The Greatest Weapon

The Greatest Weapon

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The last day of the summer holidays Giles spent in the library. He'd been in Sunnydale for two weeks by then, awaiting the arrival of his slayer. The books were finally catalogued and on the shelves, and now - now it was time for the weapons.

He'd been looking forward to this. Oh, not that cataloguing wasn't soothing in its own way, the smell of old paper and leather and dust. But he'd always enjoyed weapons work, even the fussy maintenance part. He loved oiling his crossbows, polishing the wood until it gleamed. He tested his favorite, sighting down its length at the bulls-eye he'd erected unobtrusively by the staircase. The mechanism cocked smoothly. The release of the bolt was a song, the thunk of it into the center of the board a satisfying ease of tension in Giles's own chest. He was on edge, waiting for her. She'd be skittish after what had happened in LA. He'd have to convince her. He prayed he was equal to the task.

He liked sharpening the knives as well, long, even strokes across a whetstone. Some of them had been his grandmother's and had stories attached to them - the one with the handle made of bone was the one her slayer had used to take the head of a vampire bent on murdering half of Paris. The small one with runes all up and down it was meant for magical blood-letting - he'd not used it in years, had hesitated even to bring it, but in the end something had made him. He hoped to get through this without casting, but one never knew.

And then there was his father's knife, with its wickedly-curved blade. He spent extra time on that one, meditating as he sharpened it on the times he'd seen his father wield it - only a handful; he'd not let Giles accompany him and his slayer on patrol, of course, he'd been far too young at the time. But there had been those Wiccuhk demons that had broken into their house when Giles was twelve. He had been in awe of his father, the way he moved, his bravery in the face of four demons twice his size. And Lisa, his slayer - Giles had seen her train, but he'd never seen her move like that.

For a moment, the span of a evening, it had almost been enough to make him stop regretting that he would never be a fighter pilot. Or a grocer.

The stakes were next. He'd whittled almost three dozen since his arrival, but he perfected them now, making sure the points weren't dull, that there weren't any splinters to get caught on her palms. They were the workaday weapons, the ones that would get used nightly. Slayers went through their stakes quickly; his father had often complained that Lisa didn't take care of hers. But there was no use in shoddy workmanship. He had vowed that she would get only the best from him.

He saved the swords for last. His broad sword, specially made for him when he turned twenty-five, with a left handed grip and the Giles family crest carved into the hilt. He took a moment, swinging it carefully in the center of library floor. No flourishes; he'd favored them until the first time he'd had to face a vampire alone, and then he'd never bothered again. Flourishes were dangerous. They left one cocky and careless and open to attack. He would teach her that.

He put the sword down at last, on the cloth he'd spread on the table. There were other swords as well - mostly shorter, lighter ones with right-handed grips. Merrick hadn't got very far with her before he'd been killed, so Giles would have to introduce her to them. There was one that had belonged to his grandmother's slayer, Victoria, that had carved roses climbing up the hilt. He thought she might like that one, though the roses made getting a proper grip slightly more complex.

When at last he was done, he laid them out on the table in all of their dark, gleaming, deadly glory and sighed with deep satisfaction. Then he put them away carefully in the weapons cabinet in the book cage, hanging the crossbows at the top, then the swords lengthwise below, and laying the knives out at the bottom of the cabinet from smallest - the runic one - to largest - his father's. The stakes he put in a canvas sack behind the desk, out of the way and out of sight.

He closed the cabinet, locked it, and turned to survey the library. Orderly and clean. Waiting for her. He felt the anticipation again, in his stomach and chest. Tomorrow he would see her - the greatest weapon of all, Travers had said, forged just like any other. But Giles came from a long line of watchers who'd had slayers, not just read about them, and he knew better.

He would teach her to be efficient, to be ruthless when necessary. He would teach her a hundred ways to kill, with crossbow, knife, stake, and sword. He would teach her how to use her body, her strength and grace, to protect the world from those that would destroy it. But in turn, he would guard her humanity and her soul.

He pocketed the key to the cabinet, gathered up his coat - so unnecessary in Sunnydale, but he felt quite naked without it - and slowly left the library. He was ready.

Fin.