Disclaimer: The Highlander elements belong to many people and companies, including Rysher. The other element belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions.
Author’s note: Well, you’ve got to start someplace, sometime. This is the beginning of an attempt to integrate yet another series into the TF universe. I’m beginning to write/rewrite the sequel to this thing. Sorry about the latin.
(Of note, I never really merged Buffy into the Tomorrow’s Future universe, so this is a bit of an oddity.)
Musty Shelves
by EstiRose
1989
I hate crutches. I hate being busted back to research. I’m beginning to hate research with a passion. Oh, I can stand it if it’s combined with something else, such as the four years I watched Charity McCullen, but otherwise I die of boredom.
Still, I suppose it’s my fault that I wasn’t watching where I was going and stuck my foot down that hole. But I needed to keep within visible range, and the darkness which made me miss the hole also made my subject miss me. Which is the important thing, of course. I’m still alive to complain.
And I’m lucky that it was a simple break, and that I was actually found fairly quickly. A broken leg can hurt like heck. But I still don’t like getting stuck doing research, especially in some obscure library. I don’t care how many occult volumes they have.
Leaning on my crutches, I peruse a book at the end of one stack. Almost nobody’s at this place, so it really doesn’t matter if I stand here instead of limping back to find the book’s not good. I wish I hadn’t taken Latin. Good grief! I’m going to go mad.
Something goes ‘thunk’ and my right crutch slides. I grab ahold of the book I was perusing in my left hand and grab onto the shelving with my right. Turning to my right, I notice a gentleman in tweeds who is leaning against another row. I’m guessing that he tripped over my crutch, causing him to lose his balance while I lost my hold.
Putting the book back on the shelf, I turn to face him. “I’m sorry,” I say, hoping he isn’t too injured. “I should have watched where I was sticking that.”
“Quite all right,” he replies, in a voice as English as his tweed jacket. “I wasn’t watching my step. I’m afraid my mind was on - what you were just looking at.”
“The ‘Librum Vitrium Pulcherus’?” I ask in surprise. Who would be interested in a set of ‘fictional’ tales about Immortals? At least, it was presumed to be about Immortals. One can sometimes never tell.
“Yes, indeed.”
“Interesting. So, you too are interested in tales of immortal beings?”
“I’m doing research on representations of immortality in Greek, Roman, and Persian texts. This book was mentioned to me as a possible source for my research.”
“Ah.” I nod. No more than a scholar who had no idea that some of this stuff was true. As far as I know Immortals exist, though not vampires or any other beings also mentioned in the tales. “Then, perhaps I should let you have a go at it first. I’ll need it much more extensively.”
“Very well. I shall endeavour to return it for your use as soon as possible. My main interest in the book is the tale of Aetus.”
I freeze, and then remember where I was. Aetus is one of those I’m assigned to track, although nobody’s seen him since ancient Pompeii. “Aetus, the one who sliced through his opponent’s neck partway just to drink the blood?” I ask casually.
“Yes, are you familiar with him?” he looks at me expectantly.
“Vaguely. That is, coincidentally, why I’m here. I’m to evaluate this work for possible translation. One of my co-workers traced the story down and says that this work probably has the most accurate translation of it. I’m just hoping that, since this is a several-centuries later typeset of it, that it is worth the look.”
“I wouldn’t think that the stories would be suitable for mass consumption. However, with the popularity of vampire stories, all this Anne Rice, one never knows.”
I shrug. “Won’t know until I look at it. Could you hand me my crutch, please?”
He does so, and I take the book off the shelf, revelling in the smell. Before I hand it to him, I say, “By the way, I’m Georgina Lewis. Perhaps, if we ever meet again, would you be interested in lunch. I would welcome an opinion beside my own.”
I hand it to him. “Thank you. Perhaps sometime.” He looks nervous. I don’t think I’m going to see him again.
As he leaves, I realize I never got his name. Bright, Geo, real bright. Well, there are other books - and other days.
-end