Of Welsh Sounding Part Immortals by NimbustheMariner
Disclaimer: Nights is not mine, nor is BtVS which belongs to Joss Whedon and Lord of the Rings, which belongs to the Tolkien estate. Emrys is mine, and features in my HP/LOTR crossover on FF.net (I go by Nimbus Llewelyn if you want to check it out).
Xander was cleaning a glass when he heard a loud thumping, some light clanking and some vaguely Welsh sounding swearing. The swearer, a blonde young man dressed in light armour with a White Horse insignia and two short swords at his waist, stumbled out of the cupboard, looked around in puzzlement, then shrugged, and said in a lilting voice, “Seen weirder. Where am I?”
“I’m Xander. This is ‘Nights’, my bar in Cleveland, Ohio, the United States of America on planet Earth, the Sol system. I’m guessing you’re an inter dimensional traveller,” Xander said. The young man, barely older than he had been when first facing vampires, looked at him in surprise as the wards went off. Mostly human, but with a fair chunk of divine in there, probably some variety of angel.
“We get interdimensional travellers here every other day. Most come through the broom cupboard but Pixel, the small ginger kitten in front of you, comes and goes as he pleases,” Xander explained.
“A tavern that caters to the weird and hard to explain, eh?” the young man said with a smirk, picking up the small cat and stroking it. “Sounds like I and my friends would fit in just fine. I’m Emrys. Emrys Ap Derfel,” he added, sticking out his free hand to shake. Xander shook it.
Emrys studied the man in front of him. Just because he was a cheerful bartender in some alternate version of Harry’s world didn’t mean he hadn’t been something else once, and he moved like he knew how to fight and was well aware of how dangerous he was, a bit like Theodred or Boromir. That and the fact that he had muscles big enough to make the largest and most bloodthirsty Uruk wary.
“Can I have a drink?”
“Sure, but I’ll need ID if you want alcohol,” Xander warned.
“Identification, proof of age, that sort of thing.”
Emrys sighed. “I don’t have any of that. I don’t think I have any money on me, which is annoying since I really need a drink. And this bar seems as good as any, even if that strange ball is winking at me and I feel inexplicably drawn to that tap down there,” he sighed, gesturing at God’s skee ball and the Holy Tab.
Xander took pity on him. “Sometimes I trade a story and occasionally a souvenir for a drink. Besides, the one you’re drawn to goes free. I feel it would be wrong to sell Tab that self-replenishes and has been blessed by the daughter of God.”
“I’ll try some of this… Tab, you call it?” Emrys said, receiving a nod of confirmation. “And I’ll tell you my story.” Xander obligingly got out a glass, filled it, and sat down to listen.
“My story starts in the Dunland, a land in Middle Earth. My parents were a shepherd and minor nobility from Rohan, the archenemies of Dunland, because they took Lloegyr, our lost lands, several centuries ago…”
Xander listened, enthralled, as Emrys spun him a tale of friendship, love, magic, war, Harry Potter inspired chaos, laughter and obscene amounts of violence, and his own occasionally peripheral role in a war to save two worlds.
“… now, I’m just very tired. The war’s over, and I have all that I could possibly want, but I feel out of place. My newly discovered talents lie mostly in war, unlike my sister, whose healing and singing will always be sought after, and all the others have known each other for years.”
Xander smiled and said, “So you feel a little left out. I get that. That story’s worth at least a beer and a soup, if you want it that is. We’ve got chicken or vegetable, with freshly baked bread.”
Emrys nodded gratefully, and finished his Tab, still stroking a purring Pixel. Xander came back through with chicken soup and a Rohirric Ale, the provenance of which he was distinctly silent on.
“Speaking of Harry Potter’s, we’ve had at least ten in here,” Xander mused as Emrys ate, causing the young man to stare disbelievingly at him.
“Yeah, five turned up three weeks ago and decided to go world hopping. Last I heard they were having the time of their lives.”
Emrys snorted. “That sounds very like him. First thing the crazy bastard did after coming back from the dead was steal his best friend’s beer as he was giving a toast at the wake.”
“You want to work off some stress?” Xander asked as the man finished his soup. “We’ve got our own brand of superpowered warrior around here called a Slayer, and an elder god bound in human form, and they’re always ready to spar. Plus, there are always vampires in need of slaying.”
Emrys perked up. “If it isn’t any trouble…”
“Nah. Most of the girls complain they don’t get enough chances to fight a decent opponent, and a guy who kills trolls would be one. Besides, they get their powers at about fourteen or fifteen, so they can relate to the sudden change in lifestyle,” Xander said, dialling Buffy’s number.
“Hey Buff! Yeah, I’ve got a customer here who wants to spar with someone and from what the wards are telling me, he could go up against a Slayer… you sure? Cool, that’s great!”
He put down the phone and turned back to Emrys. “Buffy,” he pointed at the picture of Buffy, “the oldest and strongest slayer, is coming down herself. We’ve got a sparring area out back, since the Slayer’s come down here fairly often. She’s a lot stronger than she looks, so don’t be fooled.”
Emrys chuckled. “I’ve seen Ginny Potter fight. I watched her tear apart an army solo and she’s quite small too, so I know very well that size is no guarantee of power.”
“Blert,” Pixel went in agreement. Emrys looked at the cat in puzzlement for a moment, then finished his ale and waited.
A couple of hours later, Xander reckoned he would have to change all the gear in the sparring room. Less because of the fighting, and more because of the rowdiness of the crowd that had turned up to see someone go toe to toe with the oldest Slayer and give her a serious run for her money, making up for a lack of skill and experience with sheer speed and strength, though eventually Buffy won by nutting him. When he came round a couple of minutes later, he grinned blearily and asked for another drink to loud cheers.
Several drinks later, and still somehow sober (Xander put it down to the plus side of being… whatever Emrys was), Emrys unbuckled his swords.
“You said that sometimes people leave a souvenir. Well, all I have to give you are my swords,” he said apologetically, handing one of the simple, yet beautiful with much horse related insignia on the hilt, over to Xander who nodded his thanks, hanging it horizontally just below the Ivanhoe. The second he drew slowly from its battered scabbard, then he whispered something and his eyes flashed white, a pale glow appearing around it, and some writing in an ornate script. “This one is for the Slayer,” he said, handing to Buffy with a bow. “It’s blessed with the best enchantments I can give it. Hopefully it will help you in your battles as it has helped me in mine. Farewell, Xander, Lady Slayer. I hope to see you again someday,” he said, waving as he walked back into the cupboard.
“See ya!” Xander called, then looked back at Buffy who had said an absent good bye and was examining the script.
“What’s it say, Buff?”
She smiled slightly and handed it over. Raising the sword into the light, Xander read a simple three word inscription: Tiny, but fierce.
They both looked up in surprise as Emrys poked his head back in. “Oh, and my sister’s just told me to pass on a message. ‘Remember table 17’, if that means anything to you.” Then he left again and Xander groaned, putting his face in his hands while Buffy sniggered.