Chapter Five:
They talked for hours – or rather, Davenport talked for hours, his words tumbling out as he warmed to his subject and his company. Giles was content to sit and listen, Ari sprawled across his lap while he relaxed and felt safer than he had for days. The old man had spent half a century without human companionship, and it was hard to deny him his eager hunger for simple conversation. The cats, for all the care they had shown him, and the respect they obviously held for him, were still cats – creatures with a mindset far removed from human perceptions and human emotions.
Somewhere, in that long and rambling discussion in which Giles learned far more about the mirror world than he had done in all the days and weeks he’d spent there, the two men moved from wary acquaintance to a sense of comfortable friendship. They had a great many things in common; much more than just their mutual membership of the ancient order which had shaped them both. They had been taught in the same schools, been raised according to the same traditions, and they spoke the same language, albeit one separated by a generation. The surface impression – that Davenport was not the most stable of personalities – was quickly overtaken by an understanding of just how stable and self certain he had to have been to have survived all those years of isolation and exile. He admitted, at some point or other, that his hold on his sanity had shifted and shivered over the years; that there’d been times when he’d neglected his hygiene and his appearance, had once wandered naked and alone through rooms crowded with life on the other side of the mirrors just to satisfy the fact that he could – and had even once gone out into the dark with the sole intention of letting something end his desperate existence. But those had just been phases, ways of working through the pressures and the challenges of his strange imprisonment, and he claimed to have woken from those moments of madness to a much greater certainty of himself and his place in the world.
Giles wasn’t so sure about that – but he could understand the need to cry out in the oppressive silences, to declare war on the world in preference to drowning in loneliness and frustrating torment. There’d been moments – even in the few short weeks in which he’d been wandering the maze – when the anger and the agony of being trapped, of being walled away from life and human contact, had threatened to overwhelm him. If he hadn’t been so busy fighting to recover his past, working through those fragments of memory and battling for the pieces that, even now, lay out of his reach … if he had had, like Davenport, to face the knowledge that he, and he alone, was the one responsible for his fate … would he have struck out in equal fury and frustration, or would he have simply succumbed to despair?
He didn’t know. He liked to think that he was stronger than that, but he couldn’t be sure. Couldn’t be sure of anything really, not while his memory was so fragmented and the events that had brought him to this place remained a baffling mystery.
The old man rambled on, telling tales of his early explorations, of adventures spent hiding from creeping jabberwocks while he searched for familiar landscapes on the other side of the mirrors. They were tales peppered with references to cats long gone, and to people and places that held disconcerting familiarity. Giles had visited the many of the locations Davenport spoke of, had studied in the Council’s libraries and had even been trained and tutored by some of the men his current company had once viewed as friends and colleagues.
His years of exile had clearly mellowed the old man’s resentment of the order that had once denied him his chance to shine. He spoke of his life working for the Council with nostalgia and regret. His views on life – and on Watchers and Slayers in particular – had been changed and tempered by his involvement with the Walkers and the dangers they faced every day. The nobility of spirit which Ari’s affectionate description had credited him with had been forged over long years fulfilling the very destiny he’d been denied in the real world. Here, he had come to learn the reality of service, of duty, and of sacrifice. He’d taken on the mantle of Watcher to an entire slew of chosen ones – and he’d spent his time productively, recording their observations, cataloging their foes and teaching each new generation the lessons they needed to help them survive.
"They always were inducted by their mothers," Davenport explained thoughtfully. "That’s how the line passes, from one generation to the next. The teaching was done through memories and legends and allegorical tales. I started writing them down. Took elements of one to add to the detail of others – and found I had a whole history, swirling around inside a vast repertoire of myth and exaggeration – and yes¸ young man, I know I am a little guilty of it myself," he said, fixing Ari’s one open eye with a firm stare, "but I have lived with your people a long time. You all encourage me."
This, Ari remarked, butting his head back against Giles’ chest and squirming happily, you did not exaggerate
"No," the old man smiled with wry self-mockery. Since the this Ari was referring to was his current supporter and everything the cat had decided he represented, Giles was more than a little bemused by both their reactions. "They love my tales of the Slayer," Davenport confided with a sly wink. "Her heroic deeds, her noble sacrifices – and her ever faithful, ever loyal Watcher, the one who guides her, supports her, and is equally noble in word and deed and dedication to his cause."
"Oh." The exclamation was somewhat faint; the Watcher concerned cast a slightly nervous glance around their attentive audience. "You mean, they think I …?"
"Oh, they know, " Davenport assured him with amusement. "Very perceptive creatures, the Walkers. Read you in instant. Know you better than you know yourself."
"Well, um – "Giles shifted a little uncomfortably in his chair. "I’m no … hero. I know that much. But, my Slayer is very special, and I think – I – I hope I’ve always tried to do the right thing where she was concerned." He paused, looking at the old man with slightly embarrassed distress. "You know – many of the Watchers in the diaries …"
"Ah, ah, ah," Davenport interrupted firmly. "Let us aspire to the ideal, not dwell on those who might have … failed to meet some of its expectations. You have not disappointed them. Which is something of a relief for me, I have to say."
It was something of a relief for Giles, too, although he really didn’t think he could justify occupying the kind of pedestal that the old man’s stories seemed to have put him on. He wondered why Davenport would have bothered creating such a mythical vision of the Slayer and her Watcher when he seemed so contemptuous of the Council - and then remembered the part he’d skipped over in his story, the words which had held respectful sympathy.
My brother’s Slayer broke. My brother with her …
"Your brother was a good man," Giles offered softly, putting two and two together and coming up with a younger son who had envied and resented the fortune of his older sibling – until he had witnessed the man’s loss and the grief it had caused him. "And – I’m guessing here, but - a dedicated Watcher, too."
"Too dedicated, according to some in the order. ‘Got too close to the child,’ they said. What would they know? Never having – watched, the way we have."
We. The smile at the inclusion was a wry one; Davenport might never have been trained as a Watcher, never been assigned a Slayer, or even a Potential to Watch over – and yet, from what he’d been saying, he probably had more right to call himself one than many who’d claimed the title over the years. Giles wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t one of them.
"So, what do you watch for, here in Looking Glass house?" he asked curiously, looking round the foyer with interest. He was a little amused to note that most of their feline company had fallen asleep at some point during their rambling conversation. Davenport sighed.
"This and that," he said, reaching for the jug on the table so that he could top up his glass of water and frowning as he realised it was empty. He put it down again with a slightly martyred sigh. "You know about the jabberwocks, of course. I try to avoid those as a rule. Then there are the siligoths … and the bandersnatch - "
"Met some of those," Giles interjected, recalling the encounter with a shudder. The old man raised an eyebrow at him.
"Bandersnatch? Really? My, my. And you escaped with barely a scratch? I can see why Ari was impressed. Nasty pieces of work. But cowardly. They hate fire. A lot of things in here do. It’s something to do with the light, rather than the heat, I think. Light has power in this place. You would do well to remember that."
"I will." The Watcher’s thoughts slid to the magic he had managed to recall the night the jabberwock came so close, and he mentally repeated the incantation, relieved to find he could still remember it.
"The dandygyre are particularly susceptible in that regard. You won’t find them creeping around in the daytime. But you might stumble over a mome rath or two. They’re fairly harmless compared to most, although they do like to gather at the edge of vanity mirrors, sucking in self-confidence and reflecting it back as self doubt. If you’ve ever looked into a mirror and thought ‘I’m getting old,’ or ‘I’m putting on weight’ … even though you know it’s not true? There’ll have been mome rath lurking behind the glass somewhere."
Giles nodded warily, filing the information away for future reference. It always helped to know what you might be facing. "So," he said, "jabberwocks, siligoths, bandersnatch, dandygyre and mome raths. A positive menagerie of menace. No vampires?"
The old man laughed. "You’re in a world of mirror images, Rupert. How can there be vampires, here? They don’t have a reflection. No …" His face sobered and his eyes grew grim. "There are demons here – but they’re far more dangerous than the undead. They don’t suck blood. They devour life. That’s all a reflection is, you know … a vision of your lifeforce. Since vampires aren’t, strictly speaking, alive, they don’t reflect in mirrors. But for those who do … well," he concluded with a tight smile, "the jabberwocks are bad enough, but - let’s just say that – looking into a mirror that a visszatük haunts may not be good for the soul."
"A visszatük?" Giles echoed thoughtfully, struck by the familiarity of the word. "I think I’ve come across a reference somewhere …"
"Been reading your books in a mirror?" the old man asked, the question quietly amused. "I suppose you might have been. All that ‘reverse writing’ that people used to do to hide the truth. You can’t always trust a reflection, Rupert. Not even your own. If you’ve heard of the vissatuk, it’s likely that one of them has marked you as his own. Shown you his name in a mirror sometime. His name, and possibly some of his nature. Maybe he was the one that brought you here."
"And that’s … bad." The Watcher frowned, wishing he could remember the events that had trapped him here, in this strange, distorted world.
"Very." The old man’s smile wasn’t pleasant. "The visszatük are emptiness. Despair given a will of its own. They’re things born of the dark, like the jabberwock – born of it, and hungry with it – but unlike their brutish cousins they are subtle, cunning things. They don’t have a shape of their own – they haunt mirrors, pick a victim and take their form, feeding on them through the glass."
"Like the mome raths."
Davenport’s bark was more a snort of contempt than laugh; it woke up several cats who looked around in alarm. "If you like. If you like to think a vampire feeds the way a mosquito does. No, no. They take everything. And they drain their victims slowly. Over weeks. Months. A slow descent into numbed despair. The more they feed, the stronger they become."
"Good Lord," Giles reacted, his blood running cold at the thought. There’d be no defense against such a thing. You wouldn’t even know what was killing you.
"They’re not common," Davenport assured him, taking pity on the look of horror which had settled on his face. "And if the Walkers catch them getting solid enough to hurt they tear them to shreds. I have every reason to believe it was a visszatük that stole away that first cat, all those centuries ago. They hate them with a passion."
It is never to happen again, Ari announced, sitting up with determination. He also put out all his claws and Giles winced as they sank into his skin.
"Ow," he protested, throwing the cat off his lap and glaring at him with irritation. "Ari! That hurt."
The cat had the grace to look abashed, reaching up to the arm of the chair so that he could strop his claws on the fabric. We hunt them wherever we find them. When they have flesh to rend we rend it. When they have blood to spill, we spill it. Let them drift as mist, let them starve in the dark. They must never grow strong enough to cross over again. Never.
"Except – " Davenport had also sat up and was now staring at his visitor with horrified realisation. "One has, hasn’t he?" He leant forward to grasp at his company’s arm, his hand shaking with reaction. "That’s why … That would explain … Merciful heavens – that’s it, isn’t it? One of them has grown strong enough. Strong enough to take, not just your form, but your place in the world. A way to trap you here, where he belongs. What was in that book, my boy? What were you reading? Researching? Think, young man! If you have released a visszatük into your world, everything – everyone you care about is in mortal danger. He will suck the life from them. Take their joys, their pain, their feelings – everything that makes them human, that makes living worthwhile. And once they are nothing but empty husks, they’ll simply lie down and die."
"Oh dear Lord," Giles whispered, his eyes going wide with terror. The memories he’d fought so hard to recover rose up to mock him with heart wrenching clarity. Images of his friends – his family – danced through his head. Buffy smiling at him with that indulgent, knowing look that she saved purely for him … Xander, laughing at one of his own jokes … Willow’s shy pride when she knew she’d helped save the day … Young souls filled with life and energy, a tempting feast to a creature accustomed to leaching what little sustenance it could find reflected in a mirror’s glass. He half rose to his feet, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword. "I have to get back. I have to get out of here."
"Easier said than done." The old man’s grip tugged him down again. Davenport’s eyes were pleading for thought and caution rather than emotional reaction. "The visszatük must have stolen your life. That’s why you are struggling to remember it. It will know what you know, be acting as you would, hiding itself in you. It will be an almost perfect imitation - and one whose flaws will almost certainly have been overlooked in the hopelessness its feeding will have inspired. No-one will be looking for you and it will know to avoid the glass. You’ll have to find someone who will find him. Find a window into your world, find one you love and stay with them. Stay with them until you can glimpse yourself beside them … Get them to call you back if you can.
"And even then," he concluded bleakly, "you will need a way to reclaim what is yours. To drive the visszatük back here - or better yet, destroy it completely. Better if you do that – or else you’ll never be able to look into a mirror again."
"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 defenses 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 realized 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 marveling 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 recognize 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 …