Mightier Than the Sword

Home : Stories by Author : Stories by Elsa Frohman : Mightier Than the Sword

Summary: William's LJ. It's entirely AU. No spoilers of any kind were harmed in the writing of this fic.

AUTHOR: Elsa Frohman
EMAIL: elsa@frohman.net
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING: Buffy/William (sort of)
SPOILERS: None... this is so AU that nothing counts
AUTHOR'S NOTE: 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.
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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.

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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.

The End

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Elsa Frohman - elsa@frohman.net