The Second Worst Day

[st_clare]

London, England - 1978


The bottom line was, she wanted to be punished. If they'd punish her, perhaps she'd be satisfied.

Julianna and Edmund remained in Boston for a week after Allison's funeral. They spent the days touring the city, the evenings in the hotel bar, and the nights not talking. The time passed far too quickly. When it came time to fly back to London, the flight alternately was too long and too short. They arrived at Heathrow just before dawn, and he kissed her on the cheek when they said farewell.

She was wearing basic black when she arrived at Council headquarters, the color of mourning. She was terrified but resolute. If they sacked her, it was what she deserved. If they didn't sack her, she was going to turn in her resignation.

The Watcher's appointment was with Cyrus Claymore, a senior member of the Council. Julianna had never met the man, but she'd heard rumors. Her low heels made clicking noises on the highly-polished floor as she made her way down the hall. Portraits of other Watchers, now long dead, hung on the walls. She was vaguely surprised to see that Mother was not among them.

"Doctor Claymore?" She was amazed that her voice didn't shake. Was she supposed to use his professional title? I am Julianna St. Clare. Whatever happens, I deserve it

Comments

[birthright_npc]

Cyrus Claymore was not what one expected of a man of his professional stature. A worried imagination might provide an idea of someone tall and imposing, with an expression as grave as the situation at hand. Doctor Claymore, however, was an older gentleman of average height and build, more paunchy than most members of the Council, as if he had a habit of taking too many servings at the table. He was black, and what hair remained on his head was short and gray. He only wore glasses when he read, which was something of an oddity in a field that demanded near-constant squinting at faded print.

“Ms. St. Clare, please, come in,” he said, beckoning from a large desk with an open hand. His office was large and tidy, the walls done in wood, a grandfather clock pendulum swinging in the corner. Shelves climbed floor to ceiling, each crammed with books and neat stacks of papers tucked into leather portfolios. In the corner sat a smaller desk with a typewriter, and by the windows, a pair of maroon wingback chairs. There was a pot of tea and two cups, a small pitcher of cream, a dish of sugar.

He stood up and walked to one of the chairs. “Have a seat.” The cushion sighed underneath his weight.

[st_clare]

Julianna felt as coltish as a teenager as she made her way to one of the chairs. She didn't correct Claymore when he didn't use her own title. She wasn't 'Doctor' anything in this office. It was a surprise that he was black. She was unsure of why.

"I hope I'm on time," she said as she tried to make herself comfortable. If he offered her tea she would accept, because dealing with the cup would give her something to do with her hands. The curtains were drawn back from the windows, letting in the weak sunlight of the late afternoon.

"And that this isn't too much of an inconvenience for you."

[birthright_npc]

“Not at all.” He poured two cups of tea without asking and lumped sugar into his brew. “There’s no need to stand on formality. Call me Cyrus. May I call you Julianna?” The tone of his voice wasn’t warm, exactly, but it was frank. If the rumor mill was to be trusted, he was not putting on airs; no tyrant worked within these walls. Claymore was a congenial administrator, and he would be so in their interview, as long as it went according to his expectations.

He raised his cup and took a sip.

[st_clare]

"Cyrus, then. And yes, you may call me Julianna."

The Watcher added one lump of sugar to her tea, stirred it into the hot liquid with a silver spoon. There was the quiet sound of metal rattling against china as she did so. Claymore's suit was very well cut. She wondered idly if he'd had it hand-tailored.

Before her thoughts could spin into the land of ridiculousness, Julianna focused her attention on the other Watcher's dark face. Breathe. "I'm afraid I don't know how to proceed from here."

[birthright_npc]

"Mm. Well, these are hardly common circumstances." He set his cup on the little table and settled more comfortably in the chair. As his fingers laced loosely in his lap, Claymore more closely resembled a psychologist than a senior member of an organization tasked with diverting the apocalypse. From somewhere down the corridor, the sound of footsteps came to them, and then a heavy door closing on dry hinges.

"I understand you've just returned from America. You went against the Council's recommendation, did you not?"

[st_clare]

"I did. I went to Boston to see Alli....to see my Slayer buried. It was something I felt I needed to do."

Julianna wondered if this meant Edmund would be called on the carpet for going with her. If Cyrus asked, she would say it was her idea. She'd needed support, and he was the only one she'd known long enough to trust in that fashion. She didn't want him getting in trouble because of her.

She had another sip of tea, allowing the warmth of it to work on calming her nerves. "If I had been ordered not to go, I might have stayed away. But because it was just a recommendation, I didn't see a reason not to see it through."

[birthright_npc]

“It’s interesting to hear your phrasing first-hand. ‘My’ slayer.” Claymore’s thumbs rubbed together and he fixed on her an inquisitive look. Seconds ticked by. A bird fluttered outside of the window pane, but he didn’t break his scrutiny of her. “I heard that you felt a particular attachment to the slayer. There is a reason that multiple watchers are tasked with the training of each of our assets, Julianna. We do it to avoid just this sort of attachment.” He jabbed at his knee, as if her false step was on display in his lap. “This misplaced sense of responsibility over her fate. It seems you were allowed too much time with her. It is a misstep we will avoid in the future.”

[st_clare]

There was nothing for Julianna to say to that. She'd known at the time that she was breaking protocol, forming a bond with the girl. She hadn't been the only Watcher assigned to train Allison, but she'd been the one the Slayer had truly responded to. Perhaps she'd seen a bit of her younger self there - shy, bookish, intellectually curious - and that had been the beginning of it.

"Our relationship was not inappropriate," she told Cyrus, holding the cup of tea between her ringless hands. "My methods were deemed the most suitable for someone so unfamiliar with athletics, and I observed protocol in every instance when we were training. I never took it easy on her."

It was the truth, but she was skirting the issue and she knew it. She must be honest here. Cyrus wasn't condemning her, at least not yet. Perhaps the only one condemning her was herself.

[birthright_npc]

“No one has suggested it,” he said and spread his palms before her. “The slayer passed every test we put to her, and I stand by our determination that she was ready for the field. Her death was not a failure of the Council, but a consequence of her calling, a consequence that is both natural and necessary. The strongest slayers survive the longest in the field, and when they are no longer strong, they are replaced. Not by us, but by the perils of their calling.”

He shifted to pick up his cup of tea. “Such thinking may seem harsh, but our world, our very existence would have crumbled into dust long ago, were it not for this system. This tried and true system.”

[st_clare]

"That girl was not a weakling."

Her tone became clipped when she said it, more precise, and she put the cup aside on the table with the other tea things. She folded her hands into her lap as if she were praying to keep them from fidgeting. "As you said, she passed your tests, lived up to the expectation that she was ready to be active in the field. To follow the path of her destiny."

Outside, a bird had landed on the lowest branch of the tree just outside the window. Julianna watched the way it preened its feathers, the glossy black stark against the green leaves. She forced her fingers to relax their grip on each other.

"All of our...assets...have strength and courage. They have to. Without the raw materials to work with, training would be useless."

She wondered if she was scandalizing him. The philosophy of the Council was a simple one; that if the girls didn't survive, it was because it was their time to die. Julianna knew Mother had subscribed to that belief. She wasn't sure she believed it anymore.

"There is a failure here, Cyrus, but it's not the Council's. It's a personal one. My failure."

[birthright_npc]

"And yet it's your use of pronouns that disturbs me, Julianna. My slayer. Your tests." He chuckled and shook his head, and when he next spoke, it was with pure conviction. Cyrus leaned forward, his thumb and forefinger pinching the air. "We are one entity, this Council. Any failure belongs to us all, but in this circumstance, there was no failure. A slayer was bested. If you believe she was not ready, then you imply a systemic failure of the process we have put in place -- one that has worked for centuries! -- rather than acknowledge an ugly yet simple truth... That girl met her match. If that is the case, I must call into question your faith in this organization, and we cannot afford to splinter."

He sat back.

"We grieve for a life cut short, yes. We grieve for a family who has lost its daughter. But we do not let it deter us. She accomplished more on this earth than most people will in eighty years."