Title: Guardian of the Grave
Author: scy
Feedback: scynneh@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Not even after midnight.  
Fandom: BTVS
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: For the Tales of the Slayer ficathon.  Written for: mefnord, whose criteria were: Slayer Era/Area: American Civil War Era, with  mangroves, heat and voodoo.
August-September 2004

A Slayer was supposed to be removed from the conflicts of ordinary people.  Her Watcher had told her that when the first shots of the war were fired.  Her duty was greater than even the battle of a nation.  

'There are records of the the Slayer's existence in days when such things as slavery and independence were not even ideas waiting to be put into practice.'  He adjusted the set of his glasses on his nose and returned to recording her night's activities.  

Lise was to sit quietly while he wrote, or, if there was too much of the fight left in her, put it to good use.  With his permission she went out to do a last sweep of the cemetery.  

While it was unwise to develop attachments, she chose to sit on a preferred headstone.  She stared down at her shoes.  Too much dirt and not enough polish had made them a shade of gray not usually seen outside of a fireplace.  She didn't care.  It had been a long time since she had the time or resources to see to such frivolous details of appearances.  

It was more important that she be capable of setting aside what could be replaced in favor of her Calling.

Mother was a vague figure, the hands she remembered, a mouth like like flowers in books that she couldn't read.  Callused fingers working rough cloth as though tight neat stitches were currency that the family could use.  Money to buy them passage out of the bayou; away from the stink of work that could kill by exhaustion or illness.  

Attention had been directed her way even before she had been Called.  As she brought her wares into town the men stared her way and she learned about the meaning of oily smiles.  There were stories of decent men, but she hadn't believed in such fancy tales since she'd had flesh to dimple her shortest gown.

Her Watcher didn't expect much in the way of favors.  Just that she risked her life for things that seemed impossible.  Other women found gentlemen to pluck them out of soiled lives and elevate them to a place that was for' fine and deserving ladies.'  Talk such as that from matrons in the market gave her the hysterics.  Laughing so that she hadn't breath to speak of what amused her.  Many of those 'well placed' ladies had their roots in ankle-deep mud, just like herself.   The difference was which direction their gentlemen expected them to go.  

The sound of earth being disturbed made her straighten.  There were often assaults on those who were out past dark, but of late they had grown more frequent.  She supposed less attention was paid to such things on account of the fighting.  When so many were being killed away from home it was not as surprising when it happened close by.  People became so accustomed to the funerals that the procession of mourners was no longer a spectacle. 

Though corpses rising from their graves were still something out of the ordinary, there were precious few who lingered among graves who had not business there.  

For Lise, the sight of a grave brought not sadness, but a guarded relief.  For the moment, she was safe.  There might be an enemy clawing its way upward, but she was aware and could afford to wait.  

It was in the time between reviving and rending the buried wood to claw toward night's touch that a demon consumed what might have been an ally.  

Though she was not supposed to know of any allegiance but that she had been given strength to uphold, she harbored desire.

A need to see that no Northerner laid the same curse upon her land that the devils did.  One foe would pursue her for blood, the other for emotion.  Neither knew that her feelings were kept safe; locked down until she was given reason to let go of restraint.   Then she could be more than a soft creature and she could defend what was left of her home.

Her skirt was not traditional for a 'lady,' but certain concessions had to be made for necessary movement.  The material fell to below her knees, where the crease of flesh compressed, sweat gathering even in the bundling up of light. 

A hand broke through the earth heap onto the grave of a 'beloved son.'  Above the freshly chiseled inscription, it appeared that someone had vandalized the grave.  Almost as though the would-be robber had balked at digging up the corpse and settled for pocketing a chunk of the monument.  

On her feet, she paced at the foot of the grave.

Even for a beast with its brain slowed by its first hunger, this one was late.  

Newly risen demons were slow to realize their changed nature, but this one seemed to have been hit soundly on the head.  

Instead of the usual pause to take in its surroundings, the corpse stumbled toward her.  Lise moved to counter any blows it might direct at her.  To her surprise there was no attempt to attack her.  Nor did the creature reveal its demonic nature.  If she hadn't known that she was looking at a demon, she would have thought that it was a man, obviously the victim of a mudslide and in need of a good dousing.  

Yet, there was a quality about its movements that had her instinctively reassessing its nature.  Nothing made to hunt in the dark would be so clumsy.  In the moments after walking directly past her, the corpse had collided with three headstones in succession.  It showed no sign that the collisions had caused it any pain, and shrugged them off to continue on its way.   

Odd occurrences were something she had become accustomed to.  Being ignored by her foes was not one of them.  

Moving quietly, in case the apparent indifference to her presence was a trap, she moved behind the creature and raised her stake.  

A vampire cried out when she plunged the sharpened wood into its body.  Its rapid disintegration was sometimes problematic when she wore colors that exposed her nightly activities, but that was as it should be.  A night's labor needed to leave its mark so that she felt that her body had proved itself fit to perform the task she was chosen to complete.

Never before had her target come to a stop only briefly before shrugging off the attack.

She had not missed the heart, there was never room for such an error.  

It had simply not worked.  

Shocked, she watched as the dead man continued to plod away from her.  

Its focus was so intent that it was almost as if there was an outside force directing it to a destination.  

An influence that was not concerned with the fact that it was using the body of the deceased for some purpose.

Perhaps using the dead was a more effective way of accomplishing those tasks that were not easily overlooked by the living.  

After all, people could be blind to many things, but when a great many strange events occurred in succession, denial was not such a powerful force as mass hysteria.  

She had been warned to let no one know of what she did.  

'They will not understand that you have a birthright.  To them, a woman's place much simpler.  Introducing them to your life would only confuse them.  You must live outside their lives.'

Outsiders were independent, yes, that much she agreed with her Watcher on.  But when trouble struck, its source was not sought out within the group, but outside their boundaries.  Living without their rules could be dangerous then; they saw that and cried out names that ended in ropes and pyres.  

Even a protector of the people could be overcome by their fear.  

Such emotions kept them indoors on nights when fine cloth stuck to soft flesh and fans were waved with weary flicks over wilted elegance.  

Empty streets gave less refined individuals the chance to go about their business as though there were no consequences.  They thought that there was nobody around to see the stranger things walking along their fine streets.  

The way that the creature was being called seemed bold in her mind.  They didn't think that they had to worry about being caught.  Few would expect for there to be a witness in a graveyard with a full moon.  

Unfortunately for them, she was not satisfied with knowing that the cemetery was free of vampires.  Something had risen from its grave and there was a reason.  Out of duty and more, she set to following a few steps behind, so as to keep from spooking it. 

It was doubtful that it was even aware of anything but the need to reach wherever it was being compelled to go, but she knew better than to be absolutely certain about things after sunset.  Better that she be cautious and learn all that she could from a small distance.   

As she followed it, she picked out a stain on the back of the revenant's shirt.  Two lines of of something dark had been laid over it; from one shoulder to the opposite hip, forming an 'x.'   

Her foot caught in a moment of recollection.  There were more monsters than those she faced each night.  Some were extremely common but not native to the area, and others were less prevalent.  All of them had been researched with varying thoroughness by the Watcher's Council.  She was passing familiar with most magical symbols.  Those which were openly rooted in the darker arts were the subject of numerous lessons. 

'It is a curious practice, voodoo.  Natives are aware of this most primitive magic,  and use it when they have no means of reprisal against wrongs done to them.  There are 'experts' in this form of summoning, and they are both feared and respected.  They are extremely dangerous, though human, by most definitions.'

He talked about names, what places had been called before people came from oversees to try and remake a new world like the old.  No matter how much effort was expended in reinvention, it never did any good to run from those old words.  Names latched onto a place with the twisting vine of years and they had more claim than the circulating population that wanted novelty.

Evil became more impersonal in in the age of machines.  With such great numbers of people, the spread of evil was in the hulking metal of their metal creations.  In reworking elements to serve their bloody ends, people forgot that they were more alike than what they depended on for separation. 

She found the magic user near the riverbank.  Close enough to a plantation house that she guessed the proximity was no coincidence, but distant enough that the ceremony stood a good chance of staying secret.  

The first guard was only half focused on his task and didn't expect to see her.  His companion was not so easily overcome.  For his boldness and the audacious swipes of the blade he held, he traded broken bones and his knife for the right to breathe.  

Everyone else present were intent upon the chanting of a single voice. 

Commanding sounds spun out, and those nearest rose off the ground as though lifted by the sound.  Around each person gathered a light that seemed to rise like steam from their skin.  That *mist* floated toward the leader.  As they drew in the contributions of each person, the chanting grew more rapid, lifting to a climactic shout.  

She knew death.  It came with dust on her hands and meant gone, 'never to be seen again.'  That sort of ending didn't occur often in her experience.  

An ending needed to be final.  

Many people had difficulty accepting the truth', and so on, needed time to come to terms with their lost.

Most chose to frequent a grave and set flowers down as a token of remembrance.  Others wept and wailed without stopping until they had sickened themselves with grief.

With the uncoordinated obedience of a corpse, she learned that there were those who used death to further their own ends.  

The priest, for he wore the garb, if not the countenance of what she believed faith should be, walked toward the thing that he had summoned.  Blood was painted on his face in patterns that set her instinctively back on her heels.  The lines and symbols seemed to *quiver* like melting butter, and she was sickened by the mere act of looking at them.  It was as though night was everywhere and she had to remember that there existed some kind of day waiting its turn.  

Monsters were not the only beings that could claim night as their time, and she shook off her dizziness.  Her rage was an abrupt wash of heat,  and she sucked air in as she would refreshing water.  

Anyone of power would have been able to sense the force kept back with just enough will, and as she moved forward, the man turned to face her.  

"Slayer," he said, and her unease grew.  

Sharp amusement twisted his mouth upwards briefly.  Evidently aware of what danger she posed, he disdained a course of unwise haste.

Had she been of another bloodline he would have seized her as he had the unfortunates lying on the ground.  Instead, they faced one another, determining what was needed and how to strike first.  

Depending on something other than one's body was a weakness, and she attacked with that in mind.  

His fist on her skin felt like a hot poker, and after the first exchange of blows she gave him the respectful distance of her knife.  

"I will take you, girl.  Your blood will cover my hands and I will drink it."

She didn't flinch.  There hadn't been room for innocence in her since before she killed for the first time.  Training took over, lectures of response times, what her duties were, capabilities, what she could *do.*  Closing out the grating voice trying to shape her, she turned *inward.*  

Her eyelids flickered, and her expression changed.  More of a warning than he deserved for thinking that he understood why there was no choice but to follow where duty led her.  

Pain could be overcome, emotion clouded judgment, and each threat was to be treated with equal focus.  

The corpse lurched into her path, limbs heavy and clumsy, but each blow was still to be avoided.  It felt no pain and fought as its master directed.  

Her blade took out an eye and then she found herself grappling with the nearly immovable body. 

If it had shouted, threatened, or cried out as they fought she would have been less bothered than she was as its silence was unbroken.   

Though he tried to bring her to a pause of *reasonable conversation* she resisted.  To let him engage her in anything but an exchange of would give him an advantage.

She was already off-balance, dealing with an opponent that tried to bring her down even as she hacked it into pieces.  

There was little precision to her movements.  No Watcher stood a fair distance back from the battle and graded her on *finesse.*  Survival was never pretty, as anyone who had fought for their life would attest.  

He had expected her to falter when faced with his creation.  That much she could tell from the way he smirked as she struggled with limbs that refused to still.  He knew what a Slayer was, that she had been trained with one particular evil in mind.  What he had been less well-informed about was the fact that in times of necessity, one learned how to make shortcuts. 

He seemed to be able to direct even the tiniest part of the creature.  If he flicked his hand in one direction, some portion of it moved to mirror his gesture. 

And there were only so many objects in motion. 

'Don't look for your opponent to falter, they will see that you are unsure.  Rather, look for what they are saying with overconfidence.  They give themselves away more than they know; it is your observations, Lise, that will prove valuable.'  

There were patterns everywhere, and even the flailing of disembodied arms and legs had its own rhythm.  She simply had to pick out the beat and *ride it*.  

One hand, then the other, came from opposite directions,  They yanked at her ankles, trying to pull her off balance.  When that didn't work they began to scale her legs.  They were not near causing her any real harm and without weapons she had little to worry about their progress.  They were the distraction.  

How the corpse could move without its head still attached was a question that a scholar might ponder at some later date.  

For the moment she was more occupied with avoiding the powerful sweeps of legs that showed no sign of weakness.  Without pain figuring into its attack, broken bones and torn flesh were nothing more than details for the creature.  While she had to brace herself for an impact against the unyielding earth, the dead had no reaction.  

It took her a few rounds to come to terms with the fact that she was not fighting a human that would rouse himself the next morning and seek out a higher authority to hunt her down.  Whatever she did to this thing it would be better than leaving it in the hands of the one who fancied himself its master.  

Those who had been bound by the man in charge woke out of their trances.  Their confusion turned to fright when they saw what was happening.  She saw several not visibly off-balance consider whether or not they should step in.  They looked to their leader and their faith in him was apparently great enough for them to leave him to fight his own battles.  

The one who watched the fight from what he felt was a sensible distance was so layered in cloth of various materials that she wondered if he could move quickly unless it was absolutely necessary.  Little skin was visible, and as she avoided the vicious snaps of teeth, she wondered if it wasn't a deliberate choice.  She was not so neatly covered and exposed skin seemed to entice her adversary to try and find out what she tasted of.  

In seemingly random moves, she began to draw a path from servant to master.  She made it seem as though she was losing control; stumbling from a blow that didn't actually connect and playing at being more worn down than she actually was.  

Though she could feel his gaze against her back she didn't look back at the man enjoying her pain.  If she was to make him believe her act she couldn't look and spoil the ruse.  She had to trust that he was the type to strike only when she was unable to fight back.  He would rather let his creation suffer than put himself in danger. 

He showed no sign of being suspicious, and laughed when she spat blood. 

She was *supposed* to tire quickly.  That she appeared to be doing so fit in with his plan. 

Her Watcher's voice echoed in her ears.  'It is not merely skill that makes a Slayer formidable.  Though the Chosen One appears to be a young women some force compels her to seek out bloodshed.  She will not find satisfaction in an ordinary life.  It is therefore best that she applies herself utterly to her Calling.  She must be an instrument of duty.'

The ground met her cheek and the impact stunned her momentarily. 

'Never be distracted by the appearance of your enemy.  The nature of evil is partly cleverness, girl.  It wears a mask and dares to walk among the living as though its very presence did not pollute the air.'

'And I cannot save you from it.  The Watcher exists to train the Slayer.  Battle is not our place, and we may not fight for the Chosen One.  You must overcome foes with skill and the weapons given to you.'

It took very little to allow desire to rule.  More discipline was needed for maintaining an even keel. 

Rather than let herself be smug about her chances, she had to let certainty guide her. 

She rolled away from the crushing blows aimed at her exposed back and regained her footing.

With her weight on the balls of her feet she was able to slide around her opponent's awkward power.

Her spare knife was a comforting weight in its sheath down her back.  As a stake to the heart had been useless, she would aim for the skull. 

The sorcerer had been chanting and threatening as his servant moved for him.  He was too concerned with controlling events with spells and boasts and so was unaware of what she intended.  

Even as he shook off the loss of his creation he pulled himself up and tried to appear menacing.  

"You'll regret that, girl."

She could feel blood rolling down her face as the last disguises fell.  

"Slayer," she corrected.

His mouth twisted as rage overcame control and left him without a next move.   

Her first steps were met with desperate counters.  Some measure of training kept him on his feet, but up close he was in no way capable of matching her for long. 

She didn't hesitate when there was an opening.  Not all monsters wore their true faces where they could be seen.  It was up to her to recognize what she was seeing. 

As he slid off her blade, the sorcerer's skin *aged*.  As though years had been held back somehow and now with the mortal wound she gave him, it all rushed back. 

Servant and master lay on the ground, equal at last. 

Ceremonial robes were good enough to clean her blade on and she dumped the bodies.  The sky was lightening and she would be missed.  She set off for home. 

-end