Shadow Though it Be:  An Excursus – Chapter 27

by L. Inman

 

It was a subdued homecoming, to say the least.  Rupert walked Elisabeth down the steps the way she had come, put her into his car, and drove her back to his flat, where he walked her just as gently through the court to his front door.  She felt his muscles tense, waiting, straining his senses for signs of another vampire attack; but she knew there would be none.

            It wasn’t till she was inside the flat that she turned mutely to him.  He gave her a questioning glance, but she had nothing to say, so he helped her off with her jacket.  “Let’s get you up to bed,” he said.

            “I’m not supposed to sleep,” she mumbled, her voice sounding like a small child’s in her ears.

            “I’ll be sitting with you,” he said gently.  “Would you like some tea?”

            She shook her head, slowly so as not to waken the dizziness and pain.  “I’ll throw it up.”

            “Okay,” he said.

            He let her mount the stairs under her own power, but she felt him moving close behind her, as if anticipating her fall.  Once inside his loft bedroom, he ushered her to the bed, where she sat numbly and watched him open drawers and dig through his clothing.  “Tara,” he said, “will bring your backpack in the morning when she comes.  It’s still at the shop.”

            “Oh,” she said.  She had not thought to ask.  “Where did Tara and Xander go?”  This she had meant to ask, but it had got lost on the way to her mouth, several times on the way home.

            “They went back to the shop to help Anya and Willow close things up.”

            “Oh,” she said.  She had not marked their going, though she suspected dimly that it must have been difficult for Rupert to get them to leave him alone.

            He shut the various drawers he had opened and dropped a rumple of soft blue clothing onto the bed next to her: the shirt part of a two-piece pajama set.  She nodded and began to pull off her shirt; except she got hung up on the way trying to raise her arms past her bandaged temple, and gave a small choking grunt.  His hands came to her rescue, working the shirt off with minimum contact with her head; she undid her bra from the back, and he was ready with the pajama shirt, draping it over her shoulders as she pulled the bra away.

            She gave up after the first button and let him button it the rest of the way down, watching him, taking in the look of calm concentration on his face as he worked.  When it came time, she helped him remove her pants without quite standing up, and numbly moved to get her weight off the covers so he could pull them back and arrange the pillows to make her a propped-up nest.

            “I think,” he said, when he had got her tucked in, “I could do with a cup of tea myself.  Will you be all right for a few minutes while I make it?”

            She nodded.

            In the stillness that followed, she fixed her eyes on various points in the room, one at a time, concentrating not on staying awake but on beating back the waves of nausea and panic that rose for her every so often.  In the distance, downstairs, she could hear the controlled clatter of Rupert’s tea-making; and presently, she also heard his steps coming wearily up the stairs.

            He appeared soon with the cup and saucer in one hand and his desk chair in the other, lifted high to prevent scraping; and she understood why his footsteps had come so slowly.  “Well,” he said, unnecessarily, as he set down the chair carefully next to the bed and placed himself in it, “it’ll be a while before you can go to sleep, so I thought I’d better bring a chair so I can keep you company.”  He took a long sip of his tea, then raised his eyes to her face.  “Are you—” his tone changed— “are you all right?”

            She gave him a little nod to reassure him, but as he continued to stare into her face, she changed it to a little shake.  His lips tightened.

            “What can I do?” he asked her quietly.

            She didn’t know that he could do anything except sit there; it seemed that her consciousness was stooping over her vision in dark clouds, and what could he do about that?

            She opened her mouth and a reply bounced out, apart from anything she’d thought:  “Read to me.”  Her voice was a faint rasp.

            His taut face brightened a little; but then a faint edge of panic crept into his expression as he glanced around, and she could veritably read his thoughts:  Oh my God, I don’t have anything to read!

            “Water, water everywhere,” she murmured, and he let out a short bark of a laugh.

            “Ancient Mariner’s a little too apt at the moment, I think,” he muttered, raising his backside from the chair to run his fingers over the titles on his night table.  The tea swung dangerously toward the lip of the cup in his hand; she made a little noise, and he looked first at her, then at it, and finally put the cup and saucer down on the night table.

            “Read me Screwtape,” she said.

            He looked at her quizzically.  “Elisabeth...are you sure?  I wouldn’t think Screwtape very...congenial reading at a time like this.”

            “I know it backwards and forwards.  I’m just glad you have C.S. Lewis in this dimension.”  She didn’t say any more than that, as talking made her head throb.  Rupert shrugged and subsided back into the chair with the paperback.  He flicked through the opening pages, found a place, and began to read:  “My dear Wormwood, I note what you say about guiding your patient’s reading—”

            “No, no, no,” Elisabeth said, “start with the Preface.”

            At this he gave her a little smile.  “The Preface?”

            “It’s one of the best parts.”

            He wiped pages gently back.  “Which Preface?”

            “The first one.”

            She was comforted to see him smile a little wider.  “Very well,” he said.  He cleared his throat.  “It was during the second German War that the letters of Screwtape appeared in (now extinct) The Guardian....”

            So Rupert read, and Elisabeth clung to the rich thread of his voice, spinning it into a web that held her across the chasm of her own consciousness, training her eyes on the details of his face and his mussed tired hair and the glint of the bedside lamp on his glasses; on his fingers as he supported the spine and turned pages, on the softness of his corduroy-clad knees, the half-broken angle of his shoulders, the movement of the soft skin under his throat as he read and swallowed.  He paused once, to clear his dried throat and reach for his teacup; he swallowed, made a faint bared-teeth face at the cold tea, and returned to reading.  He read, despite his weariness, with great expression, and even though Elisabeth could scarcely listen to Screwtape’s devilish advice, she could still appreciate the way Rupert could make the text come alive with the nuances of his voice.

            But it took its toll on him: Screwtape was expatiating on the Law of Undulation when Rupert broke off to yawn painfully and give a dry swallow.  “Terribly sorry,” he said, and stole a peek at her face before returning to the page.  She gave him a friendly bright blink, he returned it with a not-quite-smile, and went back to reading about the uses of Trough Periods.

            She wasn’t quite sure at what point he broke off, whether it was after a letter or mid-sentence; but some time later she heard him say, “Just going to rest my throat a bit,” and then silence.  Her eyelids fluttered, but she couldn’t quite focus on him; she was hovering unpleasantly between passing-out and sleep, and chaos was still calling.

            Time contracted and expanded like something in a film she had seen in a physics class, so that without actually sleeping she soon found that morning was creeping into the room; her consciousness was fretted and frayed but more or less intact; and at her feet Rupert Giles was slumped across the foot of the bed, his glasses snarled in his limp fingers:  the first morning of the rest of her life.

 

*

 

He woke with a start and looked sharply up at the daylight, then at the clock, then at Elisabeth’s face in the bed.  She blinked at him, the smudges under her eyes dark and oily, the bruises on her face bloomed into their full harsh glory.  She didn’t look as if she had slept any, though apparently he had.  He didn’t even remember attempting to rest his head on the foot of the bed.  He put his glasses on, reached down and picked up Screwtape from the floor where he’d been dropped, and rose slowly from the chair, straightening his lumbar region with a fist weak from sleep. 

            He bent over Elisabeth and spoke her name softly; his throat hurt him, and he cleared it roughly.  She gave him a nod and moved her lips, but made no sound.  More or less satisfied that she was all right, he took the abandoned tea and his robe downstairs and hit the shower. 

            He stood under the spray motionless for a little while, letting the hot water course over him and call his blood awake.  He had no thoughts, except for one stark one:  We do what we have to do—but even this seemed to miss the mark somehow, as if all their careful planning had left them somewhere up the river from where they were.  She was dead and alive, and this they had not planned.  And he was beginning to understand the urgency of her insistence that she not remain here; but what was he going to do with her?  It was foolish of him to have taken her at her word that she should simply leave town should the spell result in her staying in Sunnydale.  Leave town?  She was in no condition even to leave the bed.

            One thing was certain; this was no longer something he could quite handle alone.  Rupert felt a faint shame at this, though he could think of very little he could have done different short of having the gift of prophecy.  Even Elisabeth, who after all did have a gift of prophecy—of sorts—could not have predicted this.  He felt the faintest whisp of desire, to know what it was she had seen, even if it spoiled everything for him—to trade places with her, let him be the one to bear the knowledge and she the one to stay here—

            He shook his head and pushed his face punishingly into the shower’s spray, washing the thought away with his breath.  That was the sleeplessness talking, and he didn’t have time to be tired.  He would talk with the others; he would find a place for Elisabeth to go, a safe place where she would be taken care of; and he would bloody well get to work on this infernal problem of Dawn and the demon woman.  Dawn, who didn’t belong here either, and yet was inextricably here, enmeshed in relationship with them all, and for God’s sake how did that work?  No wonder Elisabeth had shied away from meeting her....

            With an effort he roused himself to wash and, once out of the shower, to shave, eschewing soap and razor for the quicker electric clippers.  He belted his robe around him (trying not to think of the endearing way it had brushed the ground when Elisabeth wore it) and hurried out of the bathroom, to go and dress.

            Except that as soon as he hit the passage he could hear Tara’s knocking at the front door.  Too hurried to feel embarrassed, he went to let her in.

            “Running a bit late this morning,” he told Tara as she came in bearing Elisabeth’s backpack on one shoulder.  “I’ve got to get dressed, and then I’ll....”  He gestured futilely.  “You’re welcome to make yourself a cup of tea, or whatever.”

            Tara nodded.  She put down the backpack next to the coat tree and moved toward the kitchen.  Rupert, who had learned not to expect her to speak unnecessary words, went upstairs without any further ado.

            Upstairs, he found that Elisabeth had taken to dozing fitfully, but she snorted awake when he appeared, and the expression of her eyes looked scattered, in a way Rupert didn’t like.  “Tara’s here,” he told her as he pulled a clean T-shirt over his head.  “She’ll be staying with you today.”

            Elisabeth gave a little nod.

            Quickly Rupert buttoned his oxford shirt, stuffed the tails into his trousers, hiked up his braces and knotted his tie with a messy flap.  He wasn’t satisfied with the result regarding his tie, but decided he didn’t care, and sat on the bed to don his shoes, making Elisabeth draw another long breath and blink her eyes open.  A pang hit him, and once he’d finished tying the last lace he stood and went to smooth her hair and look in her face.  “Are you looking back at me?” he said softly. 

            It was nearly a nonsensical thing to ask, but she raised her eyes to his and to his quiet and immense gratitude, the spark of humor was still there amidst the morass of chaotic pain.

            “I’m going now,” he told her.  “Tara will be here.  She can finish Screwtape if you want.”

            She licked her dry lips and said in a croak, “Spoiled for an English voice now.”

            He gave a small wry hoot of a laugh and went to grab his suit jacket.

 

*

 

Elisabeth was growing extremely tired, but still she could not sleep.  She heard Rupert’s voice downstairs, speaking quietly to Tara; then the front door closed below and she did not hear him any more.

            Presently she heard Tara’s soft footsteps coming up the stairs, and she could not decide whether to feel vaguely relieved or vaguely terrified.  Of all the people she had wished to avoid during her stay in Sunnydale, Tara was right up there at the top of the list, even ahead of Buffy; but there was a small comfort in knowing that perhaps she wouldn’t have to talk.

            Perhaps, she decided as she moved her head to look at Tara when she came into the room, perhaps she was too dizzy to talk anyway.

            Tara took her seat in the chair Rupert had vacated and searched her face thoughtfully.  She was holding a cup of something steaming—the same cup Rupert had served her tea in the first afternoon she arrived.  “It’s tea,” Tara said, holding it out, her motion for a moment reminding Elisabeth sharply of Willow.  “Would you like some?”

            Elisabeth shook her head slightly; and Tara lifted the cup to her own lips and sipped.

            It was as Elisabeth had hoped:  Tara sat quietly with her as the daylight in the room changed, saying nothing, only her eyes occasionally searching Elisabeth’s face for signs of need.  It was Elisabeth who opened her lips to speak some time later.

            “I must look pretty awful,” she croaked, putting up a derelict hand to push a hank of her hair from the side of her face and encountering the gauze bandage.

            “You’ve got a pretty impressive collection of bruises,” Tara admitted.

            Elisabeth looked up at her.

            Tara continued, cupping her tea in her hands:  “But I think you’ll be okay.”

            “I feel awful,” Elisabeth said.  “What kind of reading am I giving?”

            Tara hesitated, but it seemed merely to be a habitual hesitation rather than reluctance to give bad news.  “Pretty normal,” she said finally.  “I think you’re all there—all here, I mean.  For better or worse.”  She offered a little rueful smile.

            “Normal,” Elisabeth repeated.

            “Yeah.”

            There was a small silence, and suddenly Tara said:  “You know what’s to come, don’t you?”

            Elisabeth had shut her eyes; now she opened them wide, a pang of horror spreading in her chest.  She looked at Tara in mute appeal, and in answer to the look Tara said hastily, “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.  I just—it’s just that—it seemed to me to be the logical answer—”

            Elisabeth closed her eyes again; and it was a previously unimaginable relief just to nod, to give Tara the affirmative without fighting it.  If she had had any tears, she might have quietly shed them: instead, she let out the breath she’d ratcheted in and let her shoulders relax against the pillow.

            After a moment she opened her eyes.  “Have you told anyone?” she asked Tara.

            Tara shook her head, making the silver hoops she wore in her ears swing and catch the light.

            “Please,” Elisabeth said, “don’t.”

            Tara sucked her lips in, then stammered, “That’s what I thought.  That it shouldn’t be—I mean—”  She stopped.  Then asked:  “Does Giles know?”

            Elisabeth nodded, a new little misery settling in.

            Tara accepted this with a nod that seemed to be mostly to herself.  After a moment she looked up from the teacup in her lap to Elisabeth’s face.  “I’m sorry, you know,” she said, “if I got too close.”

            A little bit of a smile began to touch Elisabeth’s lips.  She closed her eyes and left them that way.  “You figured out I was a virgin.”

            “That was an accident,” Tara said.  “And I didn’t mean to blurt that out to Willow.  That was an accident too.”

            Elisabeth really did smile this time.  “Well, I’ve taken care of it,” she said.

            “The virginity?”  Tara began to smile too.  “Or Willow’s anxiety?”

            “Both,” Elisabeth said.  Then thought.  “I think.”

            “I think Willow’s fine now,” Tara said, answering her thought.

            “Fine now,” Elisabeth repeated, shutting her eyes again.  Willow would not always be fine.  She pushed the thought away, but as she did so, she found others crowding to take its place:  Buffy diving with abandon into the death meant for her sister; Xander walking bitterly in a heavy rain; Dawn crying, over and over; and ghosts, ghosts of the dead slain here and elsewhere, Potentials and Jenny Calendar (and here she was, lying in Rupert’s bed); Jonathan; Joyce; Tara herself.  Ghosts; shadows; and it was not safe to open her eyes.  Or to keep them shut.  Her throat swelled shut with the salt of unsheddable tears, and she drew a stertorous gasp and opened her eyes to see Tara just in the act of putting the teacup on the night table and reaching toward her, taut concern on her face.

            “Shh,” Tara said, as Elisabeth fought to get a breath in and a small whimper out.  Tara’s hands quieted her, touching her forehead and her temples where there was no bandage; soon she could breathe, but her head still hurt her very much and the room was spinning slightly.

            “What you need,” Tara said, “is to sleep.”

            “I can’t,” Elisabeth said.  “I’ve been trying.”

            Tara pursed her lips, thinking.  “You think you could maybe take a cup of tea?”

            Elisabeth’s stomach was roiling, but she said, “Yeah, maybe.”

            “Okay,” Tara said, drawing a visible breath.  “I’ll go down.  If you need me, go ahead and call.”

            Tara took the cup that held her own cold tea and disappeared in a gentle whirl of her voluminous skirt.  Elisabeth shut her eyes and shivered, listening acutely to the sounds of Tara moving in the kitchen below, as she had done with Rupert the night before.

            When Tara returned, she was carrying the same cup, but now it held a steaming liquid once more, and with her came into the room a scent both squeaky-sweet and bitter, like green grass after rain.  She sat down with the cup and offered it silently to Elisabeth.  Elisabeth shook her hands free of Rupert’s pajama sleeves and took the handleless cup, felt the heat soaking into her fingers.  She looked down into the light depths of the liquid; bent-lifted her head to smell it.  She looked up at Tara.  “This...isn’t exactly tea, is it?” she said.

            Tara shook her head.  “It’s an herbal potion,” she said.  “It’s for sleep.  But even if it doesn’t put you to sleep it should calm you.”

            Elisabeth swallowed dryly.  “Okay,” she said, her voice a little quivery, and lifted the cup for a first sip.

            The taste reminded her of ginseng tea, pinching her tongue as it went down; but the aftertaste was a balm, not quite sweet, but clean and honest.  It was this that helped Elisabeth to trust the brew; she drank thirstily, as quickly as she could without burning her mouth, and found that her nausea was reduced by half before she had got halfway down the cup.  Her head still hurt, but the sickening quality of the throb began to dissolve and she nearly wept at the relief, except she needed what little moisture she had left in her body.

            She felt full before the tea was gone, but she went ahead and tipped the last mouthful down her throat and handed the empty cup back to Tara.  “Thank you,” she whispered.  She felt better, though perhaps, she thought, only because she had been so dehydrated before drinking the potion.  She lay her head back and closed her eyes.

            And was asleep before she knew what had come over her.

 

*

 

The light had changed in the room, she knew, even before she opened her eyes.  She left them softly closed and listened, relaxed, resting, for the other changes in the room.  She began to register voices, and then she recognized the voices, a few feet away from where she lay.

            “...looks much better,” Rupert was saying in an undertone.  “Thank you.”

            “Yeah, she needed the rest,” Tara answered softly.

            “She’ll probably need more before she’s done.”

            “I left you some more of the herbal mixture, downstairs in the kitchen.”

            “Thank you,” Rupert said again.

            “Plus instructions for the blessing....You know, you maybe should take some yourself.”

            Rupert’s voice, answering, was gently dismissive.  “I’ll be fine.”

            “Well,” Tara said mildly, “there’s enough for both of you anyway.”

            “Thanks.”  There was a pause.  “She does look much better.  I was afraid she wouldn’t be able to be moved very soon....”

            “She will have to be moved, then...?”

            Rupert sighed.  “Yes.”

            “Because she knows what’s coming.”

            There was a heavy silence.  Rupert did not sigh again, but his answer was weary enough without it:  “Yes.”

            “I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone,” Tara said.

            “Yes....”  Rupert drew an audible breath.  “Yes, I think that would be best.”

            Another silence, then Tara said:  “Giles...you really do look tired.  Do you want me to...?”

            “No.”  There was a strain in the kindness of his voice now.  “It’s only...only that I’ve had a lot to do.  Made a great many phone calls today, working on—arranging things.  But it’s done now—or very nearly.”

            “Oh,” Tara said.  “Where is she going to go?”

            Elisabeth listened: and to her relief the answer Rupert gave was her own.

            “England,” Rupert said.

 

*

 

Chapter 28

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