting desperately to see the face behind the voice, half convinced that my flesh is torn and shredded, but nothing seems to have changed … there’s nobody else here … and I'm still wearing the tweed.
"Hello!" I call out, hoping against hope that she will respond. "Please … please answer me!"
Nothing. Just the sound of my own voice echoing back to me. I clamber to my feet, now with yet more questions to puzzle over. What was all that about? Why the needles? Why the pain? Why am I left unscathed? Whose was that glorious voice? I look around but it's all still the same … the disturbance has vanished and it's hot once more. Yet more mysteries, yet more puzzles. Is that all there is here? Just a bundle of unanswerable questions? I seem to be going over the same ground, thinking the same thoughts as earlier … a phrase suddenly leaps unbidden to mind: "circular logic will only make you dizzy". Is that a memory? Or is it just another thought? With a sigh, I start walking again.
:: NEXT ::