Under a blood red sky

Faith sat on her bed, unsettled and irritated. Boredom never sat well with her and tonight she was bored. “Guess it’s just the bottom of a bottle again.”

She heaved herself up and grabbed her jacket, hauling it on as she left her room. The liquor store wasn’t far but Faith dragged her heels as she made her way there. She didn’t actually feel like getting off her face tonight but she didn’t know what else to do. Patrolling wasn’t even a viable option; this close to Halloween it was way too easy to kill a demon only to find it was some kid out trick or treating. It had been much easier back in Sunnydale where the real dangers stayed off the streets at this time of year. As it was, within a few minutes, she’d already seen countless ‘vampires’. There were demons too, and some things that she couldn’t even find names for. She shook her head and carried on down the street, till a tattered flyer tacked to a fence caught her eye.

She swiped it off and did her best to smooth it out, grinning as she saw what it was about. The fair! Of course. She’d forgotten all about that. There was bound to be some fun to be had there.

Pushing the flyer into her pocket, she changed direction and began walking in the direction of the fair. She heard it long before she saw it and smiled at the sudden sense of childish excitement. Once she was standing at the entrance, the bright lights and noise and smells cheered her up. Now she just had to find someone to enjoy it with.

Godric had always loved libraries.

There was something about the timelessness of books, an antiquated comfort for intellectuals and weary hearts the world round. He recognized, of course, the absurdity in this false nostalgia. Most of the books in any of the libraries he had visited were centuries younger than the vampire himself. Indeed, even the stacks of Alexandria seemed like fresh print in comparison to the young-faced ancient.

Yet, despite this, there was something calming about libraries that Godric had always appreciated.

After several fruitless searches for Harry, Godric had made his way to York's meager public library to consider the information at hand. The body carving he found on Giles was certainly prophetic, the old script it was written in suggested as such. However, it was no prophesy with which he was familiar. Furthermore, after contacting the Authority, most of the ruling vampiric bodies were drawing a similar blank.

He supposed he could reach out to some of the other vampire elders that had come to town and seek their counsel, but he was yet uncertain if that would be a wise decision. Although they had yet to run into each other since arriving in the sleepy Pennsylvania village, he had heard through his sources that several of Akasha's line were also present. While they shared the rare trait of his immense age, Godric was always reticent to mingle with the other vampire lines until he was clear of their intent.

Wandering the aisles, Godric casually traced a finger along the spines of the dusty tomes, feeling a kinship with those forgotten amongst the rows.

Emerging into an island of study tables, Godric was about to loop back into the books when he happened to glance a page over the shoulder of a young man, vehemently pouring over the text.

Godric raised an eyebrow in curiousity.

Wizard lore.

It seemed more than a coincidence. Godric decided to take a chance.

"I couldn't help but notice you're looking up wizards. Personally, the Half Blood Prince is a better read. What a delightful woman."

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.

Surely the house on the edge of town had once been glorious, but to the modern eye, it was a monstrosity born out of neglect. Palatial and vast, the building sat on a largely unkempt lot, brambles of dead bushes and overly tall grass hiding lost artifacts from children’s summer baseball games and random bits of trash.

The house itself was made of a solid stone, weathered by many harsh winters. It seemed much too large for one person, and far too creepy.

Of course, the irony of this did not escape Godric. As he cleared the dust in his new home, he couldn’t help but think of the time-honored cliché of the monster in the creepy house. It was an image that was prevalent in almost every child’s ghost story, and made quite vivid with the advent of the motion picture.

But, clichés did exist for a reason. It was a creepy house, and by definition, he supposed he was a monster. Perhaps, he mused, he took a little satisfaction in the ambiance of living the part.

Mostly, however, the house and its grounds suited his purposes. It, of course, was much too large for a single individual, but with the coming storm that brought him to this place, he had the sincere hope that he would not be solitary in its stone walls for long.

Godric had, of course, heard of the gathering council of powers. Indeed, as a being of vast age and respect in the vampire community, he could likely have attended himself. However, bureaucracy was of little interest to him. Such trivialities were for the Nan Flanagans of the world, individuals jockeying for power and significance. After thousands of years, Godric felt no need to prove to anyone who he was, and rather wanted to avoid any direct interaction or conflict with those who sought to do so. That said, time had not rendered him complacent. To Godric, the merits of what was to come did not rest within what could be prevented, but what could be gained.

To that end, Godric did not wait for the Authority to send him to York, as they inevitably would. He resigned his position in Dallas and came willingly. He saw in the potential end of everything a chance for a new beginning. Centuries of divide between the supernatural communities had caused death, destruction, and despair. To be sure, Godric himself had killed many, and would forever feel that blood stain on his hands. But this was a chance for reprieve. As hunters and demons alike would soon arrive on the borders of this town, Godric knew that there had to be someone who could show them that the apocalypse could not only be prevented by unification, but that the world could continue to progress under such bonds.

Perhaps his goals were lofty. But, he mused, why not? After millennia of life, why not yearn for the impossible? Everything else in his existence had defied what was expected, why bother to start falling in line now?

But, Godric also knew that whatever was to come, would not come easily…and would not come without a cost. The armies would come, and many would die. He only hoped that out of those ashes, life could begin. Which, he recognized, was a strange hope coming from one who had often believed himself to be Death itself.

With the setting sun, Godric took leave of his new home, barely gaining notice from any of the townspeople of York. He was, to them, just another fresh-faced teenager. They had not yet come to know him as the “monster in the house.” But they would, in time. For now, he wanted to be out amongst the people of this town where chaos was soon to reign. To see the faces of those that were meant to be saved and destroyed, to greet the warriors to come.

He wandered the crisp evening, sensing that although it was merely beginning, for York…it may well be the end.