The Man With A Thousand Faces: Forty
by redmoon
Forty
4 January, 2002, 60 miles West of Chamdo, Tibet
As Oz brushed the snow from his jacket, Loki tried to shake off the headache that usually accompanied teleportation. Sometimes it lasted for days. Absently he brushed the Dutch snow onto the Chinese flagstones. Home again, home again, he thought, slightly annoyed at their sudden departure from Amsterdam, but also tremendously relieved to be away from that psychopath. As sudden and headache-prompting as teleportation was, it beat a plane trip in a pinch.
“Well,” Oz began, tossing his coat onto Loki’s cot. “That was... unproductive.”
“What did you do to get us kicked out?” Loki replied, annoyed.
Oz shrugged. “The important question is,” Oz evaded, “did you get the information we came for?”
Loki sighed and tossed his own coat onto the cot. “Well, I know that child abusing monks go to some kind of hell dimension when they die,” he drew his hand over his brow as the headache slowly faded. “And I know where Rack is — though I bet I could have guessed.” He sat down heavily in the single chair before the glowing Dagon Sphere. “But I don’t know much more about where people’s souls go, or why.” His eyes focused on the sphere. “And I really want to know.”
A little smile played at the edges of Oz’s lips. “Are you developing a work ethic?” He asked sarcastically, getting a poisonous glare back from the conjurer. Then the young man’s smile faded. “Well, since we really didn’t get satisfaction, there’s no need to pay him what we promised, is there?” He waited pointedly for a response. “We don’t need to give him the slayer.”
Loki shrugged. “I suppose not.”
Oz nodded, satisfied. “So, what do we do now?”
Loki swallowed. He knew was he was going to do. “You’re going to go back to Italy with Jade. You’ve learned all you can from me without becoming as cynical and as sick a fuck as I am — to quote the immortal words of Jade.”
Oz blinked for a moment, watching Loki watch Wilson. Finally the young man swallowed and nodded, stepping closer. “Thank you, Master Loki,” he said sincerely. “I have learned a great deal from you.”
Loki took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “It’s your life, my friend, no one else can tell you how to make it better. Where you go with it is up to you.” He found himself standing and shaking hands with the only real human being he could call a friend. He also found himself sounding just like Whistler as he gave the young man parting words of wisdom.
Oz nodded and released the conjurer’s hand. After a moment of unspoken gratitude and respect, Oz turned and left Loki’s study for the last time.
Loki closed his eyes for a long moment. The headache came back with a fury. He remembered now why he was so fond of airplanes. He never got altitude sickness and he never got jet-lag. He would have to work on this problem. He expected he’d be needing teleportation quite frequently where he was going.
Back to Sunnydale — the home of so many things that bothered him. Now there was one more. According to Indris, Rack the magic pusher worked out of Sunnydale, coordinating a rather broad network of hands which collected all sorts of things for him and his boss.
Things, Loki guessed, that included souls. If the soul-trader demon had delivered Alexius to Rack —who then passed him on to Indris for quite a hefty sum of... something, since Indris didn’t deal in money— then Loki could follow the trail from Rack to the soul-trader demon and finish what Alexius had started.
That would also place him right where he needed to be for when the opportunity arose. And arise it would. Loki’s hand caressed the Dagon Sphere. Things were moving smoothly.
What If 29 March, 2002, Sunnydale
Dawn looked down at the ashes that had been Spike. Xander stood beside her, glaring hatefully at the same ashes. He didn’t offer a comforting hand or place an arm around her, he just glared down with contempt. Finally, the man looked up at the shooter.
Loki shouldered the crossbow and stepped forward. “I hope I didn’t alarm you. My name is Loki.”
Xander took the proffered hand and shook it warmly. “Nice shot.”
What If 30 March, 2002, Sunnydale
Loki shook the slayer’s hand. There was nothing adversarial here. Nothing hostile. She was as glad to be rid of Spike as he was. Obviously the Geeks had failed to kill her — no matter. That saved him a phone call. She was of no consequence as long as she could be manipulated. “My name is Loki,” the conjurer began, warmly. “I worked years ago with the monks of Dagon. I...” he summed up all the humility and tact he could, “I created your sister.”
Giles dropped a book, quite accidentally. He blinked and removed his glasses. “You... er– oh, I see.”
Buffy’s grip was firm and certain. Naturally she wouldn’t be sure how to feel. It would all depend on his motive for coming here.
“I’m afraid I’ve made a rather big mistake,” Loki said, his face serious, his eyes honest.
What If 6 April, 2002, 60 miles West of Chamdo, Tibet
Dawn’s eyes were closed as she meditated on the cobblestones. In the same garden she no longer remembered visiting years ago, she searched the sunyata for her soul. Unlike the others, there was no baggage here — no fear or rage or deeply woven despair. She had not been created that way. In her deepest inner sanctum, there was quietness: There was the girl who passed her hand through the reflecting pool and marveled at the fish. There was peace. The kind of peace that forever eluded the conjurer who sat beside her.
This was the way it was meant to be. No bottom, no jumping. No need to prove herself to anyone. Loki closed his own eyes as he sat beside her on the stones. There was no bottom here, there was no top. No uphill, no downhill, Whistler’s words whispered. This was the way it was meant to be.
“I see it,” she said serenely. “I- In the void, it’s spinning.”
“Drown out everything else, just let it spin.” Loki’s own kaya were as close to centered as they had ever been. Spike was gone, Hanna was here – Dawn, he corrected, Dawn was here where she was meant to be. Destiny had joined his side at last. Everything was perfect. The sound of the water; of the birds grew clearer and sharper than he had ever imagined. A little hummingbird hovered by one of the exotic flowers, its tiny heart beating in Loki’s ears. The spinning in his mind grew faster.
“There’s a light,” Dawn observed, her face calm, her hands folded on her robe. “It’s growing.”
“Let it grow,” Loki said calmly, the light in his own mind was growing as well. “It is self knowledge, inner peace. It feeds your soul.” Beside him, even with his eyes closed, Loki felt her surpass him. The light in her own mind must have been brilliant, for she gasped and held a hand before her eyes.
Loki opened his own eyes and lifted the urn silently above her head, almost in slow motion letting the water fall from the spout in a glittering cascade. She barely seemed to notice as it splashed over her head and poured down her face and soaked into her robes. Loki’s heart raced. Flawless.
10 January, 2002, Sunnydale
Logan sat alone in the small café. It seemed like years since he had tasted coffee. Nothing had ever tasted so good. The lights were dim and there was literally not a soul in the whole place.
This was no blood bar. It was an honest to god restaurant which served honest to god food. Bit by bit, the steaming cinnamon roll before him had disappeared. Now with the sweet taste still between his teeth and the coffee warming his hands and warming his insides, he could almost imagine everything was okay. It might be a lazy Friday night in eighty five. Hanna would be in bed and Rachel— his mind froze.
Whistler sat himself down across the table. “What are you doing here?” The demon asked bluntly. There was no easy friendliness, no knowing smile.
“Kayaking,” Logan answered flatly, taking another sip of the coffee. “Can’t a man take a vacation without being pestered by demons?”
“You take too many vacations here,” Whistler warned. “And you’re not using your air miles,” he noted, somehow sensing Logan’s distant headache.
“I think I want my lawyer if this interrogation is going on any further.” Logan looked casually around the café. It was nearly closing time and not even a waiter could be seen.
“What do you know about prophecy?” The demon asked, taking off his fedora and placing it carefully on the table.
“We’ve been through this already,” Logan answered dismissively, “I’m not in prophecies, no specter is.”
“Quit being a narcissist. I’m not taking about you. It’s not exactly a mystery why you’re here.” There was still no trace of amusement in the demon’s voice.
“It’s no secret,” Logan defended. “And now it’s not even impossible.”
“You can’t kill Spike,” Whistler said with terrible finality.
Logan’s jaw tightened. “That’s all you’ve got? No threats,” he sipped the contents of the mug, “no promises. Just an order that you seriously expect me to follow?”
“Not an order. I don’t give orders. Just—”
“–Suggestions, yes I know,” Logan shook his head. “For a supposedly wise demon, you remind me of a broken record player.”
“You cannot kill him — prophecy forbids it,” Whistler said quietly, leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner, even though they were the only ones present.
“I assure you, I can,” Logan whispered, leaning forward to mock Whistler’s caution. “And besides,” he continued to whisper, “at best, Spike the do-gooder is a specter. He has no soul, so he’s not in prophecies either.”
“He is in prophecies –” Whistler challenged, “though you’re right, he doesn’t have his soul, yet.” Whistler added the last word so craftily that Logan almost missed it. After an uncertain pause, Whistler sat back in his chair, suddenly finding the brim of his hat terribly interesting.
Logan was frozen to his seat for a long moment, his coffee cup half way to his lips. Something big was coming – he could feel it in his gut. Then Loki set the coffee back on the table casually. “You wouldn’t,” he said with some sense of relief. Even the Powers That Be wouldn’t do that. It was senseless in the extreme and besides, it wasn’t... fair.
But when Whistler continued to examine his hat, making no eye contact with the specter across from him, Loki felt a chill go up his spine. An enormous surge of raw power seemed to pass into him from nowhere, giving him the need to crush something big. To crush a mountain.
“You... wouldn’t,” Loki said slowly and forcefully, his knuckles white around the mug. There was a long pause while Whistler said nothing, but continued to pretend not to feel guilty. Loki’s muscles trembled. “You wouldn’t fucking dare!” The mug shattered in Loki’s hands with a sizzle of enraged magic. Coffee and blood spilled out across the table top. Loki ground his teeth and ignored it.
“I haven’t done anything,” Whistler said reasonably, lifting his hat from the table as the dark mixture soaked into the table cloth. “I’m just suggesting that you cannot overcome the prophecy of Aberjian: That you cannot kill the vampire with a soul.”
“There’s already a vampire with a soul!” Loki exclaimed. “Angel, and that’s thanks to me! Prophesy about him instead!” He furiously pulled a sharp piece of porcelain from his palm. Fresh blood trickled down his hand.
“The prophecy needs them both —two vampires with souls— and you’ve been playing your part up until now.”
“I’m nobody’s pawn!” Loki hissed. “I can kill him –I’ve foreseen it.” Even with the conviction in his voice, he felt the certainty draining away. All his hopes were falling through him like sand through a sieve.
“You’ve seen one possible future,” Whistler’s tone was insanely calm. “You’ve seen the future you prefer. Hadn’t it occurred to you that the more you used the sphere, the more it would align itself to your desires? Why do you think it didn’t help the monks when the Beast came? They’d used it too much — it was useless to them by then. Just as it is to you.” The demon carefully replaced his fedora, tugging it snugly into place on his head. “There’s only one force that guides the course of time and action, a force that no one controls, not even Us.”
The racing of Loki’s mind slowed, the terrible surge of power pounding through his head now, pounding with his heartbeat. He bared his teeth. “Us?” he hissed, his eyes aching from the pressure in his skull, from the power that craved release. His veins were bulging on his neck and arms.
Whistler said nothing, but rose quietly to his feet. Loki jumped also to his feet, knocking his chair back with a clatter to the tiled floor. In the dimmed light, neither could see the other’s face clearly, but the interaction of mind and eyes was unmistakable.
“You know, I realized something, a while ago,” Loki said quietly, his hands resting among the blood and porcelain shards of mug on the table top, “about you, actually.” Whistler was motionless. “I realized that a demon like yourself —doing what you do— is nothing more than a specter.” Loki’s eyes flashed and he lifted his blood drenched hands from the table, energy crackling between his knuckles. “A specter, who’s fate... no prophecy foretells—” In a blinding flash of light, Loki brought this hands together with a thunderous clap – throwing Whistler forwards over the table inside and irresistible, invisible grip.
Hanging over the table before the conjurer, as some invisible hand held his ancient jacket’s collar, Whistler’s eyes were wide with surprise. Those wide eyes followed Loki’s every motion as the conjurer slowly leaned forward, placing a gentle hand on the side of the demon’s face.
Loki leaned in close by the demon’s ear, the fury throbbing through every organ and vein. “In my whole life,” Loki said gently, his lips only millimeters from Whistler’s ear, “a life of mistakes and failures... my only regret,” the conjurer’s hand slid gently down Whistler’s cheek, leaving a dark trail of coffee stained blood, “is that you won’t go straight to hell.” In one fluid motion he brought the broken porcelain mug handle from the table top and into Whistler’s throat.
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