ancientdeath (ancientdeath) wrote in blood_red_sky, @ 2011-09-29 09:58:00 |
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Entry tags: | godric, rupert giles |
Visiting Hours
In the darkness, the blips and hisses of the various machines that littered the room composed an intriguing symphony of mortality. It was a sound that Godric found both slightly amusing and extremely bittersweet.
Humans called such equipment "life support." Precious devices that kept their fragile lives from ebbing away. For vampires, the concept of having a machine sustain your existence was slightly mystifying. Godric had no beating heart for a computer to maintain, and his only life support was blood.
In that way, he was envious of the man laying in the bed before him. Although the battered shell of a human was struggling for his very existence, he was still clinging to something Godirc had lost so very long ago.
The patient in question, one Rupert Giles, had always been of interest to the Authority and the governing bodies of the various vampire nations. He was, after all, a Watcher. More importantly, he was the mentor of this generation's Slayer, one of the most celebrated and feared warriors in the Chosen line's history. But, by and large, unless you were a certain type of vampire, you generally ignored both the council and the Slayer. Details of their exploits were more cocktail banter than something one regularly kept up with.
But the discovery of Giles' mangled and beaten body had gotten the attention of more than one important ear. It wasn't the matter of his beating, per se, but the news of what was left behind.
When whispers had reached Godric's ear, he knew he had to come see for himself.
The hospital room was, of course, under very heavy surveillance. However, security guards posted at the door really didn't pose much of a threat to the ancient vampire. In fact, he hadn't even come in through the door, and once he saw what he needed to see, they'd never even know he had disturbed the room.
Drawing near the bed, Godric saw the scarring on Giles' chest immediately. With a gentle hand, he pulled down the collar of the man's hospital gown, and tilted his head to take it all in. The scars were a curious amalgamation of lines and dashes. To the untrained eye, it would likely appear to just be a cluster of various lacerations.
Godric knew better.
It was a language. An old one.
A form of very early Arabic, a regional dialect of a desert tribe...it would take someone with extensive knowledge or a very, very long memory to know such script. Luckily, Godric had seen his share of languages coming and going.
Standing back, he studied the message as a whole, translating it for himself:
"The one who will lead," the vampire said softly.
Godric wasn't quite sure what this meant, but he knew it couldn't be good. Walking to the window, the vampire leapt into the air.
He needed to consult the wizard.