Mightier Than the Sword Author: Elsa Frohman Rating: PG-13 Spoilers: None... this is so AU that nothing counts. Pairing: Buffy/William (sort of) Summary: This is a quick one off, though it didn't turn out as
short as I thought it would. BTW, I'm rather stretching
credibility by having William cite Bram Stoker as an influence.
Dracula was written in 1895. But Stoker published a bit of
shorter horror fiction well before that in magazines. It's a stretch
that William would have read any Bram Stoker, but I'm taking
dramatic license here.
May 14, 1882
How I miss my dear mother. It has been a full year since she
was taken from me, and the ache of loneliness has not
diminished. I have turned to my pen and paper to ease my pain,
but even that which sustained me in the past no longer offers
any comfort. I have had to accept the harsh truth that I may not
be destined for accolades as a poet. The passions stir in my
breast, but the words they whisper and I transcribe have no
wings to soar. They fall as lead weights from my pen's nib and
defile the paper upon which I write them.
It is a hard truth, alas. Mother encouraged me, but I have finally
come to the conclusion that her effusive praise was a matter of a
mother's love, not a critic's discernment.
So what am I to do with the grand passions that drive my heart
to beat? I wake in the night with visions of epic romance
dancing before my eyes. Dreams of beautiful maidens and their
courageous suitors haunt my waking hours. How ironic that
dull, pedantic William lives as a disguise to this mad lover who
animates my fantasies.
I have come to a decision. No more wretched poetry will foul
my pen. From this day forth I will pour out the music of my soul
in prose. When next I put pen to paper I shall emulate those
authors I most admire -- the Frenchman, Jules Verne; the poet's
wife, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley; and the Irishman, Bram
Stoker.
May 15, 1882
I have committed myself to this great task of storytelling, but
what story shall I tell? Surely it will be a story of great courage,
passionate love and ultimate redemption. My tale shall chill the
blood with ravening monsters opposed by a stalwart hero who
by striving against evil incarnate shall win the eternal love of his
lady.
I look upon these words, however, and I am struck by how
ordinary they are. How many stories have been told of a knight
who overcomes evil to win the hand of his lady? Too many, I
am certain. My story must be different. I must sleep upon this.
May 16, 1882
When I laid my head to my pillow this past evening, I asked my
muse to lead me to a distant land of fantastic narrative. My spirit
guide has not failed me. My tale shall stand alone, distinct from
all that have preceded it. I shall not write of a brave knight who
opposes mystical evil to win his lady's hand. I shall write of a
woman -- a brave and beautiful woman -- who stands alone to
protect the world from the vampires and monsters that lurk in
the darkness of soulless depravity.
I see her now as clearly as if she stands before me. Her hair is
golden and falls around her shoulders as the finest silk. Her
figure is petite, but deceptive, because there is strength beyond
all imagining in those delicate limbs. Her face is a vision of
beauty -- full, red lips, sparkling hazel eyes and skin as smooth
as ivory.
But how shall I seduce my reader to believe this fantastic
creature exists? Surely no one will believe that a woman stalks
the night to slay monsters and keep the world safe from harm.
I must think upon this a bit more.
May 19, 1882
For two days I have written naught in my journal, for I was
stymied by the unlikeliness of my nascent story. But as I woke
this morning, the course I am to pursue was revealed to me. I
shall tell my readers that my fantastic heroine is not a denizen of
this world. She is a creature of the future. She lives in an age
when women stand equal to men in ambition and ability. My
beloved Anne lives in a world that will not come to be for
another century and a few years more than that.
I have referred to my heroine as my beloved, and truly she is.
She walks beside me now as I go about my daily business. She
is before my eyes as I lay myself down to sleep. Her angelic
face greets me as I wake each morning. She fills my every
waking thought and visits my sleeping dreams each night.
I find myself daunted. Am I equal to the telling of this heavenly
being's story?
May 20, 1882
This morning I find myself vexed by my silent muse. How can I
convey the romantic potential of my beloved Anne if she is a
woman independent with no need for a man to protect her? My
radiant heroine will protect the men she encounters. She shall
surpass them in strength and cleverness. How can I bring love
into her life?
Her lover must be more than a mortal man. He must have
strength to match hers. He must be a being worthy of her
devotion.
And as I sit here discommoded by this chasm I must cross to tell
my tale, I have a flash of insight and I know now how my story
will be told.
Who better to love the slayer of creatures of evil than one of the
beings she nightly destroys. An evil vampire -- a prince among
the soulless creatures of darkness -- who looks upon her and is
slain in his heart. The light and goodness that suffuses her being
penetrates the evil that animates this prince amongst vampires
and changes him. From the moment he sees her he is
transformed by love. He shall strive against all odds to win her
heart and become her consort.
May 30, 1882
My journal so many days is neglected now. Each afternoon I sit
in the light of my southern window and write out the words of
my epic tale of love and courage. When the light fades I find I
no longer have the will to come to this book and write more.
But the work on my story is progressing well. I believe I have
struck a fine balance between suspense and romance.
I have struck upon a scheme to titillate my readers --
particularly the men who open the volumes I pen. For in the
future world of my story fashion has been transformed. No
longer are women bound by the corsets and stays that today's
women endure. Clothing in the twentieth century is brief and
revealing. Women of my beloved Anne's milieu wear skirts that
stop above their knees, revealing an expanse of graceful leg. I
swear I conceived of this to make the environment my Anne
exists in different from this drab world of mine, but I can see
how this will appeal to the imaginations of my readers.
And for the ladies in my audience, I have described Anne's
noble vampire admirer in terms that no woman could resist. His
eyes are bluer than the sky on a summer's day. His body is lean
and toned, and his hair is white as fresh snow. I have dressed
this prince of lovers in a long coat of black leather that swirls
about him as he strides through the night.
My beloved Anne strives against the forces of evil. But her
battle is not grim. She attacks her foes with enthusiasm and
energy. And to inject an element of humor into the proceedings,
the brave Anne fires of quips and puns as she defeats her
enemies.
And as she fights the monsters of darkness, her devoted vampire
secretly shadows her, stopping all the creatures that escape her,
protecting her for the threats she fails to see.
He yearns to hold her in his arms -- even as I yearn to hold my
imaginary beloved. Yet he dares not approach her because she
would not believe the sincerity of his feelings. He keeps to the
shadows, always watching her, never touching her. His plight
reaches out to my heart and I must find a way to bring him into
the graces of his love.
June 12, 1882
The first of my stories of love, laugher and terror is now
complete. I posted The Heart of the Dark Prince to Scribner &
Sons this afternoon. I shall be in tenterhooks until I hear
whether it has been accepted for publication.
I completed by story by revealing to my beloved Anne the
identity of her secret protector. But rather than close the story
with a tender union, I have left my readers wanting more. Anne
discovers that the vampire, Rail, has been shadowing her and
intervening if any creature threatens her, but she cannot accept
that he has turned away from evil, so she runs from him. With
this ending I hope to raise expectation for many sequels.
June 13, 1882
The suspense shall surely be the death of me. I check to see if
the postman has come at least ten times a day. Oh how do
authors stand this state of suspended animation?
June 15, 1882
Still no word from Scribner & Sons. But I shall not waste this
time of waiting. I have started on the sequel to Heart of the Dark
Prince. In this story, my beloved Anne finds she must appeal to
the vampire Rail for assistance. The challenge she faces is too
great to face alone. Naturally, Rail shall agree, but he shall place
a price on his cooperation. If he helps her, she must allow him a
single kiss. She fears that this is a ruse and he means to drink
her essence, but in the face of certain apocalypse she knows she
must give in to his demand and sacrifice herself for the good of
mankind.
June 20, 1882
These five days I have put pen to paper to give shape and
substance to The Immortal Kiss. I am encouraged that this story
is even more compelling than The Heart of the Dark Prince. I
write with such speed and confidence now that I am
approaching the conclusion of this story after only a week of
writing. But the most difficult scenes lay ahead of me still. I
must end this story with the kiss. I must find in myself the
imagination to describe this sacred union. And I fear the task
because I, myself, have never known physical congress with a
woman.
My heart sinks. What made me believe that I, a man who has
never known success with the fairer sex, could give substance to
a great romance?
I shall retire and brood upon my inadequacy.
June 21, 1882
My muse has once again rescued me in the arms of Morpheus.
Last night, my head had hardly come into contact with my
pillow when my dream began.
I opened my eyes and to my surprise, Anne sat on the edge of
my bed. How can I describe to you her beauty? Her form is that
of a wood nymph. Her body was revealed to me in all its
feminine glory. She wore a gown that was all but transparent,
covering her only from her shoulders to her hips. I could see the
outline of her small, but perfectly formed, bosom through the
filmy material. Her hair was drawn back to reveal the delicate
curve of her neck.
I held my breath, afraid that she would disappear if I moved or
spoke. She reached out and brushed my face with fingers that
touched with the delicacy of butterfly wings. I must have
gasped, because she tilted her head and gave me a questioning
look.
"Why are you here?" I whispered.
"Because you called to me," she replied.
She reached out and took my hand, and pressed it to her lips. I
am embarrassed to say that when her hand closed around mine,
I could not control the trembling of my body. I was torn
between terror and ecstasy. I looked down and saw that I had
neglected to put on my nightshirt before bed, and I lay before
her eyes naked.
Never in my life have I been in such an intimate situation with a
member of the opposite sex. The reaction of my body was
beyond my control. I was mortified that evidence of my
physical lust was exposed to her eyes.
But the sight of my traitorous organ did not seem to discomfit
my luminous princess in any way. She looked at me up and
down, and a mischievous smile came to her lips.
"William," she said sweetly, "I believe you're glad to see me."
"My dearest Anne," I replied, "I cannot begin to tell you the joy
that your presence brings to my heart."
"Then don't tell me, William. Show me."
For a moment I was stricken by fear, for I had no idea how to go
about fulfilling her request. But my beloved seemed to sense my
trepidation. She put a hand upon my chest.
"Don't be afraid, my love," she said. "Nature informs the man,
and what nature will not tell you, I shall fill in."
She turned and mounted the bed, coming to me and pressing her
exquisite body to mine. At that moment, I thought nothing in the
universe could possible increase my pleasure, but as soon as the
thought came to my mind, it became obsolete as she touched my
lips with hers, and transported me to another reality.
In this new world I found that there is no limit to delight. Her
warm, soft lips became my anchor, for only the contact of our
flesh was real, all else was forgotten. I do not know how long I
held her in my arms, or how I knew where to touch her and
what to caress. But I can tell you that I was transported beyond
pleasure, beyond ecstasy and beyond all physical bounds. I was
lost in the warm softness of her body, in the silky smoothness of
her skin. In the moist folds of her womanhood.
Had she asked me to die for her, I would have plunged a dagger
into my own heart without questioning.
When I woke, the details of my night in heaven had become
indistinct, but I had gained insight that allowed me to write the
end of The Immortal Kiss.
My only regret is the knowledge that my beloved is a figment of
my imagination. I believe she has ruined me for more
earthbound females. How can I content myself with a mortal
woman when I have known a goddess?
June 22, 1882
Still no word from Scribner & Sons. They torture me with their
silence. I believe I would prefer to hear that they had rejected
my fevered scribblings, rather than this blasted suspense.
June 29, 1882
I have begun and made significant progress on a sequel to The
Immortal Kiss. This third story will fill in the history of my
romantic hero, Rail. The reader undoubtedly expects to hear that
Rail was a ruffian in his human life, but I shall confound
expectations with this story.
For Rail was anything but a ruffian or vulgarian. He was a
gentle and sensitive poet, rejected in love by a self-centered girl.
Dejected by the death of his romantic hopes, he falls into the
clutches of a vampiress who makes him one of the undead.
Once among the legions of evil, he determines never to be
rejected again and becomes the most feared of his kind.
Only the love of Anne pulls him away from the path of evil.
Now, caught between what he is and what he wants to be, he
must choose a path that will either make him worthy of Anne's
love, or destroy him utterly.
July 3, 1882
I have finished my third story, Prince of Poets, and I find I am at
a crossroad. Prince of Poets ended with Rail on the brink of his
decision. But I am not certain of how to proceed. Shall I send
Rail into the mystic underworld to retrieve his soul? Or shall I
have him turn back to the evil that is his nature -- thus making
my story a tragic romance?
July 4, 1882
I retired to my bedchamber in a state of turmoil last night,
unable to decide the correct path for my hero. When I finally
drifted off into a troubled sleep, I found my beloved Anne had
come to visit me once again. But this time, she seemed quite
vexed with me.
"How dare you consider turning Rail evil again!" she snapped at
me. "He has struggled so to win my respect and affection. What
logic would have him give up and turn back to the dark side?"
"Forgive me, my love," I replied. "I can see your point. I simply
thought I needed to consider alternatives, so that my stories
don't become predictable."
"Don't you understand? If you let Rail stray from his path to
redemption you will lose me forever! I couldn't bear it. You are
everything to me, William. I live for you."
"I don't understand, my love. Why will I lose you if I turn Rail
aside from the path of righteousness?"
"Because you are Rail, you silly, silly man. He is you. You
created him so that you and I could be together."
As she spoke the words I knew it was true. And I knew I could
never let Rail turn back to evil, because I could never live
without my beloved Anne.
As I promised to be ever faithful, she came to my arms in an
embrace that filled me with a joy that was without bounds. I
held her through the night and only when the gray light of dawn
crept through my window did I let her go. When I woke, I could
still feel the warmth of her flesh next to mine, the softness of
her lips, and the liquid silk of her hair as it slipped between my
fingers.
If only she continues to visit my dreams, I believe I can be a
happy man.
June 14, 1993
The Daily Telegraph
An unusual cache of Victorian literature turned up last month in
the course of the demolition of the former headquarters of
Scribner & Sons Publishing Ltd.
Workmen clearing rubble from the basement came across a
bundle of hand-written manuscripts for a series of stories
featuring a young woman who fights vampires. The manuscripts
were apparently never published. There are a number of
editorial notes attached, first complaining that the author's basic
concept of a young girl who slays vampires is not believable,
and later complaining that the writing has become too explicit
when the author describes the romantic liaisons of the heroine
and her vampire lover.
Tame by modern standards, the stories have been pronounced
unusually frank for their era by literary experts called in to
evaluate the find.
The manuscripts provide an interesting footnote to Victorian
literature, one expert said. While the writing style is a bit stilted,
the stories are surprisingly compelling, and make some
interestingly accurate predictions about the shape of twentieth
century society.
The stories were judged to be interesting, but not really
publishable in the current market.
The entire group of manuscripts was sold at auction Tuesday to
an anonymous American buyer.