I have to apologize for how the formatting for part 1 came out. It's been a
while since I've been on Usenet and I apparently have forgotten how to use
a
text editor. I'm trying regular notepad now so hopefully the spacing this
chapter will look more the way I want it to. If not, oh well, there's
twelve
more parts to experiment with.
----------
THE COVEN
The rise of the greatest Seeyo in History prior to the Natural
re-situation
of Humanity in the Cosmic.
By Binky (binky29AToptonline.net)
Description: Uber. Science Fiction. Mid-21st century.
Spoilers: None. This is 100 percent AU/uber
Pairings: Willow/Other, Willow/Tara.
Rating: Mature
Summary: A woman from the mysterious organization The Coven appears in
Sunnydale to help eight-year-old Willow Rosenberg unlock her latent powers
Warnings: Violence, strong language, moderate to graphic ***ual
language/situations, character death
Feedback: Yes, please, including criticism (the gentle kind)
Distribution: Please email before copying/archiving.
Notes: *text* denotes italics
Tara and Willow and other characters from the television show *Buffy the
Vampire Slayer* and *Angel* were created by Joss Whedon.
--------------------------------------------------
Prologue: Witch Maclay
Part 2
--------------------------------------------------
*Eight months earlier.*
A ****, slender redhead reclines in the bed, lying heavily on her side in
the stark, brilliant white sheets. She is perhaps twenty years old. Next
to
her lies another girl of the same age, slightly heavier, with a haler
frame,
a blonde. Their limbs cross languorously, meeting at multiple physical
planes that echo the multivalent metaphysics of their lying abreast, just
so, among the crisp waves and folds of the bedding as daylight streams in
through sheer, flimsy gauze over ceiling-high windows. The plane of the
redhead's inner thigh rubs against the top of the blonde's. Their skins
are
damp but not soaked, creating an intimate friction that pulls the flesh
over
taut, flexing muscles as they make their slow, deliberate motions. The
blonde widens the angle of her legs, spreading Red even more as their
hands
find each other. The blonde girl simultaneously moves back, pulling the
redhead to her. At that angle. They gasp at the sudden lack of distance.
Red smiles at the blonde, who returns the expression by half, though the
effect is wholly complementary. Perhaps she's just feeling lazy. The
blonde
has my eyes.
Their breathing becomes heavy as they rock against each other slowly,
steadily. My viewpoint circles their nest of mussed sheets and pillows so
I
now watch, a voyeur, over the blonde's shoulder. Perhaps her eyes--my
eyes--close so they don't see what I, an impartial observer, see. Red's
eyes, a lustful green, had turned a brilliant yellow. Her mouth open,
first
in a pant, then wider, in hunger. I can see her fangs glint in the murky
light just as they descend on the other girl's neck.
I would scream a warning, but as I finish my turn around their bed, the
girl
underneath is well aware of the change in her lover. Her hands are pressed
to the other's shoulders, holding the leaner woman close. The look on her
face is one of unadulterated rapture.
-------------------------
"Uh, no. I mean it was really and truly weird. I've had wet dreams before.
I
know how to recognize them, usually because I wake up. er, wet. This
wasn't
one." I frowned, recalling the decided lack of ***ual excitement I felt
upon
waking violently that morning, sweating not with arousal, but with
anxiety,
the sheets bunched around my tensed limbs, my heart in my throat, caught
and
half-swallowed with the cry of warning that died before my teeth as I
crossed back into awareness. The dream had made me a bit. uncomfortable,
and
in a way I realized I probably wouldn't have felt if it were a female and
male stranger rather than the two nubile young women I watched in my
vision.
Even so, there was more to my dread than that, something more sinister
that
underlie the gender of the two lovers, though gender was the easier of the
two problems to deal with. Even so. I tried to push the thought down, to
forestall the question poised on Jenny's pursed lips and slightly screwed
eyes, the only way I knew how--self-deprecation. "Besides which, you know
me. No matter how hard it hurts, I need a little wood to ****ver me
timbers."
At that, Jenny smirked. "The mouth on you, Ms. Maclay!"
"Exactly my point!" I grinned.
Jenny shook her head. "Okay, so despite the resemblance, it wasn't you?"
I hesitated. "I don't think it was."
"But you're not sure?"
"No. I'm not. I mean, the girl was familiar, somehow, but damn it, she was
a
stranger, too. I mean, she looked like me maybe fifteen years ago."
"Well, did you ever.?"
"Uh, no. Not even close. Not even a thought."
"Oh, c'mon. That's kind of hard to believe. You mean to tell me you've
never
thought of another woman that way?"
"Well."
Jenny grinned.
"I mean, I'm only human. I have needs, plus, living in a mostly women's
commune the past seven years? I'd have to be made of stone. But really,
being completely and totally honest about it, I see a woman with nice
tits,
usually the first thing I think is, 'I wish mine were as good as those.'"
"Well, childbirth and all," Jenny said.
"Yeah," I sighed.
"And age takes its toll."
I frowned.
"And just. gravity."
"Hey!" Jenny giggled, giving in. But I ****ged the conversation further, to
steer completely clear of the topic. "So, I guess this means that
you've.?"
"Sure. Never said I hadn't," Jenny said with a shrug.
Huh. You learn something new about someone, even someone you regard as
your
closest friend, every day. Thankfully, though, it did the trick and she
let
it drop. She had a class to teach, and I was on my way to conference room
4
at the bequest of Cylla, at whose pleasure I, like the other Coven
witches,
served.
Later, I let myself feel a little guilty. I wasn't being exactly
forthright
with Jenny. The dream did bother me more than I let on. It had been so
vivid, almost Technicolor, but more colorized, kind of flat, outside me.
It
worried me.
I've had prophetic dreams before, but the rule of reiterability didn't
apply
to me. I could count the number of prophetic dreams I've had on one hand.
But dreaming of dropping and destroying a favorite piece of crockware and
doing the same a day later was a far cry from a fair maiden, a stranger
and
yet not, ***ually communing with a demon. Would this be the vision that
destroyed me?
-------------------------
Conference room 4 was part of the small hall where Cylla, our senior
witch,
our mother superior the younger witches snidely called her, resided. I
have
to admit, I agreed with their assessment though I had the good manners and
sense to not laugh along, given the old bird is a borderline TP--doesn't
do
to have an undisciplined mind, much less mouth. Of course, reading a
fellow
witch would be a violation of the Code that we live by to govern our
Talents, but you can never be too careful. Always govern yourself first.
Still, living at the Coven with its emphasis on the ascetic life of quiet
scholar****p and meditation, sometimes it did feel like a convent. How
ironic
that witches were persecuted for centuries in pre-modernity by the Juxes,
often falsely accused of deviant *** practices and demon wor****p, when in
truth most of them are as boring as Jux nuns. Things certainly have a way
of
coming full circle--or less diplomatically, karma sure can be a *****. Now
it's they who are persecuted for their quaint faith in a single omnipotent
Divine.
The hall was on the southern part of the Coven's campus, at the base of
Mount Corda, and on the far side housed Cylla's personal chambers,
library,
and her sanctum sanctorum. On the near side were the conference halls.
Reasonably, with her mangled leg and arm, she held all her conferences
there. At times I wondered if the disfigurement were the reason she had
steered her Coven into solitude. Invariably, I would decide it could not;
it
would have been rather a personal bias for such a political position.
I made my way through the neatly kept lawns to the courtyard outside the
open air corridor to the conference room indicated on the invitation I had
received earlier. However, upon entering the chamber, I was surprised that
we were not alone. A projector and terminal with what appeared to be an
outside feed was set up on the long table behind which Cylla and Alise,
the
coven counselor, sat. Alise didn't surprise me, however, as much as the
feed. Aside from being a separatist, Cylla was the old-fa****oned type. The
use of technology, not to mention the link to the world outside, the world
of mud, was a little unusual.
Neither woman was known for their social graces, which suited me just as
well. The better to receive my directive and be on my way. They were the
most powerful women within the Coven and they used as few words as
possible
to convey their intent. I don't generally try to attach myself to powerful
people. They tend to the dour, like these two. I was curtly acknowledged
with a nod of Cylla's head into the seat opposite them.
Our elder witch began typically without preamble. "Tara, something
unexpected has happened." She paused before adding with the slightest bit
of
emphasis, "Regarding the Artaggio Codex."
The Artaggio Codex? The one that's been discredited by all reputable
scholars in the already-not-so-reputable field of prophecy study in the
five
centuries since its writing by Artaggio, the mad druid?
I guess my disbelief must have been obvious, as Cylla continued. "Yes, the
Artaggio Codex. I ask that you suspend your personal disbeliefs until the
end of our meeting, at which time I will ask you to make a great personal
sacrifice for the betterment of the Coven--in fact, perhaps, for us all."
She gestured toward the projector as she depressed a button from the
room's
mechanics control in front of her and the lights dimmed. "Alise, we should
begin."
-------------------------
*The twins in soul were separated but will once more become one. The
joining
will mark the end of the many, all but one will to be done. Rise, Seeyo,
rise.*
Artaggio wrote that, but in some dead tongue five centuries plus ago.
Perhaps something was lost in the translation to post/modern English.
Perhaps not. Who knows?
It was the last thing entered into his journal when the rescue party found
his remains in a crevasse on the upper summit of Mount Turinto in what is
now the Western Russian state of the European Union. History held that the
druid Artaggio had been driven insane by prophetic visions of a world
ending
apocalypse during a meditative retreat assumedly popular in the day that
somehow escalated to a full-blown religious ecstasy. Oh, it began quietly
enough at the foot of the mountain, in a nice, fairly comfortable and
well-appointed lodge. Too well-appointed, I suppose, as he began an ascent
to the summit after efforts to communicate with The Powers That Be at the
base in the shelter of the structure proved fruitless. The gods apparently
favor the reckless or insane. He had received the visions after attempting
to reconcile the coming of the demon Ka'as, as foretold in one of the
founders of his order, Jacob the Elder, with the rise of the great
cor****ations. A lot of what he had written, needless to say, doesn't make
sense. Much of it had to do with interpreting the congloms as demon
houses.
Still, he did okay for a 17th century kook. The congloms came well after
his
time, and are certainly full of demons now. Maybe Ka'as is sitting on the
Board of MABELL.
Of course, it's all ridiculous. Still. Still ridiculous. I'm no better off
than some crazy druid freezing various body parts off stuck on the side of
some gigantic mountain above the clouds, waiting for enlightenment from
Above. I'm still a slave to higher powers, even if they now wear human
faces. Being flesh and blood rather than spirit and mojo just means they
can
now literally reach out and touch me, which is not generally a Good Thing.
In fact, the latest "blessing" on me and mine had me in a bit of a seethe.
I looked down at an open file folder before me holding some 5 or 6 data
sheets, on top of which is the 2D ****trait of a shyly smiling seven-year
old
girl, one Willow Rosenberg. It was one of those school photos, the
headshot
ones, with the kid set against a stock fake sky background. Long, brown
hair--auburn, I think is what they call the shade, quirky, pert mouth and
dimpled nose, and eyes that look almost too big for her head. Cute kid.
Kinda dorky looking, as most seven-year-olds are.
I sighed, long and deep. This was my special project? The reason I would
be
leaving my own child, the home we had made for ourselves, my students for
the next year, and perhaps more? I was not impressed. And I was not happy.
My displeasure was palpable. I have never been able to guard my emotions
well--I know, ironic, for an empath.
Jenny was grimacing, her expression sympathetic. But an ungrateful part of
me was resenting that, too. Had Cylla sent her to placate me? I know my
resentment was also obvious to her. I had to vent.
"If she's so damned im****tant, why not send Catherine?" I referred to our
resident power practitioner. I'm empathic, for godsakes. I know only
defensive spells.
"Cylla thinks Catherine would be overkill."
I snorted. I had to admit, that one word just about summed up Catherine.
"The nature of this project is critical, but sensitive. Subtlety is
required, which is not Catherine's signature style. You're there
strictly--"
"Yes, I know. Strictly to observe the girl, perhaps ****ge her in the
Coven's
direction if the op****tunity presents itself? I understand. It doesn't
explain why you need a master grade babysitter. Surely one of the older
journeymen could--?"
"You know it's not my call," Jenny cut me off, a brief flash of impatience
lighting in her dark eyes before she mastered herself. "Believe me, Tara,
if
it was, I'd do it myself, just so you wouldn't have to. You know I've done
this kind of thing in the past."
Immediately, her eyes closed, contrite, as mine widened at the
not-so-subtle
chiding. "Sorry. I didn't mean it that way." Her voice lowered even
further.
"I know you're concerned about Leda--"
"No, no. Leda will be fine. She's doing great. I'd just." I took a deep
breath. I didn't want any extra attention given to my daughter, or to the
fact of her continued fragility, something we'd both gone to pains to
mask.
Her sonuva***** father had given her reminders to last a lifetime. And we
didn't need any well-meaning sympathy from any of our Coven sisters,
either.
But Jenny. I could trust her. I do trust her. Implicitly. In the eight
years
I had known her, she had earned it many times over, the first by
befriending
me, the second by helping me escape with my daughter, intact, from the bad
decision that had been Tom. Escape to the Coven. But did I owe them as a
result? I earned my keep, and still do. But Jenny. Yes, my debt to her was
not a quid pro quo matter. It was immeasurable, and eternal. I dragged the
file back to me, then immediately flipped it closed and lifted my eyes to
meet Jenny's. "Will you take Leda in?"
Jenny smiled. "Always." She ****fted in her seat. "I realize this is a
delicate time for her. She's almost ready to pass forward. I know that's
why
this seems like it couldn't have come at a worse possible time--"
"No, it couldn't."
"But if the assignment goes as planned, you'll be back in time for her
rite." Jenny smiled. "She's turning into an extraordinary young woman.
Catherine is jealous. Amy isn't doing half as well."
"Oh, is that all? Amy isn't even eight. Leda will be 14 next October.
Someone needs to give Catherine a reality check. And I don't want her
looking in on my daughter. She doesn't need the pressure."
"I agree," Jenny said, "but you must know Leda has caught more than just
Catherine's eye."
I knew what Jenny was referring to. Cylla had praised her at the last
solstice dinner, for winning the trials of her age group. She had been
singling out my daughter for similar things more and more lately. It made
me
anxious. It feels like it's too soon for her, but then, maybe I'm being
overprotective. She's done so much better since we arrived--well, anything
was better than what we left. "If she exceeds me in her Talents, that's
enough." I know I was frowning. My attention was pulled back to the file
in
front of me as the doubts of something amiss, something not being shared
with me, returned, like a persistent itch just underneath the skin. "And
that's another thing. All I've seen about this girl indicates she's made
for
mud. What do we want with her?"
"It's not what we want so much as what Cylla wants."
My left eyebrow shot up. "Oh? So you're not united in this?"
"I don't always just follow the party line," Jenny said softly.
I winced. "I didn't mean--"
"No, it's alright. I understand where you're coming from. Believe me."
I looked at Willow's picture again. I wonder what gods you pissed off to
warrant the kind of attention you're about to get. "Poor kid," I muttered.
I think Jenny heard me, but said nothing. Say what she will. She is, at
the
end of the day, a witch of the Coven.
----------
end - Witch Maclay, part 2
|
