We Will Remember Them….

By Lilachigh

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Laurence Binyon



Chapter Two

Sunnydale: 2001


Buffy Summers peered suspiciously at the small flask of dark blue liquid that Quentin Travers was offering her. “Is that it? The charm thing? That colored water is going to send me back to 1943?”

Quentin shook his head and smiled. “Not quite, no. This puts you into a trance because you have to be perfectly still while I say the charm. Hardly breathing, I believe.”

“You believe!” Buffy’s glare almost took the skin from his face. “Jeez, hasn’t this been done before?”

“Oh certainly,” Quentin said hastily. “There are many recorded references to Slayers moving between ages. But the main requirement is that your blood pressure, your breathing, everything drops to almost zero, then the charm works and you wake up in – well, in this instance France, 1943.”

“So who wrote the charm? I hope they knew what they were doing. I don’t want to end up fighting dinosaurs or watching the pyramids being built.” Buffy was still not completely convinced. There was something not quite right about the whole thing but she couldn’t decide what it was. Quentin Travers was too smooth, too conciliatory. She knew he hated her and even though she was doing him a big favor, he ought to have been snarkier, speaking with that exquisite polite sarcasm that only a posh English guy could manage.

“One of my associates,” Quentin replied smoothly. “Very able fellow.”

“And I get back, how?”

Quentin tutted to himself, as if this part of the plan had just slipped his mind. He rummaged in his briefcase. “In this little bottle here, is the antidote. You don’t need a charm for the return trip; as long as it is within forty-eight hours, you just drink the potion and then you return here, to your living-room.”

Buffy sighed and slipped it into her pocket. “Let’s get on with it then.” She’d already been upstairs to change into her darkest clothing, she was carrying a crossbow and quiver over her shoulder, and her waistband was full of stakes. “I’ve left a note for Dawn and Willow saying I’m going to be away for a couple of days on Slayer business.”

She glanced out of the window to where the sun was beginning to rise. Another long day in Sunnydale. It would be a strange relief to be out of it, even for forty-eight hours. Should she tell Spike where she was going? She knew he would come looking for her, expecting, insisting. Oh God, what was she going to do about that? Nobody had the right to make her feel so needy and so powerful, all at the same time.

“Well, if you are quite ready, Miss Summers. And remember, you must not mention anything about the future when you are in the past or dreadful consequences could occur.”

Buffy nodded, took the flask and gulped down the midnight blue liquid that tasted oddly smokey with a strong flavor of pineapple.
She sat on the sofa, shut her eyes and waited for Quentin Travers to start saying the charm out loud. She had no idea what to expect, but she imagined there would be a rushing sensation and perhaps lots of whirly lights, like in Stargate when they traveled down the wormhole from one planet to another. She felt a flicker of amusement at the thought of how envious Xander would be when – she soft sofa underneath her became hard ground and a cold windy driven rain was hitting her face….

Quentin Travers stared at the sofa where a crossbow and quiver lay on the cushions. “Impressive,” he murmured.

“Is that the first time you’ve seen it done,” came another very English voice from the doorway.

He looked up to see Rupert Giles standing there. “Yes, indeed. It’s very – quick.”

“She would have been expecting to hear you saying some odd, magical words.”

Quentin shrugged and packed the empty flask away into his briefcase. “Oh people always expect the tarradiddle and flummery where charms are concerned. Even Slayers. You know better than that, Rupert. The charm to send her that you made yourself is all that was needed.”

Giles put his hand against the wall to hold himself upright. Tonight’s work had been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do as a Watcher. Watching from the shadows as Quentin smoothly talked Buffy into agreeing to his request, he had felt sick to the pit of his stomach. But there had been no choice. The whole course of history, of western civilization itself depended on Buffy journeying to 1943. But – she wasn’t coming back and knowing that, he hadn’t trusted her enough to ask her to sacrifice herself yet again.

“The return potion?”

“Oh, just water and crème-de-menthe liqueur. Very pleasant, but – “

“Not magical,” Giles broke in.

Quentin looked up at his tone. “I have said it many times before, Rupert, you get far too emotionally involved with these girls. Miss Summers is a redundant Slayer. If we need to, we can eliminate Faith and a brand new one will be called. Miss Summers is extremely lucky to be given this chance to save the world from the evil of the Third Reich. Not many young women with her background get the chance to travel to France, either.”

“She expects to come home in forty-eight hours!”

Quentin Travers shrugged and headed for the door. “If she doesn’t succeed, there won’t be a home - as she knows it - to come back to. Now, I suggest we take my car and head straight for the airport. I have a luncheon appointment at the Athenaeum tomorrow and I believe you told me you were going house-hunting in Bath. I know it well. I had an aunt who lived in Wells…”


* * * * * *


France: 1943



William the Bloody shifted in the seat of the Tiger Moth airplane and banked it hard over the dark French countryside. He’d been flying in full game face for the past ten minutes, snarling against the cold rain that beat in through the open cockpit. The army poofter had been replaced by an airforce Johnny who’d been just as smarmy, another upper-class wanker. He hadn’t really believed Spike when he’d told him he could fly a plane. Kept muttering about his logbook and hours flown until eventually the guard with Spike had whispered something in his ear, he’d turned very pale and shut up.

Spike had been about to tell him that he’d learnt years ago from a guy in Greece. The four of them, him, Dru, Angel and Darla had been staying in his house. Well, to be truthful, they’d been keeping him prisoner while they ate the rest of his family, but to pass the time – and to save one of his children – (they’d lied!) – he’d taught Spike to fly.

Spike eased the plane sideways. Where the bloody hell was the river? They’d assured him that it was going to be a full moon tonight and that the river would stand out like a white ribbon beneath him. He only had to follow it and the chateau where the Slayer was being kept prisoner would come into view.

“Sodding rain!” he snarled, glad of the goggles that protected his eyes. He had to admit he liked the rough brown leather helmet and jacket he’d been given to wear. He’d been terrified they’d made him wear a poncey uniform but apart from the thick, roll-neck sweater, they hadn’t bothered.

Vampire vision made night flying easy but the wind and rain that had descended on this part of France hadn’t been expected and the little plane was bouncing around like a toy.

“There! That must be the river.” A sudden break in the clouds had momentarily allowed the moon to shine down and reflect off the water below. Spike realized that he was nearer to the chateau than he’d planned. The last thing he wanted was for the guards to be on the alert too soon.

“Poxy Slayer! Why the hell’s she doing getting caught over here? Killing some poor, garlic-smelling, snail-eating Frog vamps, I suppose. Serves her right. If it wasn’t for Dru, I’d leave her here to suffer.”

The Tiger Moth was flying low now: Spike eased back the engine as they came in over a wood, then a ploughed field, the wheels brushing a hedge, then bang! thud, they’d landed on the smooth grass of another field where sheep ran for cover and he cut the engine as the plane turned and taxied into the shadow of the woods

He scrambled out of the cockpit, his face shimmering back to human. He tossed his leather flying-helmet on the seat and dropped to one knee to listen. Nothing! Just the rain pattering down on the leaves above and the wind rustling the bushes.

He knew the chateau where Joy, the Slayer, was being held captive was on the other side of this wood. Piece of cake, so far, he thought. No one’s expecting her to be rescued. As long as the silly bint doesn’t squeal at the sight of a vamp, we’ll be all right.

He stood up and strode into the woods, following a path that seemed to lead in the right direction. But he hadn’t gone more than fifty yard when the attack came. A body came flying out of the undergrowth, smashing him to the ground.

Fangs extended, eyes glowing amber, he rolled like a cat, wrapping his arms tightly round the slender body in a grip that could only end by his death. For a split second he was aware of soft breasts pressed against his chest, silky hair on his mouth and thighs as hard as his rubbing against his –

Then with a speed that astounded him, he was flung up and over, the girl breaking his grip with ease. Spike landed on he balls of his feet, turned, caught the fist that swung towards him holding a stake - and just then the scent of her overwhelmed him.

“Slayer!” he hissed. Instead of backing away, he jerked her violently towards him, the sudden unexpected movement throwing her off guard.

Buffy found herself standing, her body close to the vampire she had attacked. And even before the moon sailed out again from behind a cloud, she knew. The feel of those hands on her body, the long length of cold thigh pressing against her – the burning in her blood that only one person ever caused.

“Spike?” The word was a gasp of astonishment, delight and deep despair.

tbc