Fic: Mining for Gold (1/?) -- Buf/Will pairing

["Blitzgal <xencall@xxxxxxxxx>" <xencall@xxxxxxxxx>]

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, 
nor the universe in which they reside. I do, however, own this 
particular story, as well as Meg and Giselle.

Title: Mining for Gold

Rating: R

Distribution: Feel free to pass this along to any mailing list you 
like as long as you keep my contact information intact. Other 
websites may post this fiction if they let me know where and how to 
find it.

Pairings: Technically this is a slash fic, although you'll find that 
I don't overly describe sexual scenes in my writing. I prefer 
content over titillation. However, a female-female relationship is 
apparent. If you don't like this idea, you might not want to read 
any further. For those of you who are wondering, Giselle=Buffy and 
Meg=Willow.

Summary: This is the story of Giselle Arceneaux, a French slayer of 
the late nineteenth century who heads for the Alaskan territories 
during the height of the gold rush in 1897. She's heard that there 
has been an influx of vampires in the area due to the increase in 
population and the fact that during the winter, the sun is only out 
for a couple of hours a day.

Author's Note: According to the television series, Spike kills a 
slayer during the Boxer Rebellion, which took place in 1900. It's 
been mentioned many times in the show that many slayers never live 
past their eighteenth birthdays, or survive only two to three years 
after being called. I'm assuming that the Boxer Rebellion slayer was 
called around 1897 or so, which is the same year this particular 
fiction takes place. Meaning that Giselle was the slayer immediately 
before the one that Spike kills in 1900. You may think this means 
you know the ending of this story, but there are some surprises in 
store for you here.

It is a fact that Alaska has an extended period of darkness during 
the winter months. The shortest day of the year in Fairfax, Alaska 
has merely three hours of daylight--the sun rises at 11:00 AM or so 
and sets at around 2:30 in the afternoon. I'd imagine this to be a 
vampire's paradise, especially with such a transient population, 
which was the case during the gold rush. When people disappeared 
here and there, it pretty much went unnoticed. In this fiction, I'm 
assuming a time of year where the sun does not rise at all for 
several weeks.

Please read and feed! Contact me directly at xencall@xxxxxxxxx or 
see my alternative universe fiction archive (submissions welcome) at 
http://suddenshift.topcities.com

* * *

Alaskan Territories, 1897 ? January 2nd

A sharp crosswind caught the edge of the house, tossing the south 
window open and sending a blast of cold air through the room. The 
lantern near the stove flickered, nearly plunging the kitchen into 
darkness. Outside, the sound of an approaching train cut through the 
wail of the wind.

Hurrying across the room, Meg grabbed the flapping halves of the 
window and struggled to push them closed. She swore under the 
breath. Paul hadn't fixed the latch completely the last time he 
closed the damned thing. At least it wasn't snowing this time.

"Mrs. Glass?" a voice called from the doorway. "Is everything all 
right?"

Meg fastened the latch and pulled the curtains closed. "It's fine, 
Libby," she sighed. "The wind caught the window is all."

The small woman took several steps into the spacious kitchen. "It's 
dark in here. You should have more lanterns."

"More lanterns will burn more oil," Meg commented, turning to face 
the serving girl. "You know Paul's philosophy on that."

Libby giggled at her sarcastic tone. "The train has arrived. We 
should be getting a few more guests."

"Did you build up the fire in the front room?"

When Libby nodded, Meg took a final glance around the 
kitchen. "Watch things in here while I check on the empty rooms?"

Upstairs, she hurried through their four available rooms. She and 
Libby had cleaned them just that morning, but she wanted to be sure 
there were no wayward items left behind by previous guests. As she 
straightened the towels on the rack near the water basin, she 
happened to glance up and catch sight of her reflection.

What she saw was a bedraggled young woman, red hair falling from pins 
that desperately tried to keep it in place, and a thin face with 
heavily shadowed eyes. She saw an eighteen-year-old girl who had no 
business running a large boarding house with just one staff member.  
A few more years of this and she'd be a doddering old woman.

Meg heard Libby calling from downstairs a moment later. Reaching up, 
she tried to smooth her hair back from her face. She ran her fingers 
down the front of her threadbare dress, willing the wrinkles to 
straighten themselves out. Sighing, she took one last look at the 
drawn face gazing back at her from the mirror before turning to head 
back downstairs.

As she approached the drawing room, she heard the clipped tones of a 
British accent, followed by Libby's chastened murmur. Meg frowned at 
the idea of some ruthless prospector browbeating her friend. Libby 
was a gentle soul, and far too vulnerable to the attacks of others.

The British woman continued to speak as Meg entered the room, her 
back to the door. "I'm sure you understand that Miss Arceneaux is 
accustomed to far grander facilities," the woman sniffed as Libby 
gazed up at her fearfully.

"And I'm sure you'll find that we run the finest establishment in 
Silver Springs," Meg said coolly. "Miss Arceneaux is welcome to stay 
in one of Bo Garrison's tents if she feels otherwise."

The Englishwoman whirled in surprise. Her waspish tongue was hardly 
complemented by her bland features. Meg swallowed back the words 
before speaking them aloud.

"I beg your pardon?" the woman demanded.

"Tsk, tsk," a voice spoke from the hall. "I see you have already 
endeared us to our hosts, dear Martha."

Turning to face their newest arrival, Meg found herself grasping the 
door jam for support. The woman standing before her was the most 
beautiful thing she'd ever seen. This was a lady, not a mere woman, 
she reminded herself. There hadn't been such a refined presence here 
in all of Silver Springs's history.

The woman's pink dress was silk, and cut to the highest fashion, Meg 
would wager. Her blonde hair was swept up under a wide-brimmed hat, 
which was clasped firmly against her head with a silk ribbon tied 
into a bow under her chin. She took a step forward, and Meg heard a 
pleasant rustle of cloth accompany the movement. The scent of 
rosewater filled the air around her.

"I must apologize for my chaperone," she said to Meg. Her accent was 
far more musical than her companion's, though she seemed to be 
consciously masking it. Meg assumed it was French.

"She has more of an affinity with books than she does with people," 
Miss Arceneaux continued. "I am sure that your accommodations are 
more than sufficient for our needs."

"My lady has been traveling for a fortnight," Martha 
interjected. "She would very much like a bath, and some rest."

"Of course," Meg nodded. "Libby will be happy to show you to your 
rooms as soon as we've settled your bill."

The woman clucked at her as though to say, "What else do I expect 
from an American?" Reaching into the small bag dangling from her 
wrist, she fished out a few coins. Her expression suggested she 
wanted to throw them at Meg's feet. Instead, she walked forward and 
placed them gently in Meg's outstretched palm.

"Supper is at six sharp," Meg called after them as Martha and Libby 
turned to leave the drawing room.

Miss Arceneaux glanced toward the hall window, where the inky 
blackness of perpetual night pressed seductively against the 
glass. "What time is it now?" she asked.

"Shortly after two o'clock in the afternoon," Meg responded. At the 
woman's shocked expression, she added, "We finally lost daylight last 
week. But we'll gain a few hours back soon enough."

"It must be maddening," Miss Arceneaux said, her eyes widening.

Meg shrugged. "One is forced to adapt. Now, if you'll just follow 
Libby up to your rooms, I'll prepare your bath water."

She watched the women climb the stairs, confused by her reaction to 
the lady. Meg seemed unable to take her eyes off her. She appeared 
to be so delicate, so fine?Meg felt like a bumbling oaf in her 
presence. Glancing down at her hands, she cringed at how rough and 
swollen they appeared. Miss Arceneaux's hands were protected by 
clean white gloves. Meg guessed she didn't have a mark on that 
creamy white skin.

She shook her head and hurried back to the kitchen. What was she 
doing pondering the appearance of a perfect stranger's modest parts?  
Her behavior was becoming most peculiar. She'd have to watch herself 
when Paul returned. Clasping the coins in her fist, Meg sneered. If 
he returned from Tilly's, the brothel on the other side of town. If 
the whores hadn't bled him dry and left him with something more to 
spend. She'd hide this money beneath the floorboards before her 
husband came home.

Nearly an hour later, Libby returned from her tenth trip upstairs to 
the lady's room. She'd dragged two buckets of water each time, and 
was clearly showing fatigue. "Miss Reginald says her charge is ready 
for the rinsing water."

Meg stopped her as she approached the stove. "Let me take the last 
two up. You get off your feet a few minutes."

Libby sighed. "Oh, I thank you." She sat at the table in relief.

Meg managed to get upstairs without sloshing too much water on the 
floor. At the closed door on the right-hand side of the hall, she 
lowered one bucket to free her hand and knock.

"Enter," a musical voice called from inside.

Expecting the chaperone to answer, Meg froze. For a moment, she 
found herself strangely unable to turn the doorknob and open the 
door. When her pause became too extended, the voice inside grew 
irritable.

"Please come inside, I am unable to answer myself."

Meg knew at that point that Miss Reginald was no longer in the room.  
Hands shaking, she opened the door, picked up the second bucket, and 
slowly slunk into the room. Thankfully, Miss Arceneaux was hidden 
from view behind a wooden screen. The tub had been placed in the 
corner of the room, which was lit by a lantern resting on a chair 
beside it. Meg thought it interesting that the woman had chosen the 
smallest of the two rooms offered, and even more interesting that 
Miss Reginald, who seemed so adamant about her charge's comfort, had 
obligingly taken the larger.

Clearing her throat, Meg murmured, "I have your rinsing water here."

"Oh, thank you Mrs. Glass," Miss Arceneaux called. "Could I impose 
upon you to bring it here? My chaperone seems to have other affairs 
to attend to at the moment."

Meg frowned. Go behind that screen? She didn't think she was able, 
not without alerting the woman to her nervousness. But refusing 
would appear even more suspicious. She was a married woman, after 
all. Meg sighed inaudibly.

"Of course, I'd be happy to," she said, forcing a bright note into 
her voice.

Although Paul was known for scrimping on the strangest of comforts, 
he'd actually done well by his guests with their tub. The copper tub 
was so massive it took both she and Libby to haul it around.  
According to Libby, however, Miss Arceneaux had helped her with it 
herself. Libby said it had never felt so light. So when Meg circled 
the screen, all she could see of Miss Arceneaux was her head and 
upper shoulders.

Her guest had arrived with her own fragrances and soaps, for no 
bathwater at the boarding house had ever before smelled so fine. Meg 
was accustomed to bathing with lye soap that tended to burn if 
accidentally rubbed into the eyes. When Miss Arceneaux heard Meg 
approach, she tilted her head back and waited.

It was obvious what she wanted. Heaving another silent sigh, Meg 
stepped closer and rested one bucket on the floor. Slowly turning 
the first bucket above the bathing woman's head, she ran warm water 
over the sudsy bubbles encapsulating her golden hair. When the woman 
reached up to rub to soap out, her back arched further out of the 
water.

Meg's eyes strayed toward the soft curves just barely visible around 
the line of Miss Arceneaux's back. She was saved from further 
torment by the odd marks marring the woman's skin just above the 
water. Four thick slashes ran from the center of her back to her 
right side. Meg gasped in spite of herself.

Miss Arceneaux straightened in response, immediately glancing around 
as though looking for something. "What is it?" she asked.

"My apologies, Miss Arceneaux," Meg stammered. "I should not remark 
upon it, but your injury?"

The woman relaxed. Craning her neck, she looked behind herself to 
meet Meg's gaze. Her soft smile made Meg's heart skip a beat. "It 
is an old one," she said. "And please, call me Giselle. I am not 
such a fine lady that you should pay me this respect. You may be 
surprised by the situations in which I have found myself in times 
past."

Meg knew she was hinting at a criminal history. "Those are not lash 
marks," she commented, growing bolder. "They almost look animal."

Giselle's smile faded a bit before returning with full force. "You 
should not fret over such things," she said. Her accent was suddenly 
a bit stronger. "It is but a remnant of a past life. Now if you 
please?the other bucket?"

Meg reached for the second bucket of water and continued to rinse 
Giselle's hair. Handing the woman a towel, she fled the area before 
Giselle stood from her bath. "I must return to the kitchen," she 
murmured apologetically. "Our supper won't cook itself."

Downstairs, Meg took a moment in the hallway to compose herself.  
Thankfully none of the other guests had passed her as she left 
Giselle's room. Her face seemed permanently flushed red.

"I must be ill," she muttered. The warmth grew whenever her mind 
strayed toward thoughts of Miss Arceneaux.

Libby didn't seem to suspect anything strange as they worked together 
to cook the evening meal. By six o'clock, the dining room was filled 
with the sounds of chatter and raucous laughter. The majority of 
their guests were male, normally the better off prospectors before 
they went off to find their fortunes in the wilds. Meg demanded 
payment before each guest was allowed to spend the night. It made 
for far fewer unpaid bills.

The room grew quiet suddenly just before Meg prepared to bring out 
the first course. Curious, she peeked through the swinging door in 
the kitchen and into the dining area. Miss Arceneaux had made an 
appearance, and it had struck the men dumb. Chuckling to herself, 
she hauled the first dish into the room.

"Where's Paul tonight, Meg?" Mr. Weeks called.

She smiled at his impetuousness. Weeks never meant any harm, but he 
had a way of asking the most inappropriate questions. Living among 
dozens of men each month, Meg was hardly fazed. She responded 
tartly, "I should ask Tilly the same question."

The men roared with laughter, until they realized the female presence 
in the room. Glancing towards Miss Arceneaux, they quieted almost 
shamefully. The blonde woman hardly noticed the gaffe. Meg 
remembered that she'd only just arrived in town and had no way of 
knowing who ran the town's most visible whorehouse.

Meg smiled before easing out of the room to finish collecting that 
evening's fare. She had a feeling Miss Arceneaux would not have 
found offense even if she did understand the joke.

When they all were finally seated to eat, the men each found their 
own way to question Miss Arceneaux about her business in Silver 
Springs. Without Miss Reginald present to waylay any inappropriate 
questioning, the men grew even bolder in their curiosity.

"I will arrive in Birming sometime next week to meet my intended," 
Miss Arceneaux explained to Mr. Weeks at one point during the 
meal. "He is the newly appointed mayor of that city."

"Birming's doing fine business," Mr. Weeks nodded sagely. "Your man 
should do well there."

"As long as the vein doesn't dry up," Mr. Harrison 
interjected. "I've seen a busy town dry up like sagebrush and fly 
away just months after the gold disappeared."

"Such a thing to say," Meg chastised him. "Don't make her overly 
fearful before she's even made her home there."

"I'm only speaking the truth, Meg," he defended.

Miss Arceneaux shook her head. "Do not worry for my feelings on the 
matter, Mrs. Glass," she said. "My fiancé and myself both are very 
comfortable."

Meg was quiet for the remainder of the meal. Her mind spun so that 
she hardly heard the rest of what Giselle had to say. The woman was 
on her way to be married to some fat old man, more than likely. Meg 
could only imagine what would happen to her after a few years of that 
arrangement. She quietly mourned the death of this girl's spirit, 
which would surely not survive the winter in this climate.

Meg was finally allowed to retire much later that evening. She 
normally waited for the last guest to leave the public areas of the 
house before climbing the stairs to the third floor and their 
apartments. That evening she was already asleep by the time Paul 
stumbled into the bedroom. Her eyes flew open when he lit the 
lantern and began removing his clothing. He smelled of smoke and 
whiskey.

"We have two new guests today," she told him. He merely grunted in 
reply.

She gazed at the large belly poking out through the buttons of his 
long johns. It had only grown during their two year marriage. She 
hadn't thought much upon it in the past, but now she found herself 
disgusted by his body. At least it was a rare moment that he 
demanded his husbandly rights.

Paul fell into bed and immediately pulled the majority of the 
blankets his way. Meg bit her tongue rather than argue this sore 
point yet again, and leaned back against her pillows. When her 
husband started snoring a few minutes later, she found her mind 
filled with thoughts of Giselle. Next to the hairy, smelly body of 
the only man she'd ever been intimate with in her life, their newest 
guest seemed almost heavenly. Meg found herself wondering at the 
texture of her hair, and how her skin might feel.

An hour later, she flipped the blankets away from herself and rose 
from bed, unable to sleep. The water pitcher on a nearby table was 
empty, and her throat impossibly parched. Meg threw on her robe and 
grabbed the pitcher, heading downstairs to the kitchen.

After leisurely filling the pitcher and taking a drink of water, Meg 
was ready to return to bed. Normally Libby was highly aware of her 
movements, and would have joined her at the kitchen table. Her 
activity that day must have overly tired her. She was likely 
sleeping soundly in her small room on the third floor.

Meg placed her hand on the door that lead to the back hallway, about 
to push it open, when she heard the sound of someone coming down the 
stairs. Her first instinct was to continue opening the door and 
greet Libby, thinking the woman had risen after all. But the 
movement didn't sound at all like her friend. It was far too 
cautious. Whoever it was didn't want anyone to hear him moving 
about. Meg opened the door a crack and peered through into the dark 
hallway.

She saw a small figure reach the bottom of the staircase and continue 
forward toward the back door. At first she assumed the person was a 
man, for he wore brown trousers and vest under a heavy jacket. His 
head was covered by a knit cap. But a slant of moonlight caught the 
person's face as he approached the window near the back door. The 
features exposed were not male in the slightest.

Meg almost gasped to recognize Giselle. What was she doing going 
outside in the middle of the night? Each room had a perfectly 
serviceable chamber pot beneath the bed; she had no reason to visit 
the outhouses in the dead of night. And certainly not dressed as a 
man. Suspicious, Meg watched the woman leave the house, then rushed 
back upstairs to her bedroom.

She was careful not to wake her husband, but she needed to hurry.  
Meg couldn't afford to lose Giselle, not if she wanted to know what 
she was up to. Taking the lead from her guest, she grabbed an old 
pair of Paul's pants, ones that were now too small for his frame.  
She threw a sweater over her this and took his jacket as well. After 
slipping her feet into a pair of boots, she was ready.

Outside, a pair of footprints lead away from the tracks heading out 
toward the outhouses. Meg followed them across the yard and through 
an alleyway until she reached Harbor Street. There the trail went 
cold when heavy traffic masked the woman's footprints in the snow.  
The street was nearly empty tonight. The only people she could see 
was a small cluster of men at the lower end of the street, toward the 
lake. There wasn't an actual harbor at the end of Harbor Street, but 
the lake was large enough to afford a few docks for fishing boats and 
the like.

She realized the group of men were actually in the midst of a 
struggle, and took several steps toward them. She stayed near the 
buildings on the opposite side of the street as she approached, 
trying to stay out of sight. It wasn't the first brawl she'd seen, 
but one never wanted to get in the middle of a fight.

Meg heard the growl of an animal ring through the winter air and 
paused to duck behind some wooden crates piled in front of Henry 
Drinker's general store. Curious, she peeked around and saw that she 
was at the perfect vantage point to see that activity ahead. There 
were four men involved in the melee?with a fifth figure standing at 
the center of the group. Meg frowned. The fifth man was much 
smaller than the others.

Gasping, Meg realized it was Giselle. How on earth had the woman 
managed to pick a fight not ten minutes after leaving the house? She 
watched fearfully, knowing she might have to jump in and assist at 
any moment.

"I really don't have time for this," Giselle was saying. "If you 
simply answer my question, this will be far less painful."

The men laughed at her statement. One of them leaned in close, 
towering over her in an extremely predatory posture. Meg jerked 
forward in response, accidentally striking one of the crates. The 
sound was like a shot in the quiet night. Two of the men whipped 
around when they heard it, their features bathed by moonlight.

Meg caught her breath at the sight of them. Their faces were 
deformed, twisted with strange ridges that protruded from their 
brows. She thought she saw a yellow glow in their eyes. When the 
first drew back his lips, she saw two elongated canine teeth emerging 
from his mouth. She was frozen with shock. What were they?

"Please pay attention when someone is speaking to you," Giselle said, 
poking the first man. Her light shove somehow managed to throw him 
several feet away from her. The man nearly lost his balance and went 
sprawling across the snow in the street.

One of the men behind her darted forward, trying to take her by 
surprise. Giselle ducked and crouched in the snow just before his 
arms circled her shoulders. From this position, she kicked back, 
slamming her foot into his kneecap. The man cried out in pain. Back 
on her feet again, Giselle threw a quick jab into his face. Meg 
noticed she was carrying something in her other hand just as she 
thrust it against the man's chest. At first she thought it was a 
knife, and her stomach dropped when Giselle actually stabbed the man 
with her weapon. A moment later the man was gone, seemingly 
vanishing in a sudden cloud of dust.

Giselle turned away from the mess an instant later and faced the 
remainder of her adversaries. The three remaining men stared at her 
a moment before simultaneously whirling and running off into the 
night. Meg grasped the crate in front of her tightly, afraid to move 
for fear the woman would see her. She'd never seen someone murdered 
before, not even here where a man could be shot for flashing a bit 
too much gold in front of the wrong people. And she'd never seen 
anyone just vanish into thin air like that.

Meg nearly fainted when Giselle turned to look straight at her hiding 
place. "You can come out now," she called with her light accent. "I 
know you're back there."

When she took a step out from behind the crates, Giselle shook her 
head. "You shouldn't have seen that," she warned, moving closer.

Meg clenched her hands into fists, positive that Giselle was about to 
kill her for witnessing her crime. The knife in her hand?was a piece 
of wood, sharpened at the tip. Meg frowned when she realized that 
Giselle was not holding a weapon after all.

"What will you do?" Meg whispered fearfully.

Giselle paused, an expression of shock crossing her features. "What 
do you mean??" she started, then burst out laughing. "You think I 
mean to harm you? Silly girl," she exclaimed.

"But you just killed that man?" Meg stammered.

Giselle shook her head. "I see I have a few things to explain now," 
she said. "But first, we need to get in out of the cold. Will you 
trust me long enough to walk you home?"

Meg stared at Giselle's outstretched hand for several moments before 
finally taking it and turning back toward the boarding house. An 
explanation was indeed required.

To be continued?