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jedibuttercupT; TCoR/B:tVS; Buffy/Riddick. 1100 words. For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
twistedshorts; 9th in the Primitive Side series.
The armored gauntlet of the guy calling himself Lord Marshal tingles as it sinks up to the wrist in Buffy's chest.
Title: Inevitable
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Rating: T/PG-13
Spoilers: Post-series for B:tVS; mid-Chronicles of Riddick
Notes: Dipping back into my first Buffy/Riddick AU, last revisited in August 2019.
The armored gauntlet of the guy calling himself Lord Marshal tingles as it sinks up to the wrist in Buffy's chest. 1100 words.
The armored gauntlet of the guy calling himself Lord Marshal tingles as it sinks up to the wrist in Buffy's chest.
She doesn't bother looking down. She watches the face of the Necromonger leader instead as he tugs his hand back again with a cruel sneer-- only to come up short as his half-corporeal fingers refuse to pull back out with their prize. Somewhere down deep, in the dark undercurrent of her spirit that kept Buffy company with dreams of death armies for all the sleeping centuries between Earth and Helion Prime, she feels a slight chill. Maybe a subtle tug. But that's it.
Behind her, the opinionated Councilman she'd stepped in front of gasps in shivery terror. Before her, the pale, bladelike features of the Lord Marshal tighten in reflected alarm, quickly squashed by determination as he tries a second time to get a grip on her soul.
Buffy's not one of those people who doubts the existence of an intangible inner self; not even after all the horrors she's seen. The memories of Heaven are a distant, warm dream now, misty images of pleasant respite layered under the dim weight of endless years of cryo-fueled nightmares after the last, long fall of Earth, but enough remains that she's never really doubted the claims that this menacing soldier-priest really has been to his chosen Afterlife and back. Short-sighted of him though not to plan for the possibility that he's not the only one.
Or that other kinds of beings might have more solidly anchored souls. Beside her, Buffy's boyfriend growls, a rumble in his chest like surf on a pebbled beach, and snags the knife sticking incongruously out of the back of one of the Necromonger soldiers. The Lord Marshal sees the arc of the blade coming-- but as he makes to let of go his grip and duck away, Buffy reaches out to grab his gorgeted throat.
Silver mist boils out between the links of the chain mail chill under her hand, and the edges of his profile take on a smudged, ill-defined air-- but he's still there when Riddick's knife sinks up to the hilt in the soft underside of his chin, one of the few vulnerable places uncovered by his armor. He's still gaping at her, eyes dulling over, as his body drops to one knee, then further, helmet ringing off the creamy marble of the Council chamber floor.
Up on the platform in the middle of the room, the Necromonger elite who'd been giving the join-or-die speech she'd yawned her way through stares at her like he's just seen his Underverse.
Buffy smiles at him, a sharp, mirthless curve of mouth, and wipes her hand on her thigh like she'd just been touching something icky. "Yeah, I'm just gonna echo my friend here and say nobody's going to be converting today," she says, brightly.
Around her, Helion's politicos murmur to each other, an uneasy susurrus of noise; around the edges of the room, the rest of the Necromongers stare at their fallen leader, then moving as one, all take a sudden knee.
"You keep what you kill," one of them growls; it has a ritual air to it, as if something else is meant to follow, but the guy in the middle holds up a halting hand.
"You're her," he says, still staring; the only one of the armored enemy still standing.
Riddick stoops to pull his new knife free, wiping it on the hem of the fallen Lord Marshal's swishy armored cloak. "What's it to you," he interjects, rising to his feet again between Buffy and the other.
Buffy lays a hand on his shoulder, acknowledgement and caution both, as the Necromonger replies. "The Slayer. She who lives in the action of death; destruction, absolute. But... not alone." He focuses on Riddick then, as the unexpected words shiver through her. "Furyan," he breathes, gaze tracking over her boyfriend from head to toe. "So another of us did survive, after all."
"Another of us?" Riddick replies, a warning tone in his voice. "And who're you supposed to be?"
A mirthless smile curves the Necromonger's face. "The Purifier. When they came, when they slew all our warriors and all our leaders-- when all the long years of our preparation seemed in vain, undone by an Elemental willing to sacrifice us all in the name of balance-- our last matriarch asked if any would go with them. To bear witness, should the savior still arrive in despite of all arrayed against her. I thought I was the last one."
The little fragments they know of Riddick's own story begin to shake out into a new, uncomfortable shape. One of his people had been waiting for her. Destiny curdles hot and heavy in Buffy's gut, and she spits his words back in his face like blades. "We all began as something else."
He acknowledges the phrase with a bleak, fierce smile. "The founder of Furya went to the caves long ago, to sleep against your arrival; no one knows if she waits there still, alone amid the dust of our civilization. But her instructions passed down the ages to each child of our people in turn."
The other Necromongers are growing restive; they don't seem likely to put up with this treason-talk much longer. Toward the back, a sharp-looking woman in an armored dress bows her head toward the soldier next to her, shooting barbs toward Buffy with her eyes while she whispers harshly in her companion's ear. Buffy stares long enough to make her notice clear, then returns her gaze to the grandstander. "And what would those instructions be."
The Purifier's smile widens a little; then he takes a knee too, the murmurs behind him increasing in volume. "Sorry, B," he begins in a completely different accent. "But there's only two hot chicks with superpowers left, and one of us has to be there to steer the ship on a different course. I'm leaving you my grandkids, though; and if I see you again, feel free to kick every square inch of my prophecy-defying ass."
"Faith," she whispers, shocked, through an emotion-clogged throat.
"Hail, Lord Marshal Slayer," he finishes up, accent his own again, in ringing, steel-bright tones.
"Hail!" the other Necromongers reply, as if by rote, pounding gauntleted fists against armored chests.
Riddick glances back over his shoulder, meeting her gaze; then he bares his teeth in a wild grin. "I guess Death really is your gift," he says.
Buffy remembers the familiarity that had struck her from the beginning-- and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
(x-posted on twistedshorts and on AO3)
twistedshorts; 9th in the Primitive Side series.The armored gauntlet of the guy calling himself Lord Marshal tingles as it sinks up to the wrist in Buffy's chest.
Title: Inevitable
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Rating: T/PG-13
Spoilers: Post-series for B:tVS; mid-Chronicles of Riddick
Notes: Dipping back into my first Buffy/Riddick AU, last revisited in August 2019.
The armored gauntlet of the guy calling himself Lord Marshal tingles as it sinks up to the wrist in Buffy's chest. 1100 words.
The armored gauntlet of the guy calling himself Lord Marshal tingles as it sinks up to the wrist in Buffy's chest.
She doesn't bother looking down. She watches the face of the Necromonger leader instead as he tugs his hand back again with a cruel sneer-- only to come up short as his half-corporeal fingers refuse to pull back out with their prize. Somewhere down deep, in the dark undercurrent of her spirit that kept Buffy company with dreams of death armies for all the sleeping centuries between Earth and Helion Prime, she feels a slight chill. Maybe a subtle tug. But that's it.
Behind her, the opinionated Councilman she'd stepped in front of gasps in shivery terror. Before her, the pale, bladelike features of the Lord Marshal tighten in reflected alarm, quickly squashed by determination as he tries a second time to get a grip on her soul.
Buffy's not one of those people who doubts the existence of an intangible inner self; not even after all the horrors she's seen. The memories of Heaven are a distant, warm dream now, misty images of pleasant respite layered under the dim weight of endless years of cryo-fueled nightmares after the last, long fall of Earth, but enough remains that she's never really doubted the claims that this menacing soldier-priest really has been to his chosen Afterlife and back. Short-sighted of him though not to plan for the possibility that he's not the only one.
Or that other kinds of beings might have more solidly anchored souls. Beside her, Buffy's boyfriend growls, a rumble in his chest like surf on a pebbled beach, and snags the knife sticking incongruously out of the back of one of the Necromonger soldiers. The Lord Marshal sees the arc of the blade coming-- but as he makes to let of go his grip and duck away, Buffy reaches out to grab his gorgeted throat.
Silver mist boils out between the links of the chain mail chill under her hand, and the edges of his profile take on a smudged, ill-defined air-- but he's still there when Riddick's knife sinks up to the hilt in the soft underside of his chin, one of the few vulnerable places uncovered by his armor. He's still gaping at her, eyes dulling over, as his body drops to one knee, then further, helmet ringing off the creamy marble of the Council chamber floor.
Up on the platform in the middle of the room, the Necromonger elite who'd been giving the join-or-die speech she'd yawned her way through stares at her like he's just seen his Underverse.
Buffy smiles at him, a sharp, mirthless curve of mouth, and wipes her hand on her thigh like she'd just been touching something icky. "Yeah, I'm just gonna echo my friend here and say nobody's going to be converting today," she says, brightly.
Around her, Helion's politicos murmur to each other, an uneasy susurrus of noise; around the edges of the room, the rest of the Necromongers stare at their fallen leader, then moving as one, all take a sudden knee.
"You keep what you kill," one of them growls; it has a ritual air to it, as if something else is meant to follow, but the guy in the middle holds up a halting hand.
"You're her," he says, still staring; the only one of the armored enemy still standing.
Riddick stoops to pull his new knife free, wiping it on the hem of the fallen Lord Marshal's swishy armored cloak. "What's it to you," he interjects, rising to his feet again between Buffy and the other.
Buffy lays a hand on his shoulder, acknowledgement and caution both, as the Necromonger replies. "The Slayer. She who lives in the action of death; destruction, absolute. But... not alone." He focuses on Riddick then, as the unexpected words shiver through her. "Furyan," he breathes, gaze tracking over her boyfriend from head to toe. "So another of us did survive, after all."
"Another of us?" Riddick replies, a warning tone in his voice. "And who're you supposed to be?"
A mirthless smile curves the Necromonger's face. "The Purifier. When they came, when they slew all our warriors and all our leaders-- when all the long years of our preparation seemed in vain, undone by an Elemental willing to sacrifice us all in the name of balance-- our last matriarch asked if any would go with them. To bear witness, should the savior still arrive in despite of all arrayed against her. I thought I was the last one."
The little fragments they know of Riddick's own story begin to shake out into a new, uncomfortable shape. One of his people had been waiting for her. Destiny curdles hot and heavy in Buffy's gut, and she spits his words back in his face like blades. "We all began as something else."
He acknowledges the phrase with a bleak, fierce smile. "The founder of Furya went to the caves long ago, to sleep against your arrival; no one knows if she waits there still, alone amid the dust of our civilization. But her instructions passed down the ages to each child of our people in turn."
The other Necromongers are growing restive; they don't seem likely to put up with this treason-talk much longer. Toward the back, a sharp-looking woman in an armored dress bows her head toward the soldier next to her, shooting barbs toward Buffy with her eyes while she whispers harshly in her companion's ear. Buffy stares long enough to make her notice clear, then returns her gaze to the grandstander. "And what would those instructions be."
The Purifier's smile widens a little; then he takes a knee too, the murmurs behind him increasing in volume. "Sorry, B," he begins in a completely different accent. "But there's only two hot chicks with superpowers left, and one of us has to be there to steer the ship on a different course. I'm leaving you my grandkids, though; and if I see you again, feel free to kick every square inch of my prophecy-defying ass."
"Faith," she whispers, shocked, through an emotion-clogged throat.
"Hail, Lord Marshal Slayer," he finishes up, accent his own again, in ringing, steel-bright tones.
"Hail!" the other Necromongers reply, as if by rote, pounding gauntleted fists against armored chests.
Riddick glances back over his shoulder, meeting her gaze; then he bares his teeth in a wild grin. "I guess Death really is your gift," he says.
Buffy remembers the familiarity that had struck her from the beginning-- and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
(x-posted on twistedshorts and on AO3)
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Date: 2021-08-21 04:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-08-24 09:32 pm (UTC)