nomorekaraoke | Unstitching Time and Space

When human children grow up, they learn a few basic truths from their loved ones. Don't talk to strangers - a notion they seem to harbor deep in their darkest recesses even as very small children. Don't go out after dark. Always be good, or your bad deeds will come back to haunt you.

When Lord Vayan was a very young cub, he learned another set of basic truths. Praise Ahm. Family and home before yourself. Trust in the Will and the Word.

On this night of nights, almost exactly when the clock strikes twelve, all the lights go out in Central Park. The air grows heavy over the turtle pond, and within seconds it is covered in a thick layer of mist. Layer upon layer, the wisps of gray dance in the air as if to an otherworldly tune, and through it comes a small procession. At the very front, two flag bearers lead the way, their yellow eyes gleaming in the dark. They need no light to guide them on this night, their master has laid out their path in plain speech on many nights prior. He moves in their midst, tallest of them all, his eyes burning brightest, for he sees all things that they cannot. He knows the Word, and his Will is theirs to honor.

They move from pond to earth, the mist lingering, clinging to their bare feet and paws as they move through the park - beyond the castle - to their intended destination.

With poise and determination, they move as one to the statue of the King known as Jagiello.

"A King's honor, for the path set in motion," they murmur as one; their Master says nothing. Their chant is his boon. "For the door to open. For the Reunion.

"Ahm willing!" The flag bearers exclaim into the darkness, and their equals respond.

"Ahm's will be done!"

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Nothing.

For many long moments, nothing.

But then the great cat inclines his head. "Ahm willing, we would never have met." His tone of voice suggests what a great loss that would have been.

"I would like to give to you a token of my appreciation. A mere trinket to the eyes of the uninitiated, but those who know better will see that you are one of my trusted allies."

He takes off one of the wide, golden bands adorning his fingers and hands it to Angel, the one whom the human world will assume is of highest ranking, as indeed Vayan did initially.

The ring would be plain if not for the intricate pattern carved into the gold itself. It is quite unlike anything one will find stemming from a human imagination, but understated enough not to grab just anyone's attention.

Angel knows, at least, how to receive such a token with a warrior's courtesy; he's starting to say something when a startled exclamation from behind Lord Vayan interrupts him.

Spike's tugged the glove off one of the dead assassins, and is holding up its limp hand. "Here's a bit of Old Home Days. Take a look."

The corpse is wearing a ring with an entirely too familiar sigil.

"The Order of Taraka," Angel mutters.

A wet, dully clicking sound rises from the demon's throat in the beginning of a low growl. Teeth bared and eyes slitted, he stalks over to the dead piece of filth. He kneels, cupping the back of its head to look properly into its vacant eyes.

"My enemies would spare no expenses to have my head," he muses. "I don't blame them. I shall spare none to keep it."

Letting go, he rises to his full height. The kit gloves are now officially off.

"My lord Vayan, uh --"

For a moment Andrew's having trouble framing the question properly, and it's arguably an insolent question even without the added insult of speaking carelessly.

"The Champion would know more, if it pleases you, of the story that has led us to this night. Of those who seek your death, and their reasons." At the demon lord's narrow glance, he adds hastily "It need not, of course, be told this moment."

Or, um, at all, he has to stop himself from adding. Backing down might feel like the prudent thing to do, but showing throat to a Rrhayaowr demon is a bad idea.

"I am not your lord, pet." It is a warning, and from the demon's point of view, it's more than fair. There is such a thing as overdoing humility in the face of your superiors, and Andrew is hovering a little too close to that line. But, certainly, he's fully aware of it. He wouldn't be the sage of this group if he didn't have some clue.

"And my business is not yours. Not quite yet." Which naturally implies that it might be in a future not too far away. Just not tonight. "You will of course avail yourselves to me should the need arise in future."

There's a short sharp silence. Angel's head comes up, and the other three move closer to him; it's unconscious, the collective bristling and drawing together, but no less visible for that.

"The Champion serves the Powers that Be," Andrew says evenly. "Should you have the need for his aid in future, it is at their will that he should come."

Half a beat.

"Ahm willing."

The pack mentality, being a team player... Vayan makes note of this, and approvingly. His servants know better than to mirror the actions of Angel's posse; it would not do to insinuate weakness on one's Lord's part. He stands alone, and he stands tall.

His eyes wander from one after the other, meeting their looks. Only once this is done, does he incline his head to acknowledge the little firefly.

"Ahm willing."

"Ahm willing!"

He tries not to slump visibly with relief; it'll undo whatever status he, and thus Angel, might have gained just now.

Instead he turns to Angel himself, and lowers his voice. "Okay, um. We want to stick around and see what else we can find out, or head back to HQ?" The significant glance he adds to that is, he hopes, enough to convey ...and see what else we can find out there?

Angel doesn't like this. He doesn't like this at all, letting Andrew be his mouthpiece, but they agreed to it beforehand once they identified the breed of demon from Jonathan's sketch.

But he's come to rely on Andrew and Jonathan almost as much as he ever relied on Wesley in LA, and for the same basic practical reason: they tend to know what they're talking about.

"We'll go back," he says, quietly (and aware that the furry ears under those manes can probably hear him anyway). "Make our goodbyes, would you?"

Behind Lord Vayan, the servants have begun gathering the bodies of their fallen brothers, wounded and worse. Vayan remains watching, not hiding the fact he is listening to this hushed, private exchange. Why should he hide such a thing when it is not in his nature to be coy.

Once they're done, he speaks up. "You have my gratitude. All of you."

Angel nods deeply, and Andrew mouths a few flowery phrases with Ahm willing in there somewhere, and the team makes good its departure.

As they emerge onto Fifth Avenue next to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Angel says flatly "Okay. What are we looking for."

"They were there for a ritual of some kind," Andrew says immediately. "But I'd need to hit the books again before I could tell you what it was supposed to accomplish."

"And once we know that," says Gunn, "maybe it'll shed a little light on why someone might be trying to kill him."

"Right."

Angel frowns fiercely at nothing in particular.

"And maybe why the Powers that Be wanted us to save him."

Unstitching Time and Space

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