Forty Eight
17 June, 2002, 60 miles West of Chamdo, Tibet
Tory stood by the small pool in the garden. His boater was pushed back from his brow to sit tilted on his head. A monk stood in attendance, by order of Master Loki, until the master himself arrived.
“Sorry,” Loki said as he entered. The apology was empty, Tory could tell, but that was immaterial.
“What kept you?” the demon asked, turning to the voice and lifting his cane. “Why do you insist on watching that vampire suffer?”
“I’ve discovered a whole new brand of sadism,” Loki replied easily, motioning for the attending monk to leave. “What brings you to this part of creation?”
“My job is almost over,” the demon replied. “At least, my job as it concerns you. I will be returning to my previous occupation as a corruption demon as soon as my permanent replacement arrives.” Tory turned from the conjurer to look at the fountain and the water it spat forth. “I have an appointment with Martha Stewart and I don’t plan on being late.”
Loki waited a beat then shrugged. “You came here to tell me that?” After a pause, he looked around the garden, then made an exaggerated glance through the archway into the monastery. “I know our decor is a little sparse... are you dropping a hint?”
“I came here,” Tory said with a trace of irritation, “because somewhere it was decided you deserved to finally be let in on the game we’ve all been playing.” To the conjurer’s stone cold face, Tory shot an amused smile. He thrust his arms and cane outward to encompass the whole of the universe. “All of this —since the beginning— has been some kind of elaborate game.” He frowned. “Don’t tell me you hadn’t guessed that by now. You’ve always known you were a pawn.”
Despite Loki’s aversion to the title, he kept his feelings in check. He was aware that something was watching over him. Something of epic proportions. Tory, like Whistler before him, was more in tune to the unfolding of that epic than was the man in the white silk shirt. “Tell me,” Loki almost commanded.
Without any hurry, Tory sat down by the pool, on the wide stone ledge. With both hands still clasping the knob of his cane, he took a deep breath. As he began to speak, his voice took on the air of an aged storyteller – the story seemed to flow from him as if he were giving out a part of himself. “When time was just begun, and all the worlds were new, the Powers That Be foresaw that in many places and corners of the universe evils would arise. In worship or servitude of the First Evil, the many evils would overrun creation and spoil all other life.” Loki listened, rapt, as the story unfolded. A creation story, like any other, but this one was different. This one came from the mouth of one who was there.
“So before the evils had a chance to draw breath; before any life was started, the Creators created a second time. They created walls —barriers of reality to separate the evils from each other and from the good. So powerful were the barriers that no living thing could cross them, not even the Powers, without exhaustive magicks.
“As time went on, many of those who had participated in this creation saw that evil was springing up much more frequently and readily than predicted. Even here, in what had been foreseen as a paradise, evil was springing forth, pouring through gateways forced open by the First — spoiling life.
“And so three of them decided to abandon the code which forbade them entrance to other realities. They created for their purpose a tool to move about freely and effortlessly between the corners and ends of creation. Often they used it to help those against whom the First had set its sights.
“But some among their kind designed to use the tool to acquire entire dimensions for themselves. And so the Key was hidden.” Tory spoke now with his own, slightly superior voice. “Why do you think the Powers That Be were so interested in the fate of this one small world? This was its hiding place.”
Loki blinked. All he had previously assumed concerning his role had been confirmed. He knew now what his final task was. He didn’t know which was worse: Knowing he had been maneuvered into wanting to do it, or wanting to do it all the same. “And the Three are here, are they?” The conjurer asked. “Trapped without their Key in our dimension?” The parallel seemed to amuse him.
“They are needed elsewhere and have been maneuvering events such that their Key is returned to them.” Tory acknowledged, ignorant of the significance.
“Why don’t they simply take it?” Loki asked. “That’s what the hellgod Glory did. It worked for her.”
Tory now caught the similarity of dilemma. “They are held to a much higher code than Glorificus. They have chosen not to interfere directly in the affairs of mankind, but to instead guide the fates of chosen few towards ends that benefit all.”
Loki smirked. “In other words: They’re impotent to act in our world as actual beings. They’re dream-images and convenient whispers.”
“They are much more than that,” Tory said with a hushed voice. “They—” he seemed at a loss for sufficient words. “They are the Powers That Be.” He turned away from the conjurer, then quickly stood from the pool, shedding any sign of his reverence, but none of his respect. “They are often all that stands between this world and unimaginable sorrow. Much that could have been disastrous was prevented — and not always by the ingenuity of you mortal warriors. Such evils that make demons like myself jump at the chance to serve the Powers when they call.”
“So it’s all just little games to them?” Loki advanced casually to the fountain, letting his fingers trace the wet stones lining the pool’s edge. “All this scurrying about, slaying, vanquishing business? There’s no glory in it for them — no gain.” He turned on the demon in the boater’s hat. “Are you sure they haven’t just given up on out little corner of creation? Want their Key back to get the hell out before we’re overrun too?” The demon was considering the conjurer’s words with growing discomfort. “What sort of evil,” Loki said pointedly, “do you suppose might move into town once our three guardian angels have gone?”
Tory managed to remain unmoved. “The Three do not abandon us simply because they leave.” The reassurance was weak, but hopeful, at best. “And is it not selfish to consign the rest of creation to chaos and torment, such as exists now in the hell dimension of Glorificus, by confining the Powers to our world?”
“They don’t seem to have done such a great job here,” Loki muttered, turning away. To this, however, Tory smiled.
“It was their design that William the Bloody be spared your wrath.” And they seem to have done a damn fine job of that.
Loki picked the thought from the demon’s mind and flinched. “And what do they care of one—” he ground his teeth “—ensoulled vampire if the games we mortals play don’t concern them?”
Tory cocked his head. “You answer your own questions: They maneuver him in a larger game; one which prophecy outlines.”
“Prophecy,” the conjurer scoffed, splashing water from the pool with disdain. “The cryptic play-book of the gods.” Then Loki sighed. “If he has become their new favorite toy, then he suffers a worse fate than I.”
“Your fate is not to play these ‘little’ games,” Tory assured, tapping his cane gently to the cobblestones as he sat back upon the ledge of the fountain. “I’m here to tell you of the larger game. The one in which you find yourself little less than a knight.”
Loki let the long silence fill with the sound of water and his spinning kaya. “What are the rules?”
Tory’s eyes were constant and glittering. “There are none to speak of — none that you could comprehend. You must simply do what it is you desire: as you would have eventually anyway, and do it quickly.”
“Who are the players?” Loki shot back. There was no time for dancing, no time for tricks. He was suddenly in up to his eyeballs and realized he wasn’t sure how to swim.
“You already know the players,” Tory offered.
Indris slowly brought the cloth over the small brass nameplate on the pedestal. He smiled. Lovely. Lovely. His breathing was nasal and his brow was sweaty. The lights in here were too hot. His nearly-dead collection pieces were most likely extremely uncomfortable. Whistler. The smudge was gone without a trace. He looked across his row of heroes. The crusader, the informant... Still a spot or two open... Lovely. Lovely.
Loki nodded. He began to realize how far this game extended.
Wethrin sat by the hospital bed. The sound of the respirators wheezed and sighed next to him. His voice was young and gentle. Always he enjoyed the vulnerable. The innocent. The most helpless. The ease of it fed his ego. He made the sign of the cross over the old woman’s brow, then pressed his hand to her forehead. Her eyes grew wide as he began to chant.
Dawn awoke on the couch. She lifted her head from Tara’s side where they had fallen asleep. Willow lay cuddled with her lover at the other end of the sofa, the cartoons murmuring nothing at all in the background. With careful steps, Dawn tiptoed into the kitchen and began to pour herself some cereal. With her bowl, crunching softly, she sat with her back to the television and watched the two witches sleep.
Spike shivered in the cold darkness. Random words continued to free themselves from his mind — parodies of the logical thoughts which danced in his head. And the tightness. The thing he hadn’t felt in centuries. It gripped his heart and he couldn’t make it let go. So bloody tight. He shivered again. Bloody soul.
Buffy let the punch fly at Xander. Poofy Xander made a muffled ‘oof’ and staggered back a little. Giles stood behind him and nudged him forward again. In his padded suit, Xander stumbled towards the slayer again to receive more padded punishment. Thump.
Oz lay next to Jade. She was sleeping without a sound. Nothing was more perfect than this. He lay with one arm around her shoulders, cradling her to his chest, the other arm behind his head. She made a little sound and licked her lips, adjusting herself unconsciously against his bare chest. Oz sighed dreamily. No reason not to go back to that perfect dream.
Anya drew the pen through the price marked on the small display card. $39.99 was obviously too much to ask for Slightly Bitter Sand. Special: $12.99. That should do the trick. Tentatively, she tugged at the draw string and touched her finger tip to the contents of the small sack. Placing some on her tongue, she grinned.
Angel sat massaging his brow in the darkness. Why in hell were things so damned complicated?
Loki looked up from his reverie. He knew the players. He wasn’t sure of their roles, but something told him Tory would not be forthcoming on that front. “How do I win?”
The demon just smiled.
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