Entry tags:
Fic: Divided Destiny. Chapter 19
Another 5000 word chapter. It's true, I can't do short, however this is a proper tale. Hope you enjoy.
First chapter & notes here (on LJ), for DW just follow the tags, and Master post of whole 'verse here (also tagged on DW).
Can also be found on AO3.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: Teen. (Same warnings as the show basically.)
Characters: Spike, Angel, Illyria, Buffy, Scoobies + cameos from more or less everyone in the 'verse.
Main Ships: Spike/Buffy, Angel/Nina
Feedback: Is bloody ambrosia! (The secret ingredient is otter...)
Word count (this chapter): 5000 words
Setting and Summary: As before. (Post-NFA epic quest thing.)
Beta: The ever wonderful![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kathyh
Chapter 19
They found themselves in a forest glade.
This in itself was not unusual, as they had trudged through many a forest in their travels so far: Dank, dingy forests overrun with spider webs and lichen; old forests where forgotten magic lay hidden in dark pools and fossilised trees; forests filled with ferns and other growing things, impossible to navigate; tall, foreboding forests, so silent it felt as if the air they didn’t breathe was bearing down on them, and every unpleasant alternative in between.
But this forest looked as if they’d stepped into a Disney movie.
Soft sunshine filtered through a light leaf cover, bird song surrounded them, the grass at their feet wafted in a gentle breeze - Angel half expected to see Bambi daintily stepping out, as a blue butterfly drowsily fluttered past, its colour and pattern so exquisite that he found himself quite simply watching it.
“Where are we?” he eventually asked - expecting it to be an illusion, or a holding dimension, or some place with deadly sunshine, or a heavenly dimension where they would be struck down by righteous lightning any second - but Illyria merely tilted her head, honing into goodness knew what, then did a swift nod.
“Our quest is certain here,” she said, but Spike frowned.
“That’s not what he asked. What’s the catch?”
“Catch?” Illyria repeated, and Spike gestured towards their surroundings.
“Just sayin’ it looks too good to be true. And it don’t…”
He hesitated.
“It don’t feel evil, y’know?”
“I sense power,” Illyria replied, with that patented long-suffering look she was getting very good at. “Old, but strong.”
Clearly feeling that she had over-shared to the point of molly-coddling she then set off walking, Angel and Spike cautiously following.
The sun didn’t make them combust. No freaky demons attacked. The forest kept being beautiful.
After a while they heard the sound of water - it swiftly grew louder, and soon they came to another clearing, except here a waterfall tumbled down some forty feet, landing in a perfect lake, surrounded by grass so green it looked almost edible.
“Screw it, I’m getting clean!” Spike announced, casually shedding clothing as he made his way to the lake. Angel had to agree that this was not a bad idea - they badly needed a break, and this was too good an opportunity to turn down.
Which was how he found himself lazily swimming in the lake a little later, the simple pleasure somehow more than he could explain.
Spike had - after ‘showering’ under the waterfall - laid down spread eagle on the grass, soaking up the sunshine. Angel idly wondered if they could actually get sunburned.
Diving down, he watched fish skimming in and out of the shadows, the water as clear as glass.
Maybe it was all a dream? If so, he hoped it was one he wouldn’t wake from for a long time.
Somewhere, at the back of his mind, there was the thought that he must have gotten over the trauma of having been dumped at the bottom of the ocean…
He knew there would be a catch (Pylea never forgotten), even if Illyria didn’t understand the concept, but right now he was beyond caring. A few minutes pure bliss…
(It was a lie. It was always a lie.)
The one time he had allowed himself to believe, his soul had been wrenched from him…
One moment there had been Buffy - young and beautiful and innocent, and if she could love him, then maybe he was worthy of being saved - the next moment (or so it had seemed) she had thrust a sword through his heart.
It was a lesson he’d not needed to learn twice.
Was that one of the reasons he had found it so difficult to move past Buffy? If she hadn’t symbolised redemption, might they just have drifted apart? He almost smiled. No, impossible. She was special, even outside of his own personal feelings…
The fish - silver scales glinting - shone like tiny beacons of light; as beautiful and elusive as his own hopes and dreams had once been.
When he returned to the surface, he saw that Spike had turned over and was now resting on his elbows, watching him with an amused look on his face.
“Been thinking Peaches, we look like the cover of some gay romance…”
Feeling too mellow to rise to the bait, Angel with lazy strokes made his way to the edge of the lake.
“Spike - do us a favour and keep your fantasies to yourself in future,” he said, as he, too, stretched out on the grass.
Bliss. Just for a few more moments.
***
It took a week before they discovered the catch.
The forest eventually gave way to grasslands, and after a while they came across grazing cattle, so they were expecting settlements of some kind. Seeing smoke in the distance, they altered their course, but began to get worried as they saw no signs of life as they got nearer.
The reason soon became obvious - the smoke was not from the homesteads’ chimneys, but from the homesteads themselves burning. The village had been sacked and torched, the streets littered with the dead - from children to the elderly, no one had been spared. The inhabitants had been demons - simple farmers from what they could tell, their clothing rough with a minimum of decorations. Their skin was grey and mottled, and they had two short, blunt horns. Not a species any of them particularly recognised - not that it mattered now.
They walked in silence, taking in the devastation but unsure what to do - if anything. It looked like simple, wanton destruction, and the dead could not speak.
More by accident than by design they eventually ended up in the village square, where they saw that the tall pole in the middle had a warrior tied to it, beaten and bloodied. Except to their surprise the warrior stirred, slowly lifting his head.
“Christ,” Spike muttered, rushing forward to cut the ropes and then trying to support the body that collapsed in his arms.
“Angel - water?” he asked, and after a swift search Angel found a water pail that was still half-full.
Water - and a bit of the scotch from Spike’s hip flask - restored the warrior enough to sit up and speak, and they discovered she was female.
She related what had happened in a low monotone, sentences short and clipped, no emotion on her face. It was depressingly familiar.
“They came with no warning. Wanted ‘taxes’. We are poor, we have no money. We offered heirlooms, grain, anything we had. They spat at us. Burned our barns. Then - they took the young, the beautiful. As slaves for their Lord. We tried to fight. In return they murdered us. I am the warrior of the village, but they were too many. They overpowered me. Tied me up. Made me watch. They killed my mother, my father, my brother. Took my sister. I watched the blood of my family, my friends, everyone I know water the soil. Then they left.”
Illyria stood to one side, immobile and her face never betraying any emotion, Spike swore quietly under his breath, but Angel leaned forward.
“Who were ‘they’?”
“Hired soldiers. Scum in service of our new ‘Lord’. We lived in peace for years untold. But then he came… We don’t know where from. Terror grew. The traders told of henchmen, barbarians who would plunder and rape on their master’s orders. But we thought we were safe. That we were too insignificant for them to notice. We were wrong.”
She stared ahead, and Angel wished he could offer words of comfort. Except he knew the other side far too well. They destroyed quite simply because they could. He wasn’t sure how to explain that.
***
The warrior’s name was Venka. They spent a few days in the village, helping her to get her strength back, and assembling a funeral pyre.
It was heartbreaking work - especially gathering up the children - but Angel worked with quiet, grim determination, unable to forget those who had been caught in the crossfire of his own plans. As innocent as these, and equally mourned. It seemed somehow fitting that he should be here, helping. Spike noticed how he kept working, long after Spike had settled down to eat and rest. But Angel shot him a single look, and Spike merely nodded, absentmindedly playing with the charm around his neck.
Whoever this new overlord was, Angel hated him already. He seemed to be a recent phenomenon, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, and Angel couldn’t make sense of it.
Warlords didn’t rise up out of nothing, henchmen and militia couldn’t be summoned out of thin air. He paused. Well, maybe they could… Or they could come from another dimension. Had this Kustos (as he was named) come like Illyria, but with an army?
The place - quiet, beautiful, peaceful - had been ripe for invasion, as unprepared as the native Americans had been for the Europeans. Venka told them that her role had been mostly honorary, sword skills and fighting handed down as an archaic tradition.
“Always women?” Spike asked, and she nodded. “Men are physically stronger, needed in the fields, working. Women are more supple, better at the swiftness of movement.”
Spike’s eyes seemed to glow in the evening dusk.
“Bloody well need to introduce you to my girlfriend…”
Venka abruptly looked away, and Spike opened his mouth then closed it again.
She’d not mentioned a lover, but any sort of reminder of other people’s families was clearly painful. Angel wished that he was better at reaching out, that he could do something to support her in her grief - on the other hand, her stoic nature might not lend itself well to offers of sympathy. He hoped the physical work they were doing would help, or at least lend her some closure.
***
The third evening they lit the pyre.
Grateful that he didn’t need to breathe, Angel watched the flames leap up, consuming straw, wood and bodies, wishing he didn’t remember other fires, wishing they’d been wrong about there being ‘a catch’.
As the fire grew more intense, the flames reaching into the dark sky, obscuring the stars, the vampires moved back, but Venka stood still, as unmoving as Illyria, even as the heat began to crisp the edges of her hair and clothing.
Not until morning dawned did the fire burn down, a monument of death and ash that made Angel shiver. He saw Venka unsheathe her knife, then carefully cut her palm before stepping forward, the blood falling into the still glowing embers.
And then she spoke:
“I shall not rest until my blood kin has been avenged. I shall not rest until my vengeance is complete and my foe is at my feet. May my blood turn to ash and my bones to cinders if I ever steer from my path.”
Illyria cocked her head, and spoke for the first time in several days.
“I like her.”
***
After five more days of walking, they caught the horses.
Riding sped up their travel considerably, which was a relief. The main issue turned out to be convincing Illyria; they had presumed she’d be happy to have a steed - surely it would be better than walking - but she didn’t think the horse was worthy to carry her. It took Spike to lose his temper and yell that he was riding, and if she wanted to be left behind, fine, so be it. If Kustos had any unicorns he’d send her one, presuming a unicorn would be fit for her royal arse?
Venka had been puzzled by the exchange, asking if Illyria were some kind of queen?
Spike had leapt onto his horse (he was surprisingly adept at riding bareback, and merely grinned wickedly when Angel mentioned it, making Angel suspect some kind of unsavoury tale), before drawling a reply:
“Oh she’s a God King no less - one of the Old Ones. But don’t let that bother you Venka, she has plenty of worshippers. Our job is different.”
Venka had turned to Illyria, a sudden strange gleam in her eyes:
“If you are a god, could you save my village?”
Illyria looked struck by something - pain or sadness, the tiniest flicker of emotion, gone so quickly Angel thought he had imagined it.
“My true splendour would outshine the sun and hide the stars. But I have lost the power to restore life, to alter the world and walk through time as befits my nature. I merely live for vengeance against those who so muted me.”
Whatever Venka had hoped for, this seemed to satisfy her.
The grasslands had scattered greenery, occasional picturesque streams and endless blue skies, and misty mountains in the distance, like something out of a fantasy novel.
But the grasslands also appeared to be more or less endless. From what Venka had heard from passing traders, Lord Kustos had set up his home at the foot of the distant mountains, and they began wondering about the best way to confront him. Illyria wanted to march through the doors and demand an audience, but Angel was leaning more towards stealth. Although maybe both? With Illyria as a decoy…
Somehow their own quest and Venka’s vengeance had become intertwined, although how Kustos could throw light on the Dead Key was a mystery Angel tried not to dwell on. Maybe he’d built his castle on top of some ancient treasure trove?
Food had become another problem, until they spotted the flock of antelope-like animals. Spike perked up, practically licking his lips.
“So, how fast d’you reckon our horses can run?”
“What do you mean?” Angel asked, as Venka and Illyria slowed their steeds beside them.
“I mean, it’s huntin’ time!” Spike grinned, letting his vamp face out. “C’mon Angel, let your inner predator out, just once…”
Angel hesitated, then glanced at Illyria and Venka.
“We will herd them towards you, OK?”
“Letting me have all the fun? Well, I’m not about to complain,” Spike replied, and moments later their plan was in motion.
Angel hadn’t quite known how Spike would approach the situation, but marvelled as he leaped from horseback to bolting animal, fangs in its throat even as it crashed to the ground, its herd-mates fleeing in terror all around.
Venka galloped up to Angel, and momentarily he was worried that she’d be disgusted at the sight of such primitive vampire feeding.
Instead - after watching Spike silently for a minute - she turned to Angel:
“He is a great hunter, as well as a warrior. Tell me - why are you here? Why do you help me? What is this world to you?”
She had so far not asked any questions, and Angel thought she had probably been in shock. They had explained who they were, in basic terms, but he had expected this day.
“Look, let’s tie up the horses and get a fire going. There’ll be plenty of meat on that animal for you, and while it cooks we can tell you our story?”
She studied him with those guarded, haunted eyes, and nodded.
As evening fell, the stars twinkling above them like so many magical fairy tales, he tried to curate their story into something she could both understand and accept.
She did more than that - she managed to grasp the underlying unspoken issues, as ever displaying her characteristic bluntness.
“You know these evils well. What did you lose to make you fight thus?”
Her question left Angel silenced, and the oddness of the situation suddenly hit home. They never made friends on their travels. Had never before trusted anyone enough for them to even ask such a question.
Spike half-smiled, throwing another twig on the fire.
“Let me explain... No, there is too much. Let me sum up.”
He stopped, shooting Angel an odd glance that Angel couldn’t work out, before asking (with a hint of exasperation):
“Seriously? You didn’t get that reference?”
“What do you mean?” Angel asked, by now deeply puzzled, and Spike shook his head.
“Movie marathon when we get back, mate. No discussion.”
“What is this?” Venka asked, looking even more confused, and Spike chuckled.
“Nevermind him. But in answer to your question… it’s complicated. We lost friends, family, all that jazz, but mostly - we used to be on the other side. We’d kill for sport, much like the henchmen of what’s-his-face - Kustos. So we’re trying to make up for that. Trying to make the world a better place, because we can. Using our powers for good.”
Angel almost held his lack of breath as her eyes moved from one to the other, but eventually she nodded.
“I understand. Like the Tale of Kizrath that we teach our children; how she faced the sea serpent of Drok’kheen to atone for killing her brother, and how she brought back the Gem or Ortan to heal the sky where the serpent had torn it during their battle.”
Spike tilted his head, smiling, too charming by half.
“Kizrath… That name sounds familiar, for some reason. Go on Venka, give us a proper heroic tale.”
Sitting up straight she took a deep breath, and then began speaking in a delightful near sing-song, familiar from how storytellers of old would relay their tales. Angel stretched out, looking up at the sky, and allowed himself to be swept up in the ancient legend. Somehow this place made such adventures and heroics seem more possible than ridiculous, his usual cynicism refusing to engage.
***
Over the coming days, as their target slowly drew nearer, they continued to discuss plans and scenarios, generally vetoing Illyria’s impatience - by now she wanted to simply bulldoze through and kill Kustos outright. It was an appealing idea, they had to give her that, but there were too many variables, and Angel figured they could do with knowing more before they struck.
Stealth or infiltration seemed the best approach, as he had thought from the start, but maybe a disguise could work? Spike went through a whole list of possibilities, all cribbed from various movie plots, and Angel had to admit that some of them sounded pretty good.
Unfortunately all potential plans were ruined when they tried to get an overview of Kustos’ fortress. They had taken a sharp turn to the right, into the lower ridges of the mountains, then climbed up onto a ledge to get a better look.
The fortress - like everything else - looked like it had been beamed in from some kind of fantasy movie. It was squat in the way of medieval castles, and as appeared to be equally impenetrable. It was surrounded by a moat, and Angel counted at least ten towers around the outer walls, added to which the inner keep was set well back, in the middle of a large courtyard.
And then there were the guards (from their vantage point tiny black moving dots), which would presumably all be well-armed and well-trained.
No, there was no way to attack, stealth it’d have to be.
Making their way back down to the grasslands, they were deep in discussion trying to hammer out a workable plan, when suddenly they found themselves surrounded by a large group of the overlord’s henchmen, seemingly to appearing out of nowhere. The horses whinnied, upset, and Angel wondered at what they should do - they were heavily outnumbered, but maybe if Illyria could create a portal…
The troupe was made up of M'Fashnik demons, and instantly this told Angel more than they could have guessed - M’Fashniks were a mercenary species, meaning they were hired soldiers, not loyal followers.
And they could maybe be bought.
They were all clad in well-fitting uniforms, black tunics worn over chain mail, and (of course) heavily armed.
The leader of the troupe rode forward, a sneer on his yellow-y green face:
“You are the poachers - don’t deny it!”
“The what-now?” Spike asked, and the leader turned to him.
“All wildlife belongs to Lord Kustos. Therefore, any killing is treason and punishable by death!”
“The hell?” Spike shot back. “Who does this Kustos think he is? Prince John?”
Turning to Angel he added: “Please tell me that at least you got that? Or is Robin Hood too esoteric for you?”
“Shut up Spike,” Angel snapped, noting Venka and Illyria’s silence with gratitude. They’d have to approach this with more than allusions to outlaws, but at that point the leader held up his hand.
“Fire!”
For a split-second Angel dismissed this as a fool’s errand, as their armour would protect them from any arrows, but then a tiny dart struck his neck, and he only had time to grit out “Illyria-” before darkness claimed him.
***
When he woke, he found himself in a dark stone cell, chained to the wall. The flickering of a torch somewhere further down the dank corridor was the only source of light, for which he was almost grateful. He tried very carefully not to look at the corners of the tiny cell.
Unfortunately it seemed that his jailer wasn’t stupid. The cell was small, and he was its only inhabitant. No way to talk to any of the others, presuming they had been captured too… He tried calling out, but the echo of his own voice was all the response he got in return.
Why hadn’t he thought ahead, agreed on some kind of procedure if they got split up?
When the jailer eventually came past, he tried calling out again - eventually realising that the old demon, clad in clothing so ancient and filthy it was impossible to tell what colour it had once been, was stone deaf.
After another interminable wait, three soldiers finally arrived. They clamped him in further chains (thick, heavy and enchanted, going by the inscriptions on the cuffs) and without any explanations brought him before Lord Kustos.
The upper part of the castle (in keeping with the fairy tale approach) was well apportioned and attractively decorated, finely woven tapestries covering the walls and - to his surprise - it looked as if the place was lit by gas.
He lost his thread of thought as he was then shown into a handsome, medium sized chamber, with a table in the middle. The wall to his right was plain and unadorned, but along the other three were tall beautiful vases, musical instruments, and statues that made the art connoisseur in Angel curious as to their origin.
His ‘host’ was seated in an ornate chair, and for a moment they merely looked at each other, Angel trying to get the measure of his adversary.
Lord Kustos was tall, his height evident even though he was seated, and very old. His pale green face was lined, his head as bald as an egg, and his hands - although heavy veined - had long elegant fingers. The eyes that studied Angel were as shrewd as any he’d seen. He wore a simple black silk robe, and the general impression was of a cultured older gentleman. It was not what Angel had expected.
“Apologies,” Kustos eventually said, voice ancient, but clear. “The chains are merely a precaution. Once you know who I am, I know you wouldn’t dream of harming me.”
“That’s a bold claim,” Angel replied, flexing against the metal. “I am usually very keen on harming people who cause wanton murder.”
Kustos tilted his head, a soft rasping laughter escaping him. “Ah. Ah ah ah ah. And do you self-flagellate every day? Oh yes, I know who you are… Angelus. A most impressive record you hold - and you have many admirers still. I remember the tales, long ago now. Yes, I remember… Good times. Good times. And now… you have a price on your head. Such a shame. I hoped - maybe you would join this old man for a final meal?”
“I didn’t realise you were at death’s door,” Angel quipped. “I would be happy to speed that up for you.”
“Oh no no. It is you, I am afraid, who will no longer be requiring sustenance. Wolfram and Hart are so very keen to get hold of you, and it seemed a nice gesture on my part. After everything they have done for me…”
Angel’s eyes narrowed at this. “Who are you?” he asked sharply. “One of their customers?”
Kustos shook his head, sighing. “I see the tales were true. Very dangerous, but not so clever. I am The Keeper of Secrets - you may have heard of me?”
Memories skipping through the past, Angel fastened on the demon bar where they had met the Four Horsemen - their ancient sources of knowledge talking of ‘The Keeper of Secrets’, a creature who contained all of Wolfram and Hart’s darkest and most precious information.
“But-” he almost stumbled over the words, “but they said you had retired…”
“And so I have. Wolfram and Hart set this dimension aside for me to enjoy in my old age. Isn’t it beautiful? And it has some very delicious young women - my very favourite species; and quite docile after a few simple spells…”
He reached out and rang a bell, and a few seconds later a young female demon, like Venka in appearance but wearing a fraction of the clothing, entered, bringing a tray with two ornate golden cups and a tall carafe.
“Will there be anything else my Lord?” she asked, eyes downcast, and he waved her away.
“That will be all my dear.”
Turning to Angel, he smiled. “Charming, don’t you think?”
Angel gritted his teeth.
“I don’t think you want to know what I’m thinking right now…”
Lord Kustos reached out, held up one of the cups.
“Such craftsmanship. You know, these were made by the Ramulka-ha clan in their heyday. Impossibly rare. And now you are plotting whether or not you could strangle me with your chains. You still don’t understand… I know who you are, and what you are seeking. You want to know about the Dead Key. You want to know if it can be completed. If it can be brought back to life. If you can succeed. I am The Keeper of Secrets. I know.”
As Angel, stunned, let this information sink in, Kustos raised the cup in a mock greeting, and then drank.
“And now he sees it. Oh, the things I could tell you. Such a shame Wolfram and Hart will take you away and you will never have the opportunity to find out all the secrets I… contain.”
“But-” Angel began, mind spinning madly, and Kustos nodded.
“Will you have a last meal with me? I will let them unchain you… Although I should probably point out that trying to torture me would do nothing, the secrets that reside in me can not so easily be obtained.”
Hesitating for only a second, Angel then nodded.
“Deal.”
Kustos inclined his head.
“I knew you would prove to be a reasonable young man. Guards? Undo the shackles, and bring my guest a chair.”
And thus, moments later, Angel found himself sipping some of the most exquisite blood he had ever tasted, across from a man he despised.
Having worked at Wolfram and Hart helped. He could do this. He just needed to somehow make Kustos spill enough information…
“So, the Dead Key,” he said, and Kustos eyed him calmly.
“It was made to undo the power of the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart - why should I tell you anything?”
“It’ll pass the time until I get taken away to prison?” he replied lightly, and Kustos took a contemplative sip of his drink.
“Very nice idea, but I am not a fool.”
“Just- confirm a few things?”
He didn’t know what to do, knew that he needed a plan - and quickly - but could do nothing except play it by ear.
“Like what?”
“The Key - can it be brought back to life?”
Kustos smiled, and Angel knew that he was right.
“How?” he asked, breathless, and Kustos took a slow sip of his cup.
“Well, that is a… complicated question. Although for you-”
At that moment the oddly empty wall to the right seemed to shatter, then vanish entirely, as Illyria, Spike and Venka burst through, falling on Kustos with a collective roar.
“No!” Angel yelled, as he saw Illyria pin the ancient demon’s hands in place behind the chair, Spike grabbing hold of his head and holding it back as Venka unsheathed a knife and - as Angel leapt across the table in a last futile attempt at stopping the intervention - plunged it into his chest with a roar fit for a lion.
Spike and Illyria released the dead body, then Venka calmly decapitated the corpse, before kicking over the chair.
“My vengeance is complete. My soul can now rest.”
“You are fucking magnificent!” Spike exclaimed, and Illyria’s eyes seemed to glow:
“I wish for you to be my sworn knight. Will you join our quest?”
Angel wanted to punch all three of them into another dimension.
“You morons! He was The Keeper of Secrets! He could have told us everything we needed to know, except now…”
He raised his hands, unable to express the infinite frustration and futility that was overwhelming him.
“I can’t believe you killed him. He was just about to-”
Oddly they didn’t seem too concerned. Spike raised an eyebrow and looked almost smug.
“Listen, we saw the whole thing. This here-” he waved towards where the wall had disappeared, “was like a one way mirror thing. Watched him sweet talk you into eating out of his hand and fall right into Wolfram & Hart’s trap.”
“Five minutes! You couldn’t have waited five minutes?”
For some reason, Spike was now almost chuckling.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head - he’ll still spill plenty of his secrets. Quite literally…”
And as Angel watched, confused, Venka smiled for the first time he had ever seen, then knelt down, undid the kimono, and cut Kustos open from chin to groin.
“Well, would you look at that…” Spike said, biting his bottom lip with a smirk as wide as when he’d killed his first Slayer.
In between bloody entrails lay countless treasures - enchanted globes, magic rings, small oilcloth bags (protecting goodness knew what)… And a piece of the Dead Key.
Chapter 20 on LJ
Chapter 20 on DW
First chapter & notes here (on LJ), for DW just follow the tags, and Master post of whole 'verse here (also tagged on DW).
Can also be found on AO3.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: Teen. (Same warnings as the show basically.)
Characters: Spike, Angel, Illyria, Buffy, Scoobies + cameos from more or less everyone in the 'verse.
Main Ships: Spike/Buffy, Angel/Nina
Feedback: Is bloody ambrosia! (The secret ingredient is otter...)
Word count (this chapter): 5000 words
Setting and Summary: As before. (Post-NFA epic quest thing.)
Beta: The ever wonderful
kathyhThey found themselves in a forest glade.
This in itself was not unusual, as they had trudged through many a forest in their travels so far: Dank, dingy forests overrun with spider webs and lichen; old forests where forgotten magic lay hidden in dark pools and fossilised trees; forests filled with ferns and other growing things, impossible to navigate; tall, foreboding forests, so silent it felt as if the air they didn’t breathe was bearing down on them, and every unpleasant alternative in between.
But this forest looked as if they’d stepped into a Disney movie.
Soft sunshine filtered through a light leaf cover, bird song surrounded them, the grass at their feet wafted in a gentle breeze - Angel half expected to see Bambi daintily stepping out, as a blue butterfly drowsily fluttered past, its colour and pattern so exquisite that he found himself quite simply watching it.
“Where are we?” he eventually asked - expecting it to be an illusion, or a holding dimension, or some place with deadly sunshine, or a heavenly dimension where they would be struck down by righteous lightning any second - but Illyria merely tilted her head, honing into goodness knew what, then did a swift nod.
“Our quest is certain here,” she said, but Spike frowned.
“That’s not what he asked. What’s the catch?”
“Catch?” Illyria repeated, and Spike gestured towards their surroundings.
“Just sayin’ it looks too good to be true. And it don’t…”
He hesitated.
“It don’t feel evil, y’know?”
“I sense power,” Illyria replied, with that patented long-suffering look she was getting very good at. “Old, but strong.”
Clearly feeling that she had over-shared to the point of molly-coddling she then set off walking, Angel and Spike cautiously following.
The sun didn’t make them combust. No freaky demons attacked. The forest kept being beautiful.
After a while they heard the sound of water - it swiftly grew louder, and soon they came to another clearing, except here a waterfall tumbled down some forty feet, landing in a perfect lake, surrounded by grass so green it looked almost edible.
“Screw it, I’m getting clean!” Spike announced, casually shedding clothing as he made his way to the lake. Angel had to agree that this was not a bad idea - they badly needed a break, and this was too good an opportunity to turn down.
Which was how he found himself lazily swimming in the lake a little later, the simple pleasure somehow more than he could explain.
Spike had - after ‘showering’ under the waterfall - laid down spread eagle on the grass, soaking up the sunshine. Angel idly wondered if they could actually get sunburned.
Diving down, he watched fish skimming in and out of the shadows, the water as clear as glass.
Maybe it was all a dream? If so, he hoped it was one he wouldn’t wake from for a long time.
Somewhere, at the back of his mind, there was the thought that he must have gotten over the trauma of having been dumped at the bottom of the ocean…
He knew there would be a catch (Pylea never forgotten), even if Illyria didn’t understand the concept, but right now he was beyond caring. A few minutes pure bliss…
(It was a lie. It was always a lie.)
The one time he had allowed himself to believe, his soul had been wrenched from him…
One moment there had been Buffy - young and beautiful and innocent, and if she could love him, then maybe he was worthy of being saved - the next moment (or so it had seemed) she had thrust a sword through his heart.
It was a lesson he’d not needed to learn twice.
Was that one of the reasons he had found it so difficult to move past Buffy? If she hadn’t symbolised redemption, might they just have drifted apart? He almost smiled. No, impossible. She was special, even outside of his own personal feelings…
The fish - silver scales glinting - shone like tiny beacons of light; as beautiful and elusive as his own hopes and dreams had once been.
When he returned to the surface, he saw that Spike had turned over and was now resting on his elbows, watching him with an amused look on his face.
“Been thinking Peaches, we look like the cover of some gay romance…”
Feeling too mellow to rise to the bait, Angel with lazy strokes made his way to the edge of the lake.
“Spike - do us a favour and keep your fantasies to yourself in future,” he said, as he, too, stretched out on the grass.
Bliss. Just for a few more moments.
It took a week before they discovered the catch.
The forest eventually gave way to grasslands, and after a while they came across grazing cattle, so they were expecting settlements of some kind. Seeing smoke in the distance, they altered their course, but began to get worried as they saw no signs of life as they got nearer.
The reason soon became obvious - the smoke was not from the homesteads’ chimneys, but from the homesteads themselves burning. The village had been sacked and torched, the streets littered with the dead - from children to the elderly, no one had been spared. The inhabitants had been demons - simple farmers from what they could tell, their clothing rough with a minimum of decorations. Their skin was grey and mottled, and they had two short, blunt horns. Not a species any of them particularly recognised - not that it mattered now.
They walked in silence, taking in the devastation but unsure what to do - if anything. It looked like simple, wanton destruction, and the dead could not speak.
More by accident than by design they eventually ended up in the village square, where they saw that the tall pole in the middle had a warrior tied to it, beaten and bloodied. Except to their surprise the warrior stirred, slowly lifting his head.
“Christ,” Spike muttered, rushing forward to cut the ropes and then trying to support the body that collapsed in his arms.
“Angel - water?” he asked, and after a swift search Angel found a water pail that was still half-full.
Water - and a bit of the scotch from Spike’s hip flask - restored the warrior enough to sit up and speak, and they discovered she was female.
She related what had happened in a low monotone, sentences short and clipped, no emotion on her face. It was depressingly familiar.
“They came with no warning. Wanted ‘taxes’. We are poor, we have no money. We offered heirlooms, grain, anything we had. They spat at us. Burned our barns. Then - they took the young, the beautiful. As slaves for their Lord. We tried to fight. In return they murdered us. I am the warrior of the village, but they were too many. They overpowered me. Tied me up. Made me watch. They killed my mother, my father, my brother. Took my sister. I watched the blood of my family, my friends, everyone I know water the soil. Then they left.”
Illyria stood to one side, immobile and her face never betraying any emotion, Spike swore quietly under his breath, but Angel leaned forward.
“Who were ‘they’?”
“Hired soldiers. Scum in service of our new ‘Lord’. We lived in peace for years untold. But then he came… We don’t know where from. Terror grew. The traders told of henchmen, barbarians who would plunder and rape on their master’s orders. But we thought we were safe. That we were too insignificant for them to notice. We were wrong.”
She stared ahead, and Angel wished he could offer words of comfort. Except he knew the other side far too well. They destroyed quite simply because they could. He wasn’t sure how to explain that.
The warrior’s name was Venka. They spent a few days in the village, helping her to get her strength back, and assembling a funeral pyre.
It was heartbreaking work - especially gathering up the children - but Angel worked with quiet, grim determination, unable to forget those who had been caught in the crossfire of his own plans. As innocent as these, and equally mourned. It seemed somehow fitting that he should be here, helping. Spike noticed how he kept working, long after Spike had settled down to eat and rest. But Angel shot him a single look, and Spike merely nodded, absentmindedly playing with the charm around his neck.
Whoever this new overlord was, Angel hated him already. He seemed to be a recent phenomenon, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, and Angel couldn’t make sense of it.
Warlords didn’t rise up out of nothing, henchmen and militia couldn’t be summoned out of thin air. He paused. Well, maybe they could… Or they could come from another dimension. Had this Kustos (as he was named) come like Illyria, but with an army?
The place - quiet, beautiful, peaceful - had been ripe for invasion, as unprepared as the native Americans had been for the Europeans. Venka told them that her role had been mostly honorary, sword skills and fighting handed down as an archaic tradition.
“Always women?” Spike asked, and she nodded. “Men are physically stronger, needed in the fields, working. Women are more supple, better at the swiftness of movement.”
Spike’s eyes seemed to glow in the evening dusk.
“Bloody well need to introduce you to my girlfriend…”
Venka abruptly looked away, and Spike opened his mouth then closed it again.
She’d not mentioned a lover, but any sort of reminder of other people’s families was clearly painful. Angel wished that he was better at reaching out, that he could do something to support her in her grief - on the other hand, her stoic nature might not lend itself well to offers of sympathy. He hoped the physical work they were doing would help, or at least lend her some closure.
The third evening they lit the pyre.
Grateful that he didn’t need to breathe, Angel watched the flames leap up, consuming straw, wood and bodies, wishing he didn’t remember other fires, wishing they’d been wrong about there being ‘a catch’.
As the fire grew more intense, the flames reaching into the dark sky, obscuring the stars, the vampires moved back, but Venka stood still, as unmoving as Illyria, even as the heat began to crisp the edges of her hair and clothing.
Not until morning dawned did the fire burn down, a monument of death and ash that made Angel shiver. He saw Venka unsheathe her knife, then carefully cut her palm before stepping forward, the blood falling into the still glowing embers.
And then she spoke:
“I shall not rest until my blood kin has been avenged. I shall not rest until my vengeance is complete and my foe is at my feet. May my blood turn to ash and my bones to cinders if I ever steer from my path.”
Illyria cocked her head, and spoke for the first time in several days.
“I like her.”
After five more days of walking, they caught the horses.
Riding sped up their travel considerably, which was a relief. The main issue turned out to be convincing Illyria; they had presumed she’d be happy to have a steed - surely it would be better than walking - but she didn’t think the horse was worthy to carry her. It took Spike to lose his temper and yell that he was riding, and if she wanted to be left behind, fine, so be it. If Kustos had any unicorns he’d send her one, presuming a unicorn would be fit for her royal arse?
Venka had been puzzled by the exchange, asking if Illyria were some kind of queen?
Spike had leapt onto his horse (he was surprisingly adept at riding bareback, and merely grinned wickedly when Angel mentioned it, making Angel suspect some kind of unsavoury tale), before drawling a reply:
“Oh she’s a God King no less - one of the Old Ones. But don’t let that bother you Venka, she has plenty of worshippers. Our job is different.”
Venka had turned to Illyria, a sudden strange gleam in her eyes:
“If you are a god, could you save my village?”
Illyria looked struck by something - pain or sadness, the tiniest flicker of emotion, gone so quickly Angel thought he had imagined it.
“My true splendour would outshine the sun and hide the stars. But I have lost the power to restore life, to alter the world and walk through time as befits my nature. I merely live for vengeance against those who so muted me.”
Whatever Venka had hoped for, this seemed to satisfy her.
The grasslands had scattered greenery, occasional picturesque streams and endless blue skies, and misty mountains in the distance, like something out of a fantasy novel.
But the grasslands also appeared to be more or less endless. From what Venka had heard from passing traders, Lord Kustos had set up his home at the foot of the distant mountains, and they began wondering about the best way to confront him. Illyria wanted to march through the doors and demand an audience, but Angel was leaning more towards stealth. Although maybe both? With Illyria as a decoy…
Somehow their own quest and Venka’s vengeance had become intertwined, although how Kustos could throw light on the Dead Key was a mystery Angel tried not to dwell on. Maybe he’d built his castle on top of some ancient treasure trove?
Food had become another problem, until they spotted the flock of antelope-like animals. Spike perked up, practically licking his lips.
“So, how fast d’you reckon our horses can run?”
“What do you mean?” Angel asked, as Venka and Illyria slowed their steeds beside them.
“I mean, it’s huntin’ time!” Spike grinned, letting his vamp face out. “C’mon Angel, let your inner predator out, just once…”
Angel hesitated, then glanced at Illyria and Venka.
“We will herd them towards you, OK?”
“Letting me have all the fun? Well, I’m not about to complain,” Spike replied, and moments later their plan was in motion.
Angel hadn’t quite known how Spike would approach the situation, but marvelled as he leaped from horseback to bolting animal, fangs in its throat even as it crashed to the ground, its herd-mates fleeing in terror all around.
Venka galloped up to Angel, and momentarily he was worried that she’d be disgusted at the sight of such primitive vampire feeding.
Instead - after watching Spike silently for a minute - she turned to Angel:
“He is a great hunter, as well as a warrior. Tell me - why are you here? Why do you help me? What is this world to you?”
She had so far not asked any questions, and Angel thought she had probably been in shock. They had explained who they were, in basic terms, but he had expected this day.
“Look, let’s tie up the horses and get a fire going. There’ll be plenty of meat on that animal for you, and while it cooks we can tell you our story?”
She studied him with those guarded, haunted eyes, and nodded.
As evening fell, the stars twinkling above them like so many magical fairy tales, he tried to curate their story into something she could both understand and accept.
She did more than that - she managed to grasp the underlying unspoken issues, as ever displaying her characteristic bluntness.
“You know these evils well. What did you lose to make you fight thus?”
Her question left Angel silenced, and the oddness of the situation suddenly hit home. They never made friends on their travels. Had never before trusted anyone enough for them to even ask such a question.
Spike half-smiled, throwing another twig on the fire.
“Let me explain... No, there is too much. Let me sum up.”
He stopped, shooting Angel an odd glance that Angel couldn’t work out, before asking (with a hint of exasperation):
“Seriously? You didn’t get that reference?”
“What do you mean?” Angel asked, by now deeply puzzled, and Spike shook his head.
“Movie marathon when we get back, mate. No discussion.”
“What is this?” Venka asked, looking even more confused, and Spike chuckled.
“Nevermind him. But in answer to your question… it’s complicated. We lost friends, family, all that jazz, but mostly - we used to be on the other side. We’d kill for sport, much like the henchmen of what’s-his-face - Kustos. So we’re trying to make up for that. Trying to make the world a better place, because we can. Using our powers for good.”
Angel almost held his lack of breath as her eyes moved from one to the other, but eventually she nodded.
“I understand. Like the Tale of Kizrath that we teach our children; how she faced the sea serpent of Drok’kheen to atone for killing her brother, and how she brought back the Gem or Ortan to heal the sky where the serpent had torn it during their battle.”
Spike tilted his head, smiling, too charming by half.
“Kizrath… That name sounds familiar, for some reason. Go on Venka, give us a proper heroic tale.”
Sitting up straight she took a deep breath, and then began speaking in a delightful near sing-song, familiar from how storytellers of old would relay their tales. Angel stretched out, looking up at the sky, and allowed himself to be swept up in the ancient legend. Somehow this place made such adventures and heroics seem more possible than ridiculous, his usual cynicism refusing to engage.
Over the coming days, as their target slowly drew nearer, they continued to discuss plans and scenarios, generally vetoing Illyria’s impatience - by now she wanted to simply bulldoze through and kill Kustos outright. It was an appealing idea, they had to give her that, but there were too many variables, and Angel figured they could do with knowing more before they struck.
Stealth or infiltration seemed the best approach, as he had thought from the start, but maybe a disguise could work? Spike went through a whole list of possibilities, all cribbed from various movie plots, and Angel had to admit that some of them sounded pretty good.
Unfortunately all potential plans were ruined when they tried to get an overview of Kustos’ fortress. They had taken a sharp turn to the right, into the lower ridges of the mountains, then climbed up onto a ledge to get a better look.
The fortress - like everything else - looked like it had been beamed in from some kind of fantasy movie. It was squat in the way of medieval castles, and as appeared to be equally impenetrable. It was surrounded by a moat, and Angel counted at least ten towers around the outer walls, added to which the inner keep was set well back, in the middle of a large courtyard.
And then there were the guards (from their vantage point tiny black moving dots), which would presumably all be well-armed and well-trained.
No, there was no way to attack, stealth it’d have to be.
Making their way back down to the grasslands, they were deep in discussion trying to hammer out a workable plan, when suddenly they found themselves surrounded by a large group of the overlord’s henchmen, seemingly to appearing out of nowhere. The horses whinnied, upset, and Angel wondered at what they should do - they were heavily outnumbered, but maybe if Illyria could create a portal…
The troupe was made up of M'Fashnik demons, and instantly this told Angel more than they could have guessed - M’Fashniks were a mercenary species, meaning they were hired soldiers, not loyal followers.
And they could maybe be bought.
They were all clad in well-fitting uniforms, black tunics worn over chain mail, and (of course) heavily armed.
The leader of the troupe rode forward, a sneer on his yellow-y green face:
“You are the poachers - don’t deny it!”
“The what-now?” Spike asked, and the leader turned to him.
“All wildlife belongs to Lord Kustos. Therefore, any killing is treason and punishable by death!”
“The hell?” Spike shot back. “Who does this Kustos think he is? Prince John?”
Turning to Angel he added: “Please tell me that at least you got that? Or is Robin Hood too esoteric for you?”
“Shut up Spike,” Angel snapped, noting Venka and Illyria’s silence with gratitude. They’d have to approach this with more than allusions to outlaws, but at that point the leader held up his hand.
“Fire!”
For a split-second Angel dismissed this as a fool’s errand, as their armour would protect them from any arrows, but then a tiny dart struck his neck, and he only had time to grit out “Illyria-” before darkness claimed him.
When he woke, he found himself in a dark stone cell, chained to the wall. The flickering of a torch somewhere further down the dank corridor was the only source of light, for which he was almost grateful. He tried very carefully not to look at the corners of the tiny cell.
Unfortunately it seemed that his jailer wasn’t stupid. The cell was small, and he was its only inhabitant. No way to talk to any of the others, presuming they had been captured too… He tried calling out, but the echo of his own voice was all the response he got in return.
Why hadn’t he thought ahead, agreed on some kind of procedure if they got split up?
When the jailer eventually came past, he tried calling out again - eventually realising that the old demon, clad in clothing so ancient and filthy it was impossible to tell what colour it had once been, was stone deaf.
After another interminable wait, three soldiers finally arrived. They clamped him in further chains (thick, heavy and enchanted, going by the inscriptions on the cuffs) and without any explanations brought him before Lord Kustos.
The upper part of the castle (in keeping with the fairy tale approach) was well apportioned and attractively decorated, finely woven tapestries covering the walls and - to his surprise - it looked as if the place was lit by gas.
He lost his thread of thought as he was then shown into a handsome, medium sized chamber, with a table in the middle. The wall to his right was plain and unadorned, but along the other three were tall beautiful vases, musical instruments, and statues that made the art connoisseur in Angel curious as to their origin.
His ‘host’ was seated in an ornate chair, and for a moment they merely looked at each other, Angel trying to get the measure of his adversary.
Lord Kustos was tall, his height evident even though he was seated, and very old. His pale green face was lined, his head as bald as an egg, and his hands - although heavy veined - had long elegant fingers. The eyes that studied Angel were as shrewd as any he’d seen. He wore a simple black silk robe, and the general impression was of a cultured older gentleman. It was not what Angel had expected.
“Apologies,” Kustos eventually said, voice ancient, but clear. “The chains are merely a precaution. Once you know who I am, I know you wouldn’t dream of harming me.”
“That’s a bold claim,” Angel replied, flexing against the metal. “I am usually very keen on harming people who cause wanton murder.”
Kustos tilted his head, a soft rasping laughter escaping him. “Ah. Ah ah ah ah. And do you self-flagellate every day? Oh yes, I know who you are… Angelus. A most impressive record you hold - and you have many admirers still. I remember the tales, long ago now. Yes, I remember… Good times. Good times. And now… you have a price on your head. Such a shame. I hoped - maybe you would join this old man for a final meal?”
“I didn’t realise you were at death’s door,” Angel quipped. “I would be happy to speed that up for you.”
“Oh no no. It is you, I am afraid, who will no longer be requiring sustenance. Wolfram and Hart are so very keen to get hold of you, and it seemed a nice gesture on my part. After everything they have done for me…”
Angel’s eyes narrowed at this. “Who are you?” he asked sharply. “One of their customers?”
Kustos shook his head, sighing. “I see the tales were true. Very dangerous, but not so clever. I am The Keeper of Secrets - you may have heard of me?”
Memories skipping through the past, Angel fastened on the demon bar where they had met the Four Horsemen - their ancient sources of knowledge talking of ‘The Keeper of Secrets’, a creature who contained all of Wolfram and Hart’s darkest and most precious information.
“But-” he almost stumbled over the words, “but they said you had retired…”
“And so I have. Wolfram and Hart set this dimension aside for me to enjoy in my old age. Isn’t it beautiful? And it has some very delicious young women - my very favourite species; and quite docile after a few simple spells…”
He reached out and rang a bell, and a few seconds later a young female demon, like Venka in appearance but wearing a fraction of the clothing, entered, bringing a tray with two ornate golden cups and a tall carafe.
“Will there be anything else my Lord?” she asked, eyes downcast, and he waved her away.
“That will be all my dear.”
Turning to Angel, he smiled. “Charming, don’t you think?”
Angel gritted his teeth.
“I don’t think you want to know what I’m thinking right now…”
Lord Kustos reached out, held up one of the cups.
“Such craftsmanship. You know, these were made by the Ramulka-ha clan in their heyday. Impossibly rare. And now you are plotting whether or not you could strangle me with your chains. You still don’t understand… I know who you are, and what you are seeking. You want to know about the Dead Key. You want to know if it can be completed. If it can be brought back to life. If you can succeed. I am The Keeper of Secrets. I know.”
As Angel, stunned, let this information sink in, Kustos raised the cup in a mock greeting, and then drank.
“And now he sees it. Oh, the things I could tell you. Such a shame Wolfram and Hart will take you away and you will never have the opportunity to find out all the secrets I… contain.”
“But-” Angel began, mind spinning madly, and Kustos nodded.
“Will you have a last meal with me? I will let them unchain you… Although I should probably point out that trying to torture me would do nothing, the secrets that reside in me can not so easily be obtained.”
Hesitating for only a second, Angel then nodded.
“Deal.”
Kustos inclined his head.
“I knew you would prove to be a reasonable young man. Guards? Undo the shackles, and bring my guest a chair.”
And thus, moments later, Angel found himself sipping some of the most exquisite blood he had ever tasted, across from a man he despised.
Having worked at Wolfram and Hart helped. He could do this. He just needed to somehow make Kustos spill enough information…
“So, the Dead Key,” he said, and Kustos eyed him calmly.
“It was made to undo the power of the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart - why should I tell you anything?”
“It’ll pass the time until I get taken away to prison?” he replied lightly, and Kustos took a contemplative sip of his drink.
“Very nice idea, but I am not a fool.”
“Just- confirm a few things?”
He didn’t know what to do, knew that he needed a plan - and quickly - but could do nothing except play it by ear.
“Like what?”
“The Key - can it be brought back to life?”
Kustos smiled, and Angel knew that he was right.
“How?” he asked, breathless, and Kustos took a slow sip of his cup.
“Well, that is a… complicated question. Although for you-”
At that moment the oddly empty wall to the right seemed to shatter, then vanish entirely, as Illyria, Spike and Venka burst through, falling on Kustos with a collective roar.
“No!” Angel yelled, as he saw Illyria pin the ancient demon’s hands in place behind the chair, Spike grabbing hold of his head and holding it back as Venka unsheathed a knife and - as Angel leapt across the table in a last futile attempt at stopping the intervention - plunged it into his chest with a roar fit for a lion.
Spike and Illyria released the dead body, then Venka calmly decapitated the corpse, before kicking over the chair.
“My vengeance is complete. My soul can now rest.”
“You are fucking magnificent!” Spike exclaimed, and Illyria’s eyes seemed to glow:
“I wish for you to be my sworn knight. Will you join our quest?”
Angel wanted to punch all three of them into another dimension.
“You morons! He was The Keeper of Secrets! He could have told us everything we needed to know, except now…”
He raised his hands, unable to express the infinite frustration and futility that was overwhelming him.
“I can’t believe you killed him. He was just about to-”
Oddly they didn’t seem too concerned. Spike raised an eyebrow and looked almost smug.
“Listen, we saw the whole thing. This here-” he waved towards where the wall had disappeared, “was like a one way mirror thing. Watched him sweet talk you into eating out of his hand and fall right into Wolfram & Hart’s trap.”
“Five minutes! You couldn’t have waited five minutes?”
For some reason, Spike was now almost chuckling.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head - he’ll still spill plenty of his secrets. Quite literally…”
And as Angel watched, confused, Venka smiled for the first time he had ever seen, then knelt down, undid the kimono, and cut Kustos open from chin to groin.
“Well, would you look at that…” Spike said, biting his bottom lip with a smirk as wide as when he’d killed his first Slayer.
In between bloody entrails lay countless treasures - enchanted globes, magic rings, small oilcloth bags (protecting goodness knew what)… And a piece of the Dead Key.
Chapter 20 on LJ
Chapter 20 on DW
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Great chapter!
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And yay, you like Venka! It's always tricky to introduce an OC in the middle of a story, and Venka was not the most... outgoing or friendly type.
If she stays on- well, you'll find out. ;) Thank you for reading.