Entry tags:
Fic: Divided Destiny. Chapter 21
And this chapter (to borrow from Doctor Who) is when everything changes...
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): 4800 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 21
“Spike – catch!”
He caught the magic stick through pure instinct (it had a fancy name, but he hadn’t been paying attention) and adroitly climbed to the top of the derelict temple, watching Angel and Illyria fight the wraith-like protectors far below, their strange off-key keening almost like tinnitus, and equally unpleasant. When killed, they seemed to evaporate, but left inky smudges on the dead air. Spike idly wondered if it was actual ink, and if it could be washed off.
The roof of the temple was in surprisingly good nick he noticed, considering how long it had been empty. It had belonged to one of Illyria’s now long-dead rivals and was an impressive structure in its own way, but Spike had long since lost the ability to be awed… Now it was merely yet another defiled and broken remnant of a glorious past, like so many, many others.
Soon bored with observing the fight he laid down, staring up into the murky ochre sky. It reminded him of the smog that regularly enveloped London in back in the day…
What was Buffy doing, he wondered. He was sure they had been wandering about for several months by now, but Illyria had merely done a little shrug when he asked how long they’d been. Had they missed the apocalypse? Would they return home to find that their world had been reduced to yet another pile of rubble? Was she even still alive? The ‘real’ world felt almost like a place he’d made up, a story to comfort him in the long dark nights, with an impossibly beautiful and powerful lover… He turned the magic stick over in his hands, the intricate pattern and mystic writing mesmerising. It had been created for the head-priest millennia ago, and if the wraiths got hold of it they’d break it, something to be avoided at all costs as it was needed in order to access the sacred texts inside the temple.
Sacred texts - like the bleeding Shanshu. One day he’d become human and marry Buffy? It was ridiculous; a fantasy or chimera… Reality was dead worlds and a never-ending dance with danger.
“Spike! The Wand of Mizzuin?”
He was torn out of his musings by Angel’s angry bark, and slowly got to his feet before making his way over to the edge. Realising that the battle was over he leapt down the 40-odd feet of temple facade, and handed over the wand without a word. Angel studied him for a moment, but then strode off to perform whatever magic spell was needed in order to unlock the inner sanctum.
Walking over to one of the wraith remnants still hanging in the air, Spike cautiously reached out, but had his hand kicked away before he could touch the odd smear. It looked not unlike a splash of graffiti painted onto nothing.
“It will poison you, turn you into one of them!” Illyria snapped, like a mother chastising a child playing with a sharp knife.
“Keep your hair on,” he muttered and slumped down against the wall, idly throwing pebbles at the smudges instead, tearing tiny holes in the oddly viscous substance.
He was somewhere beyond bored, but didn’t know what the word might be to describe his current state of mind.
After the euphoria of finding another piece of the Key, there had followed the inevitable slump. They were used to it by now, but this time Angel had decided that they ought to find out more about the Dead Key itself – who had made it, how to use it, what it actually did – something which turned out to be even more mind-numbingly impossible than finding the pieces themselves.
After all, a magical bit of rock could be hidden anywhere, but knowledge (rare, priceless, too dangerous to record) could only be found amongst creatures like the Raven, or The Keeper of Secrets – either hidden or lost or dead. Illyria’s ‘contacts’ from back in the day (such as they were) turned out useless. Known enemies of Wolfram & Hart could – if they were lucky – confirm what they already knew, but so far they never had new information. Most of the time they turned out to be dead.
Time was blurring, places and dimensions bleeding together, and Spike wanted nothing more than to just rest. How long had they been doing this overall? How long would they continue? How long could they? He tried to remember where they had been before they arrived here, forcing himself to dredge up memories that he’d never made any effort to retain; there had been the endless frozen sand dimension, and before that the dimension of the million tiny spiders, before that the dimension with the angry birds, and before that the dimension of rotting armies where a war had destroyed everything – victors and the defeated alike – and before that… His mind went blank.
Eventually Angel appeared in front of him. Spike glanced up, but seeing that clearly the other had been unsuccessful (yet again) he closed his eyes, wondering how hard the ground might be - he was tired, but looking for a comfy place to sleep seemed like too much effort.
Then Angel kicked him.
When he didn’t react, Angel kicked him again.
“Get up, we’re going home. This isn’t working.”
Something like a tiny ray of hope appeared in Spike’s mind.
“Oh thank fuck,” he breathed, waiting for Angel to hold out a hand before attempting to get to his feet. Could lethargy be a medical condition?
But then a moment later the Hyperion folded itself around them, and he felt like an invisible burden instantly lifted. And if he tried really hard, he could pretend that it wouldn’t return. If he could just deceive himself to believe that they could stay, he might be OK. He should probably call Buffy, but he couldn’t face it just yet. He wanted to feel more himself… If she needed support, she could do without him moaning about his feelings. Or lack thereof.
After what might have been the longest shower in his life (the spiders of two dimensions ago had been very very tiny and very very multitudinous, and he wanted to make sure they were gone, all of them, gone for good), a thorough touch-up of this roots, and then a rest in a proper bed for the first time in countless months, he decided to go out for some blood and smokes. (They still had a good stash left of the booze they’d purchased previously, which pleased him. Tonight he would get so drunk that he’d not be sober for a week. If Angel had a problem with that, well he literally couldn’t care less.)
There was a little place just down from the hotel, and he pulled on a dark top with a hood, never looking up and blending in perfectly with all the shadows of the night - it was a risk going out, but dammit, they’d survived on rodents the size of beetles for the past few weeks, and he needed a good meal. Besides, Illyria had gone out to wherever she went, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to be bringing blood back.
But as he returned to the hotel, pockets bulging, he found his steps slowing. By the wall was a bundle of black, a beggar by the looks of it, with a dark shawl over their head… He took a few more steps, his senses and instincts suddenly screaming at him. Surely it couldn’t be…
Stepping forwards and reaching out, trying to stop his hand from trembling, he carefully pulled back the shawl, taking a sharp, unneeded breath at the sight that greeted him. Beautiful features marred by dried blood and dark bruises, hair matted and dirty, consciousness a bare sliver – enough for her to abruptly reach out, grasp his wrist, but nothing more.
Without thinking he picked her up, too light by half, his beautiful princess…
The motion seemed to stir something in her. Her eyes fluttered, and she whispered, so quietly he could barely catch it, even with his enhanced hearing.
“In my father’s house are many rooms… but none for me.”
He knew the Bible verse she was quoting – or misquoting, rather. And why.
“Shush,” he reassured her, as if he could protect her from all the ills of the world.
Angel was in the lobby, surrounded by swords and axes (he was doing a check on all their weapons and sharpening them, for reasons that escaped Spike entirely), staring at Spike with undiluted astonishment as he entered with Dru cradled in his arms.
“What the hell-”
“She’s hurt,” Spike cut him off, but Angel physically blocked his path, incredulous.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“She needs help,” Spike reiterated. “She was just sitting by the wall outside…”
Angel closed his eyes, a big black monolith of mounting anger.
“Spike. This? Is a trap. She is a trap. You think it’s a coincidence that she was there, right on our doorstep? They know they can’t get in here, but now you have literally carried them over the threshold. I can’t conceive of how you could be so stupid…”
“Look mate, you can keep talking, but I’m going to take her upstairs and find her a bed,” Spike replied.
“I can’t let you do that,” Angel said, and Spike tilted his head, studying his grandsire, wondering how Angel could be so fantastically blinkered.
“As if you wouldn’t – didn’t – do the same for Darla,” he finally replied, holding Angel’s eyes, and after a long moment Angel acquiesced.
“Fine,” he muttered, but as he didn’t move Spike had to walk around him. What he hadn’t said, but what hung over them, was how Spike was always the one to pick up the broken pieces from what Angel had destroyed. If anyone deserved Angel’s help, it was Dru, trap or no.
He found a room on the second floor and made Dru as comfortable as he could. It was like being in a time warp, from back when he’d first decided to set off for Sunnydale after she had been attacked by that mob. Her condition wasn’t much better now.
He cleaned her wounds, getting rid of the dirt as best he could, and fed her all the blood he’d just fetched for himself and Angel. As she fell asleep (proper sleep, not the half comatose exhaustion of earlier) he started on her hair, untangling it strand by strand, the work soothing and familiar, and somewhere, deep inside, was a feeling of home that he didn’t know how to quantify.
(There were seven messages on his phone from Buffy. He turned it off.)
Angel came by after a while, standing immobile in the doorway. Spike ignored him, focussing on a particularly resistant knot, and it could have been a hundred years ago… The silence hung in the room, unbroken, until Angel cleared his throat and curtly asked Spike to let him know when she woke up.
It took hours to untangle the hair, but it kept him occupied, the perfect way to stop thinking. Once he was done, he had to face what he was doing.
‘I was a lucky bloke, to even touch such a dark beauty…’
He remembered their last encounter vividly. Ready to kill her at Buffy’s word. For a mere crumb – for the promise that maybe, someday, he might have a chance.
He’d been given his chance, and more besides. Buffy was a phone call – a portal – away. He could be by her side in a heartbeat. And yet he was sitting beside his dark princess, her hair like a black wave across the pillow, her face pale and bruised.
He could stake her now, a single, simple motion, and the world would be a better place. And yet he didn’t move. Dru was monster and victim, mother and child, and the one they had all abandoned. Even him. Choosing the hard path of light and goodness before he even knew it himself.
When she finally stirred, he never needed to call Angel. The other vampire was in the room before her eyes had even opened.
“My boys,” she whispered, “So full of light, so full of darkness…” Her eyes lingered over Angel, who did his best to appear unaffected. A small smile on her face:
“Is Daddy home?”
Ignoring her question, Angel spoke.
“Who did this to you?”
“Slayers,” she spat, eyes lighting up with ire. “Nasty, sneaky slayers. So many now, too many, we fall, shadows and ashes…”
Trying to raise herself, she turned to Spike, speaking directly to him for the first time. “All ensnared, all lost, the golden girls take all the dark princes. Destroying what was mine…”
Wrapping her slender arms around herself, she started rocking, back and forth, back and forth, like a demented doll.
“Breaking my boys, breaking my toys, all gone and lost forever, poor Miss Edith will never have another supper, smashed and shattered…”
Appalled, Spike reached out, grabbed hold of her, forcing her to look at him.
“They broke Miss Edith?”
“Smash, smash, shards all over the floor, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t…”
Her voice wavered and broke, tears filling her eyes, and Spike without thinking pulled her into his arms, gently rocking her as she sobbed. He knew this, the childlike heart of her, the ways to calm her grief.
“Shh Princess. Shh. Hey, listen. Maybe not all the king’s horses or all the king’s men, but remember who can put Miss Edith back together again?”
She stilled in his arms, searching his face, trusting and hopeful, and hell, would he have to kill her? Could he let her go?
For now, he pushed the painful conundrum out of his mind, smiling softly as he began speaking, the cadence of the words easily moulding themselves to the familiar script in his mind. He’d even had to get a VHS tape once and set up a TV so she could watch the show on endless repeat.
“Once upon a time,” he began, “not so long ago, there was a little girl called Emily. Emily had a shop…”
As he spoke more details came back to him. Emily said her special rhyme, and Bagpuss the toy cat woke up and had a look at the broken Miss Edith. He improvised a story on the spot about Miss Edith spending a night dancing with some fairies, and then the mice set to work gluing Miss Edith back together and cleaning her pretty dress before setting her out in the window so passers-by could see her, and hopefully her owner would find her again.
“Can we go to Emily’s shop?” Dru asked, enchanted, and Spike chuckled.
“Of course Princess. But you have to get better first… Have a rest now, Angel and I will look after you.”
She easily slipped back into sleep and he quietly left her side.
Once outside her room, Angel spoke, clearly thrown.
“What… was that?”
Spike shot him a look.
“You not familiar with Bagpuss?”
The other shook his head, and Spike sighed. “You missed out. Quality TV that. Children's’ show, obviously.”
“Look Spike-“
“I know. What you gonna do? Go in there and dust her?”
He held Angel’s eyes until the other looked away.
“We can’t let her leave,” Angel eventually mumbled.
“Well go in there and finish it then, big hero,” Spike countered. “I need a rest.”
He turned on his heel and walked up to his room, resisting the urge to add: ‘You killed her once already, you’ll know the drill.’
***
The next few days Spike’s whole world narrowed down to just Dru. It was clear neither of them knew what to do with her, so Spike did what he’d always done.
If she were a spy, or a mole, she didn’t let on (and might not be aware, that was the rub… With Dru, anything was possible).
On the fourth day, however, she reached out and laid her hand on his coat over his heart.
“You carry a Key. But it is broken. Dead. Like me.”
Her eyes grew distant: “The Wolf, the Ram, the Hart… they are like spiders, their web ensnares realms upon realms; they cover this world, clinging, clinging, dragging everything into the dark.”
“But the Key, love…” he used the endearment without thinking, caught up in her visions and the questions that had carried their quest for ages now. “Can we fix the Key? How do we bring it to life? How do we use it?”
Months they’d spent trudging around, pointlessly trying to find out any information, but here was a possible answer…
(Or maybe he was playing into the enemy’s hands. But fuck it, he hadn’t lived this long by playing it safe.)
He reached into his pocket and brought out the oddly shaped lump. It was heavier now, but not much larger, and looked not unlike that moon rock Angel had gotten Nina for Christmas.
Cautiously she touched it, but abruptly pulled back as if scorched, screaming. Screaming, like had never heard.
“Dru? Dru! What is it, what can you see? Dru, please-“
The scream seemed to cut right through him, on and on and on, until her voice eventually gave out. He found himself frozen in wordless terror, knowing he should move, should… something, but the whole world seemed to be howling, his ears ringing, like something primal had been unleashed.
And then she spoke.
“The blood,” she whispered, looking straight through him. “The blood on the scroll. It damns you, a prophecy split in two, The Dead Key will tear all asunder, bringing you down, down – down into the dark and the pain – deeper and deeper, never ending…“
Retreating further she moved away from him, curling up and keening to herself. Alarmed, he finally moved and tossed the Key aside, trying to pull her towards him, to comfort her somehow, even as his own mind was whirling. What had she seen? What was lying ahead? He was wary of the whole Shanshu thing anyway, and he trusted Dru’s Sight a darn sight more than dusty prophecies, but this was alarming on a whole new level. He wasn’t doing it for a prize, but whatever it was that Dru could see was frightening in ways he couldn’t even articulate.
It seemed to take forever to calm her down, the whole world shrinking down to the two of them, the turmoil ebbing out bit by bit, the bone-deep terror (his future?) binding them together. When she was finally still she was resting against him, her face buried in his neck, her body flush against his own, and it was familiar and primal and something he should not have allowed to happen. He should walk away. He should unentangle himself.
But he could still hear her scream echoing in his ears, the pure naked fear in her eyes imprinted on him, and when he felt her face change he allowed the past to claim him, surrendering to the bite the way he had so many years ago, pain and pleasure rushing in and burying everything else.
***
Angel had heard the scream.
Had rushed with unnatural speed to the door to Dru’s room, and then hesitated. Had stood still, listening, unsure. After all, what could he do?
Spike seemed to be calming her down, so he walked away, ending up in the kitchen, restless and unhappy. They should have been away days ago, but were stuck in limbo thanks to Dru.
They should have left her – staked her immediately – should have… something. But guilt stayed his hand, even though the blood of every one of her victims was on his hands too.
He wished he could undo the damage, but no one – not Bagpuss the Cat (whatever that was), nor all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could put Dru back together again.
He dragged a hand across his face, wondering if the universe would ever stop reminding him of all his sins.
He should have called Nina, except what could he have told her? He was lucky it wasn’t a full moon, or she’d have turned up…
They could call Buffy of course – Buffy would have no qualms about staking Dru, he was sure of that, but Spike… Fuck, why was it all so complicated?
When Spike finally showed up, Angel was deep in thought and it took a second for him to register the other’s presence.
Spike rarely seemed to do anything quietly. Now however he practically slunk through the kitchen door. Angel looked up, and all thoughts were blown away.
Staring at Spike’s neck, there was only one thing to ask (even if the answer was there right in front of his eyes):
“You let her bite you?”
Spike didn’t meet his eyes, just sort of slowly folded himself down into a chair, studied his hands.
“I didn’t mean to- it just-”
A beat, then he buried his head in his hands.
“Oh hell, who am I kidding, I wanted it…”
Looking up, he looked into the distance, eyes lost: “Angel, what do we do?”
‘Start by not letting her bite you!’ was on the tip of Angel’s tongue, as was ‘Not bringing her into the hotel in the first place!’ but neither seemed the thing, considering how Spike clearly knew he’d screwed up. Besides it was too late now…
Angel cleared his throat.
“I should kick your ass from here till next Tuesday, but that wouldn’t help. Besides, I think you’re well aware what a colossal idiot you are.”
Spike didn’t answer. This in itself was a cause for worry - Spike always had an opinion, was always pushing back, except recently…
“Look, what happened? I heard the screaming.”
“She- she sensed the Key. So I showed her, but when she touched it she- she freaked out.”
A brief glance, Spike’s eyes deadly serious and solemn.
“She saw something. Said how, how - our destiny was divided, how the Key would tear everything apart, how there would only be the dark and the pain… Angel. What the hell are we doing?”
“Trying to stop the apocalypse,” Angel replied, staunchly. This they knew.
“Yeah but remember all this crap about becoming real a boy?” Spike shook his head. “There was none of that. She just screamed. I’ve never seen her like that. Ever. Angel, what are we doing?”
“Whatever we have to. Spike – we are not stopping now!”
“I know. But you didn’t see her. Angel, we’re fucked. I’m just telling you. This story ain’t going to have a happy ending.”
There was a hopelessness to him that Angel recognised… And suddenly he understood the bite. Remembered far too clearly his own feelings of helplessness when Holland had shown him the ‘reality’ of the world, ‘The Home Office’. What he had done afterwards.
If anyone had ever told him that Spike would be the one to understand he would probably have broken something, laughing. But here, now…
“Spike, I’ve been trying to work things out. Not just Dru, but… why are we still alive? We’ve got a few neat spells working for us, but if they wanted rid of us all they’d have to do is jump us outside the gates with a flamethrower. The reason they haven’t, is the prophecy. They need us alive to fulfil our part. What happens afterwards…”
He spread his hands.
“Not up to us. But we are getting close to something if they used Dru to…”
His voice trailed off, as he became aware that she was there, in the doorway.
Spike turned, then inhaled sharply.
She was exquisite, as always, the bruises and cuts healed, her simple, dark dress outlining her against the dim daylight that filtered through shuttered windows, black hair tumbling over her shoulders. Bewitching, captivating, the way she’d always been, from the very first time he had seen her.
But all that was secondary. In her hands she held the Dead Key, and her eyes were as shrewd and calculating as he had ever seen.
“This is why I was sent. They saved me from the slayers, told me to find a Dead Key, that I would know it… That it would sing to me of terror and fear.”
She tilted her head, as if listening.
“It doesn’t sing, it screams. Screams of your suffering.”
Angel realised that he had jumped to his feet as Spike’s chair fell to the ground, clattering in the sudden silence.
Smiling, eyes dark with secrets, she reached down into her cleavage, brought out a simple golden ring.
“And they gave me this.”
No need to ask who ‘they’ were. Nor what the ring was. He’d held a Band of Blacknil once, knew what this meant.
Where the hell was Illyria when you needed her?
(That had been his only solution - to outsource the execution. He hated himself for thinking it, but he wasn’t sure he could go through with… He’d brought her into a world of pain and destruction, could he take her out of it also? He ought to, but.)
Raising her eyes, Dru looked straight at him.
“See you in the Home Office, Daddy…”
But instead of putting the ring on her finger she turned on her heel, half-running, half-dancing away from them.
It took a second, then they set off in pursuit, Spike in front, Angel on his heels, until they came to the front door.
They expected her to stop, except she pushed the doors open, dancing out into the deadly sunshine…
“Dru!” Spike yelled, and would have followed her if Angel hadn’t grabbed hold of him, holding him back.
(Momentary memories almost froze him – this, the safety of the sunshine, was where Connor had run to after he returned from the Quor’Toth, Angel’s friends holding him back…)
And still she didn’t use the ring.
Instead she turned, smoke already shimmering around her - the Dead Key in one hand, the Band of Blacknil in the other.
And then – she laughed, bright and shimmering and happy. Like she suddenly knew the answer to a wonderful secret:
“I can see how it ends!”
But even as she spoke fire blossomed, tiny flames growing, growing, growing, before enveloping her completely, as they watched, helpless and paralysed.
In mere moments she vanished from their lives, a flaming statue disintegrating before their eyes, her laughter somehow still ringing in their ears, even after she was gone.
Chapter 22 on LJ
Chapter 22 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): 4800 words
Setting and Summary: As before. (Post-NFA epic quest thing.)
Beta: The ever wonderful
kathyh“Spike – catch!”
He caught the magic stick through pure instinct (it had a fancy name, but he hadn’t been paying attention) and adroitly climbed to the top of the derelict temple, watching Angel and Illyria fight the wraith-like protectors far below, their strange off-key keening almost like tinnitus, and equally unpleasant. When killed, they seemed to evaporate, but left inky smudges on the dead air. Spike idly wondered if it was actual ink, and if it could be washed off.
The roof of the temple was in surprisingly good nick he noticed, considering how long it had been empty. It had belonged to one of Illyria’s now long-dead rivals and was an impressive structure in its own way, but Spike had long since lost the ability to be awed… Now it was merely yet another defiled and broken remnant of a glorious past, like so many, many others.
Soon bored with observing the fight he laid down, staring up into the murky ochre sky. It reminded him of the smog that regularly enveloped London in back in the day…
What was Buffy doing, he wondered. He was sure they had been wandering about for several months by now, but Illyria had merely done a little shrug when he asked how long they’d been. Had they missed the apocalypse? Would they return home to find that their world had been reduced to yet another pile of rubble? Was she even still alive? The ‘real’ world felt almost like a place he’d made up, a story to comfort him in the long dark nights, with an impossibly beautiful and powerful lover… He turned the magic stick over in his hands, the intricate pattern and mystic writing mesmerising. It had been created for the head-priest millennia ago, and if the wraiths got hold of it they’d break it, something to be avoided at all costs as it was needed in order to access the sacred texts inside the temple.
Sacred texts - like the bleeding Shanshu. One day he’d become human and marry Buffy? It was ridiculous; a fantasy or chimera… Reality was dead worlds and a never-ending dance with danger.
“Spike! The Wand of Mizzuin?”
He was torn out of his musings by Angel’s angry bark, and slowly got to his feet before making his way over to the edge. Realising that the battle was over he leapt down the 40-odd feet of temple facade, and handed over the wand without a word. Angel studied him for a moment, but then strode off to perform whatever magic spell was needed in order to unlock the inner sanctum.
Walking over to one of the wraith remnants still hanging in the air, Spike cautiously reached out, but had his hand kicked away before he could touch the odd smear. It looked not unlike a splash of graffiti painted onto nothing.
“It will poison you, turn you into one of them!” Illyria snapped, like a mother chastising a child playing with a sharp knife.
“Keep your hair on,” he muttered and slumped down against the wall, idly throwing pebbles at the smudges instead, tearing tiny holes in the oddly viscous substance.
He was somewhere beyond bored, but didn’t know what the word might be to describe his current state of mind.
After the euphoria of finding another piece of the Key, there had followed the inevitable slump. They were used to it by now, but this time Angel had decided that they ought to find out more about the Dead Key itself – who had made it, how to use it, what it actually did – something which turned out to be even more mind-numbingly impossible than finding the pieces themselves.
After all, a magical bit of rock could be hidden anywhere, but knowledge (rare, priceless, too dangerous to record) could only be found amongst creatures like the Raven, or The Keeper of Secrets – either hidden or lost or dead. Illyria’s ‘contacts’ from back in the day (such as they were) turned out useless. Known enemies of Wolfram & Hart could – if they were lucky – confirm what they already knew, but so far they never had new information. Most of the time they turned out to be dead.
Time was blurring, places and dimensions bleeding together, and Spike wanted nothing more than to just rest. How long had they been doing this overall? How long would they continue? How long could they? He tried to remember where they had been before they arrived here, forcing himself to dredge up memories that he’d never made any effort to retain; there had been the endless frozen sand dimension, and before that the dimension of the million tiny spiders, before that the dimension with the angry birds, and before that the dimension of rotting armies where a war had destroyed everything – victors and the defeated alike – and before that… His mind went blank.
Eventually Angel appeared in front of him. Spike glanced up, but seeing that clearly the other had been unsuccessful (yet again) he closed his eyes, wondering how hard the ground might be - he was tired, but looking for a comfy place to sleep seemed like too much effort.
Then Angel kicked him.
When he didn’t react, Angel kicked him again.
“Get up, we’re going home. This isn’t working.”
Something like a tiny ray of hope appeared in Spike’s mind.
“Oh thank fuck,” he breathed, waiting for Angel to hold out a hand before attempting to get to his feet. Could lethargy be a medical condition?
But then a moment later the Hyperion folded itself around them, and he felt like an invisible burden instantly lifted. And if he tried really hard, he could pretend that it wouldn’t return. If he could just deceive himself to believe that they could stay, he might be OK. He should probably call Buffy, but he couldn’t face it just yet. He wanted to feel more himself… If she needed support, she could do without him moaning about his feelings. Or lack thereof.
After what might have been the longest shower in his life (the spiders of two dimensions ago had been very very tiny and very very multitudinous, and he wanted to make sure they were gone, all of them, gone for good), a thorough touch-up of this roots, and then a rest in a proper bed for the first time in countless months, he decided to go out for some blood and smokes. (They still had a good stash left of the booze they’d purchased previously, which pleased him. Tonight he would get so drunk that he’d not be sober for a week. If Angel had a problem with that, well he literally couldn’t care less.)
There was a little place just down from the hotel, and he pulled on a dark top with a hood, never looking up and blending in perfectly with all the shadows of the night - it was a risk going out, but dammit, they’d survived on rodents the size of beetles for the past few weeks, and he needed a good meal. Besides, Illyria had gone out to wherever she went, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to be bringing blood back.
But as he returned to the hotel, pockets bulging, he found his steps slowing. By the wall was a bundle of black, a beggar by the looks of it, with a dark shawl over their head… He took a few more steps, his senses and instincts suddenly screaming at him. Surely it couldn’t be…
Stepping forwards and reaching out, trying to stop his hand from trembling, he carefully pulled back the shawl, taking a sharp, unneeded breath at the sight that greeted him. Beautiful features marred by dried blood and dark bruises, hair matted and dirty, consciousness a bare sliver – enough for her to abruptly reach out, grasp his wrist, but nothing more.
Without thinking he picked her up, too light by half, his beautiful princess…
The motion seemed to stir something in her. Her eyes fluttered, and she whispered, so quietly he could barely catch it, even with his enhanced hearing.
“In my father’s house are many rooms… but none for me.”
He knew the Bible verse she was quoting – or misquoting, rather. And why.
“Shush,” he reassured her, as if he could protect her from all the ills of the world.
Angel was in the lobby, surrounded by swords and axes (he was doing a check on all their weapons and sharpening them, for reasons that escaped Spike entirely), staring at Spike with undiluted astonishment as he entered with Dru cradled in his arms.
“What the hell-”
“She’s hurt,” Spike cut him off, but Angel physically blocked his path, incredulous.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“She needs help,” Spike reiterated. “She was just sitting by the wall outside…”
Angel closed his eyes, a big black monolith of mounting anger.
“Spike. This? Is a trap. She is a trap. You think it’s a coincidence that she was there, right on our doorstep? They know they can’t get in here, but now you have literally carried them over the threshold. I can’t conceive of how you could be so stupid…”
“Look mate, you can keep talking, but I’m going to take her upstairs and find her a bed,” Spike replied.
“I can’t let you do that,” Angel said, and Spike tilted his head, studying his grandsire, wondering how Angel could be so fantastically blinkered.
“As if you wouldn’t – didn’t – do the same for Darla,” he finally replied, holding Angel’s eyes, and after a long moment Angel acquiesced.
“Fine,” he muttered, but as he didn’t move Spike had to walk around him. What he hadn’t said, but what hung over them, was how Spike was always the one to pick up the broken pieces from what Angel had destroyed. If anyone deserved Angel’s help, it was Dru, trap or no.
He found a room on the second floor and made Dru as comfortable as he could. It was like being in a time warp, from back when he’d first decided to set off for Sunnydale after she had been attacked by that mob. Her condition wasn’t much better now.
He cleaned her wounds, getting rid of the dirt as best he could, and fed her all the blood he’d just fetched for himself and Angel. As she fell asleep (proper sleep, not the half comatose exhaustion of earlier) he started on her hair, untangling it strand by strand, the work soothing and familiar, and somewhere, deep inside, was a feeling of home that he didn’t know how to quantify.
(There were seven messages on his phone from Buffy. He turned it off.)
Angel came by after a while, standing immobile in the doorway. Spike ignored him, focussing on a particularly resistant knot, and it could have been a hundred years ago… The silence hung in the room, unbroken, until Angel cleared his throat and curtly asked Spike to let him know when she woke up.
It took hours to untangle the hair, but it kept him occupied, the perfect way to stop thinking. Once he was done, he had to face what he was doing.
‘I was a lucky bloke, to even touch such a dark beauty…’
He remembered their last encounter vividly. Ready to kill her at Buffy’s word. For a mere crumb – for the promise that maybe, someday, he might have a chance.
He’d been given his chance, and more besides. Buffy was a phone call – a portal – away. He could be by her side in a heartbeat. And yet he was sitting beside his dark princess, her hair like a black wave across the pillow, her face pale and bruised.
He could stake her now, a single, simple motion, and the world would be a better place. And yet he didn’t move. Dru was monster and victim, mother and child, and the one they had all abandoned. Even him. Choosing the hard path of light and goodness before he even knew it himself.
When she finally stirred, he never needed to call Angel. The other vampire was in the room before her eyes had even opened.
“My boys,” she whispered, “So full of light, so full of darkness…” Her eyes lingered over Angel, who did his best to appear unaffected. A small smile on her face:
“Is Daddy home?”
Ignoring her question, Angel spoke.
“Who did this to you?”
“Slayers,” she spat, eyes lighting up with ire. “Nasty, sneaky slayers. So many now, too many, we fall, shadows and ashes…”
Trying to raise herself, she turned to Spike, speaking directly to him for the first time. “All ensnared, all lost, the golden girls take all the dark princes. Destroying what was mine…”
Wrapping her slender arms around herself, she started rocking, back and forth, back and forth, like a demented doll.
“Breaking my boys, breaking my toys, all gone and lost forever, poor Miss Edith will never have another supper, smashed and shattered…”
Appalled, Spike reached out, grabbed hold of her, forcing her to look at him.
“They broke Miss Edith?”
“Smash, smash, shards all over the floor, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t…”
Her voice wavered and broke, tears filling her eyes, and Spike without thinking pulled her into his arms, gently rocking her as she sobbed. He knew this, the childlike heart of her, the ways to calm her grief.
“Shh Princess. Shh. Hey, listen. Maybe not all the king’s horses or all the king’s men, but remember who can put Miss Edith back together again?”
She stilled in his arms, searching his face, trusting and hopeful, and hell, would he have to kill her? Could he let her go?
For now, he pushed the painful conundrum out of his mind, smiling softly as he began speaking, the cadence of the words easily moulding themselves to the familiar script in his mind. He’d even had to get a VHS tape once and set up a TV so she could watch the show on endless repeat.
“Once upon a time,” he began, “not so long ago, there was a little girl called Emily. Emily had a shop…”
As he spoke more details came back to him. Emily said her special rhyme, and Bagpuss the toy cat woke up and had a look at the broken Miss Edith. He improvised a story on the spot about Miss Edith spending a night dancing with some fairies, and then the mice set to work gluing Miss Edith back together and cleaning her pretty dress before setting her out in the window so passers-by could see her, and hopefully her owner would find her again.
“Can we go to Emily’s shop?” Dru asked, enchanted, and Spike chuckled.
“Of course Princess. But you have to get better first… Have a rest now, Angel and I will look after you.”
She easily slipped back into sleep and he quietly left her side.
Once outside her room, Angel spoke, clearly thrown.
“What… was that?”
Spike shot him a look.
“You not familiar with Bagpuss?”
The other shook his head, and Spike sighed. “You missed out. Quality TV that. Children's’ show, obviously.”
“Look Spike-“
“I know. What you gonna do? Go in there and dust her?”
He held Angel’s eyes until the other looked away.
“We can’t let her leave,” Angel eventually mumbled.
“Well go in there and finish it then, big hero,” Spike countered. “I need a rest.”
He turned on his heel and walked up to his room, resisting the urge to add: ‘You killed her once already, you’ll know the drill.’
The next few days Spike’s whole world narrowed down to just Dru. It was clear neither of them knew what to do with her, so Spike did what he’d always done.
If she were a spy, or a mole, she didn’t let on (and might not be aware, that was the rub… With Dru, anything was possible).
On the fourth day, however, she reached out and laid her hand on his coat over his heart.
“You carry a Key. But it is broken. Dead. Like me.”
Her eyes grew distant: “The Wolf, the Ram, the Hart… they are like spiders, their web ensnares realms upon realms; they cover this world, clinging, clinging, dragging everything into the dark.”
“But the Key, love…” he used the endearment without thinking, caught up in her visions and the questions that had carried their quest for ages now. “Can we fix the Key? How do we bring it to life? How do we use it?”
Months they’d spent trudging around, pointlessly trying to find out any information, but here was a possible answer…
(Or maybe he was playing into the enemy’s hands. But fuck it, he hadn’t lived this long by playing it safe.)
He reached into his pocket and brought out the oddly shaped lump. It was heavier now, but not much larger, and looked not unlike that moon rock Angel had gotten Nina for Christmas.
Cautiously she touched it, but abruptly pulled back as if scorched, screaming. Screaming, like had never heard.
“Dru? Dru! What is it, what can you see? Dru, please-“
The scream seemed to cut right through him, on and on and on, until her voice eventually gave out. He found himself frozen in wordless terror, knowing he should move, should… something, but the whole world seemed to be howling, his ears ringing, like something primal had been unleashed.
And then she spoke.
“The blood,” she whispered, looking straight through him. “The blood on the scroll. It damns you, a prophecy split in two, The Dead Key will tear all asunder, bringing you down, down – down into the dark and the pain – deeper and deeper, never ending…“
Retreating further she moved away from him, curling up and keening to herself. Alarmed, he finally moved and tossed the Key aside, trying to pull her towards him, to comfort her somehow, even as his own mind was whirling. What had she seen? What was lying ahead? He was wary of the whole Shanshu thing anyway, and he trusted Dru’s Sight a darn sight more than dusty prophecies, but this was alarming on a whole new level. He wasn’t doing it for a prize, but whatever it was that Dru could see was frightening in ways he couldn’t even articulate.
It seemed to take forever to calm her down, the whole world shrinking down to the two of them, the turmoil ebbing out bit by bit, the bone-deep terror (his future?) binding them together. When she was finally still she was resting against him, her face buried in his neck, her body flush against his own, and it was familiar and primal and something he should not have allowed to happen. He should walk away. He should unentangle himself.
But he could still hear her scream echoing in his ears, the pure naked fear in her eyes imprinted on him, and when he felt her face change he allowed the past to claim him, surrendering to the bite the way he had so many years ago, pain and pleasure rushing in and burying everything else.
Angel had heard the scream.
Had rushed with unnatural speed to the door to Dru’s room, and then hesitated. Had stood still, listening, unsure. After all, what could he do?
Spike seemed to be calming her down, so he walked away, ending up in the kitchen, restless and unhappy. They should have been away days ago, but were stuck in limbo thanks to Dru.
They should have left her – staked her immediately – should have… something. But guilt stayed his hand, even though the blood of every one of her victims was on his hands too.
He wished he could undo the damage, but no one – not Bagpuss the Cat (whatever that was), nor all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could put Dru back together again.
He dragged a hand across his face, wondering if the universe would ever stop reminding him of all his sins.
He should have called Nina, except what could he have told her? He was lucky it wasn’t a full moon, or she’d have turned up…
They could call Buffy of course – Buffy would have no qualms about staking Dru, he was sure of that, but Spike… Fuck, why was it all so complicated?
When Spike finally showed up, Angel was deep in thought and it took a second for him to register the other’s presence.
Spike rarely seemed to do anything quietly. Now however he practically slunk through the kitchen door. Angel looked up, and all thoughts were blown away.
Staring at Spike’s neck, there was only one thing to ask (even if the answer was there right in front of his eyes):
“You let her bite you?”
Spike didn’t meet his eyes, just sort of slowly folded himself down into a chair, studied his hands.
“I didn’t mean to- it just-”
A beat, then he buried his head in his hands.
“Oh hell, who am I kidding, I wanted it…”
Looking up, he looked into the distance, eyes lost: “Angel, what do we do?”
‘Start by not letting her bite you!’ was on the tip of Angel’s tongue, as was ‘Not bringing her into the hotel in the first place!’ but neither seemed the thing, considering how Spike clearly knew he’d screwed up. Besides it was too late now…
Angel cleared his throat.
“I should kick your ass from here till next Tuesday, but that wouldn’t help. Besides, I think you’re well aware what a colossal idiot you are.”
Spike didn’t answer. This in itself was a cause for worry - Spike always had an opinion, was always pushing back, except recently…
“Look, what happened? I heard the screaming.”
“She- she sensed the Key. So I showed her, but when she touched it she- she freaked out.”
A brief glance, Spike’s eyes deadly serious and solemn.
“She saw something. Said how, how - our destiny was divided, how the Key would tear everything apart, how there would only be the dark and the pain… Angel. What the hell are we doing?”
“Trying to stop the apocalypse,” Angel replied, staunchly. This they knew.
“Yeah but remember all this crap about becoming real a boy?” Spike shook his head. “There was none of that. She just screamed. I’ve never seen her like that. Ever. Angel, what are we doing?”
“Whatever we have to. Spike – we are not stopping now!”
“I know. But you didn’t see her. Angel, we’re fucked. I’m just telling you. This story ain’t going to have a happy ending.”
There was a hopelessness to him that Angel recognised… And suddenly he understood the bite. Remembered far too clearly his own feelings of helplessness when Holland had shown him the ‘reality’ of the world, ‘The Home Office’. What he had done afterwards.
If anyone had ever told him that Spike would be the one to understand he would probably have broken something, laughing. But here, now…
“Spike, I’ve been trying to work things out. Not just Dru, but… why are we still alive? We’ve got a few neat spells working for us, but if they wanted rid of us all they’d have to do is jump us outside the gates with a flamethrower. The reason they haven’t, is the prophecy. They need us alive to fulfil our part. What happens afterwards…”
He spread his hands.
“Not up to us. But we are getting close to something if they used Dru to…”
His voice trailed off, as he became aware that she was there, in the doorway.
Spike turned, then inhaled sharply.
She was exquisite, as always, the bruises and cuts healed, her simple, dark dress outlining her against the dim daylight that filtered through shuttered windows, black hair tumbling over her shoulders. Bewitching, captivating, the way she’d always been, from the very first time he had seen her.
But all that was secondary. In her hands she held the Dead Key, and her eyes were as shrewd and calculating as he had ever seen.
“This is why I was sent. They saved me from the slayers, told me to find a Dead Key, that I would know it… That it would sing to me of terror and fear.”
She tilted her head, as if listening.
“It doesn’t sing, it screams. Screams of your suffering.”
Angel realised that he had jumped to his feet as Spike’s chair fell to the ground, clattering in the sudden silence.
Smiling, eyes dark with secrets, she reached down into her cleavage, brought out a simple golden ring.
“And they gave me this.”
No need to ask who ‘they’ were. Nor what the ring was. He’d held a Band of Blacknil once, knew what this meant.
Where the hell was Illyria when you needed her?
(That had been his only solution - to outsource the execution. He hated himself for thinking it, but he wasn’t sure he could go through with… He’d brought her into a world of pain and destruction, could he take her out of it also? He ought to, but.)
Raising her eyes, Dru looked straight at him.
“See you in the Home Office, Daddy…”
But instead of putting the ring on her finger she turned on her heel, half-running, half-dancing away from them.
It took a second, then they set off in pursuit, Spike in front, Angel on his heels, until they came to the front door.
They expected her to stop, except she pushed the doors open, dancing out into the deadly sunshine…
“Dru!” Spike yelled, and would have followed her if Angel hadn’t grabbed hold of him, holding him back.
(Momentary memories almost froze him – this, the safety of the sunshine, was where Connor had run to after he returned from the Quor’Toth, Angel’s friends holding him back…)
And still she didn’t use the ring.
Instead she turned, smoke already shimmering around her - the Dead Key in one hand, the Band of Blacknil in the other.
And then – she laughed, bright and shimmering and happy. Like she suddenly knew the answer to a wonderful secret:
“I can see how it ends!”
But even as she spoke fire blossomed, tiny flames growing, growing, growing, before enveloping her completely, as they watched, helpless and paralysed.
In mere moments she vanished from their lives, a flaming statue disintegrating before their eyes, her laughter somehow still ringing in their ears, even after she was gone.
Chapter 22 on LJ
Chapter 22 on DW
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I feel very evil, and also very pleased. I have been waiting for this moment for so long. Like I said above, this is when everything changes. (Although it'll take a while before you see why...)