Once the vampire with a soul fulfills his destiny, he will Shanshu.  He will live until he dies.  He will become human.

            He fought waking much as a small child fights sleep.

            Keeping his eyes closed, he stretched his toes to the end of the bed and reached his arms to the ornate headboard.  These minutes—usually no more than ten of them at a time, each of them precious—were the best part of his day.  Certainly on a day like today, following last night's horrible party with the taunting masses and Cecily's rejection, he needed to relish those moments.

            In that time between dreaming and waking, he has the words.  Fueled by dreams, he has the poetry.

            Darkness, he thought on this particular morning, his brow creasing.  So much darkness to write about.  It seemed as though he'd spent an entire night dreaming of… night.

            A dark woman, beautiful and abysmal in her lightlessness.  How many words could he find for black?  For dark?  But—

            —just before he'd waked, there was light, licks of fire and eye-searing light.  Effulgent, he thought, wincing from the previous evening's memory of Cecily.  From his memory, though, a different voice accompanied the fire—

            "I love you."

            What?  Who was that?  He squeezed his eyes tighter shut, saline moisture leaking out the corners as he tried to see her behind his eyelids.  It struck him that he wouldn't have the words, any of the words, for her.  He didn't have the speech to describe—

            "Buffy!" he gasped, sitting straight up in the huge bed he was nestled in.  Scrubbing a hand over his face, he mumbled in a much different voice, "I wanna see how it all ends."

            He remembered, and in remembering, knew.

            "I am William Bryce," he said conversationally to the empty room, the classy timbre of his voice showing his breeding.  But when he spoke again, the hard edge of the London gutter broke through.

            "I am Spike."