milliways_bar | (no subject)

Sam's been staring at the clock for a long time. Finally, jerkily, he stands up, crosses the room swiftly.

And touches the clock, not physically, but with his magic.

It's not an attack, far from it; simply the magical version of a painfully polite enquiry, not even examining it for shields, not yet. Just- questions.

< What are you? >

< What are you doing with the gifts you're given? >

There's no reply at first.

Then, a tiny shift in the resonance of the wards. Just enough to read as a reply to one sensing that sort of variation.

< Keeping them. >

It's both an answer and a warning.

Sam hears it.

Carefully, < Permanently? >

The Clock is not technically sentient, though the ward magic gives it a certain level of problem-solving intelligence. As such, it doesn't "know" anything more than it absolutely needs to.

The wards flitter again, and it gives the only answer it can.

< Yes. >

Hmm.

Sam's magic runs lightly over the clock, testing, skimming the wards, noting its limited sentience.

Hmmmm.

< How much power can you take? >

The Clock honestly does not know, and indicates as much through the unconventional communication.

Oh, goody. Make his life even harder.

Sam considers the wisdom of simply ripping through the wards by force, or at least of attempting to. The problem is that there are too many unknowns in this equation, and he's loathe to risk trying such a dangerous method without even knowing his chances of success.

The wards on the clock are similar to those he knows, and yet strangely unlike them too.

< My compliments to your maker, I suppose. I've never seen anything quite like you. >

The Clock cannot show pride, or communicate it even if it could.

It merely responds < We were many, but few remain. >

Illyria is in the best sort of mood for attacking things; which is to say, she's still well and truly angry about the discussion she'd had with Fred (http://cavemen-win.livejournal.com/4305.html) on the previous evening.

Of all the presumptuous things.

Illyria isn't threatened. She's content to stand here and watch the thing tick down.

She can out-stare anything.

... ticktickticktick ...

Want to put that to the test?

It's getting about that time, after all. The clock's well past the 8 and still moving.

Can she keep staring through a force 9 quake?

... ticktickticktick ...

Very likely.

Her concern, if she has any, is not likely to be for herself, but neither was the argument of one frightened mortal likely to persuade her to simply throw away what she'd only just gotten back.

Something had wanted her to have her powers back. A trap had been set, but she'd escaped it, and found her powers returned when they logically should not have been. How was she to know if she even could be rid of them, when she hadn't done anything in particular to regain them?

For all she knew it was out of her hands.

For all she knew, even she wouldn't survive if this place was destroyed.

If Fred died now, then logically, she'd never even exist.

Is it worth the risk?

Time's ticking down.

She wouldn't have to wait here and watch this place be destroyed.

She could take Fred with her. Perhaps Wesley, too. Somewhere that the paradox would not necessarily mean anything. Somewhere that the fact that Wesley was dead would not matter. If Milliways existed, surely some other similar place did, as well.

If she had time to find it.

And if they would even leave now, while the threat lay momentarily dormant. They were both such stubborn creatures with so very little caution.

Another time she might have respected that.

Now it just irritates her.

She cannot do this. It is asking too much. She'd said no.

She'd meant no.

If the Clock had sentience, it would respect that. Defiance in the face of annihilation is an admirable trait, when it's not motivated simply by ignorance or foolish, stubborn pride.

Such an emotion is almost Phyrexian in its antipathy. After all, just what are these lives worth to someone with the power that Illyria now commands?

Precisely.

... and yet, what was that power worth to her with no followers? With none to command?

She'd had it for half the time she'd been here, and in that time had earned one follower.

Who had betrayed her.

Then she'd returned to her world to have her powers stripped by the very person who had tried to help her get them back. Tried, and technically failed, though the journey had been a success in the end. Something had given her powers back.

Which meant she hadn't truly won them.

What were such powers worth?

It was something to consider. Something she wanted more time to consider.

More time is rather the problem here.

If there were a minute hand, you could judge the time at about 8:50.

Just under ten minutes, and then she can have another 24 hours if she wishes.

If they survive.

If, if, if.

She'd fairly yelled those words at Fred.

But that was what it came down to. A question without answer, unless she was willing to answer it for them for another day. Another day that might yet be their last.

She lacks the concept of fear. Doesn't feel it for herself, doesn't feel any of what Fred was except through those echoes of emotion. Stares at the clock and watches it tick without the slightest trace of apprehension.

Never takes her eyes off of it as she touches the crystal that has embedded itself in her armor, the object which channeled her power.

Doesn't blink as the armor releases the crystal and she holds it in her hand, a dull blue-violet object that reflected light deep within itself but betrayed nothing of the violent power it held in check.

She didn't care.

But she offers the crystal all the same, holds it out to the clock almost defiantly.

Take it. I can get it back.

On her own this time. Not accidentally, not at the whims of some unknown power that had intervened to give her what she ought to have earned.

She was better than that.

tickticktick... ticktick... tick...

Silence.

Then, a hum. Building. Building.

A spark. Arcing across from the clock to the crystal.

The hand rolls backward.

Normally, that would be it. But this is no normal offering. This is real power. This is on the level of the power of a true planeswalker. Offered earlier in the week, it could have prevented a quake entirely.

Another arc shoots out, the power too much for a single channel to contain it. Then a third and a fourth. The crystal is drained, the light fading and dimming to nothing.

The clock continues to move. Past the 7, past the 6, even past the 5.

The blue-white tendrils glow brighter and brighter, and then, in one final flash of light, the crystal shatters.

The clock reads half-past four when it begins ticking again, with only a couple of minutes left to go.

It hurts.

Even with the crystal as the channel, the buffer between her and her own power, the barrier between her and the clock, it still hurts. Still feels as though she's having senses as vital to her existence as breathing ripped away from her.

She'd barely had time to adjust to them again, and it hurts anyway. Leaves her shaken and gasping and trying to pick up the pieces, literally and figuratively.

She manages to gather up what's left of the crystal, and makes her way over to one of the chairs before her legs give out under her and she crumples into it and tries to relearn how to breathe.