Notes: Just an odd short piece I wrote... My first Buffy fanfiction.
I always liked Spike and Giles. ~Kei
Rated: PG
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply... yadda yadda =)
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~Graveside Vigil~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He let one trembling hand rest on the tombstone. It was cold,
hard, unyielding under his questing fingers and he gripped it fiercely,
letting the stone cut deeply into his palm. He knelt on the damp
earth, on the freshly turned dirt. The other hand, shaking like the
first, touched one of the dozens of bright flowers that surrounded the
headstone before traveling downward, to rest upon the clay like earth.
He bowed his head, let hair that hadn't been cut in weeks fall
forward and obscure a face that, kept young by her life, was
infinitely older by surviving her death. A name stirred and died on
his lips even as he fought a tearless sob. He had no tears left,
since her funeral.
He had been a Father to her, and she, his Daughter. He had
been sent to her for duty's sake but had stayed, through death and
grief and the raging fires of Hell, for love. Rupert Giles and Buffy
Summers... He had never called her his Daughter but there were times
that it was so clear between them... When her eyes lifted, met his,
and for one instant he saw how much Buffy cared for him, how much he
meant to her, a girl bereft of a future, surrounded by demons so much
more real and concrete than anyone else's.
He rarely understood Buffy in the years that he had been
graced with her presence, those too short years, but he understood
their relationship, and that had always been enough. He had loved
women but he had never had a family that he could call his own by
blood... By love though... Buffy had been his family, and Willow and
Xander and Dawn and the dozens of others who had drifted in and out of
their timeless existence.
He had never respected and cared for someone so much, not even
Jenny Calendar- the woman who lay dead and buried in a grave so much
colder than Buffy's, a woman killed by his almost Daughter's first
love. Angel... Old anger, old rage, old hate that, but still there,
a demon that Buffy had never even known was there to fight, nestled
between his bruised heart and aching soul. He hated Angel still for
what he had done to Jenny, hated him just as much for the pain he had
caused Buffy.
But what could he have done to stop that pain? He knew of
passion's fire, so much different yet the same as Hell's. Mortal
hearts can't contain it, that love, first love, true love, soul mates,
that burned fiercer than any spell, than any weapon, that seared
deeper and left bigger scars than any other. But his Daughter had
learned of that fire though, had been tested, tempered, and proclaimed
mistress of it. It had not been an easy lesson but he had stood
beside her, through it all.
He had shaped her, guided her, held her while she wept, and
she wept in front of few. He had seen the girl become a woman, had
watched her as she became a mythical Atlas, as she hoisted the world's
burdens upon shoulders too slim to carry that kind of weight. Had
watched her stand tall though, through the tears and laughter, watched
her walk unfaltering...
Had never faltered himself in his patient vigil of her, this
earth's most unsung hero. He had helped her bury her mother, and he
had seen her defeat a God. He had watched his almost Daughter die.
His throat constricted at that last unbidden, unwanted
thought, and the memories it called up. Her face, unholy in its
serenity, that leap of faith, of blind faith, and the way the harsh
lights had softened as they touched her still, cold, face, and painted
it golden. They had gathered, her family by love, numbed by loss,
unbelieving as she gently set the world down, and passed her duties to
another, at last, some unnamed, untested girl. Someone who claimed
another as Watcher. One who had never met her predecessor, who would
never know how extraordinary of a reputation she had to live up to,
who would never, by the rules decreed by the Powers to Be, know the
woman, his Daughter, named Buffy.
A hand, unsteady as his own, gripped his shoulder. Giles
didn't turn to face Spike. The vampire dropped his hand and Giles
heard, faintly, fumbling fingers lighting a cigarette. The smell of
smoke reached him moments later.
"Come on, old man. She..." tears clouded that voice and Giles
wondered, distantly, how one could mourn so completely, so deeply,
without a soul, for someone who fought for light when he was already
pledged a thousand times to darkness, by each drop of blood he
spilled. Spike continued doggedly. "Let's go get drunk somewhere, in
some dark bloody pub." Giles didn't answer and Spike turned away
before tortured eyes could be drawn back to all that remained of the
one woman that had made him feel alive...
Not that the drink helped any. Grief burned the alcohol away
faster than he could drink it, no matter how strong it was. Giles's
soft voice shattered his sorrow filled thoughts.
"She... I know... I won't stay here forever, just tonight...
For one last vigil. I, I am still her Watcher." Spike swallowed,
took one last deep breath from his calming cigarette before tossing it
to the damp ground and crushing it fiercely under one thick heeled
boot.
"Yeah..." he replied helplessly, "I know." He didn't leave
though, and Giles didn't acknowledge his presence any more than that.
The two men stayed there until dawn, one standing, one kneeling, one
weeping unnoticed tears, one with saddened, dry eyes, one mourning a
Love he never realized, one mourning a Daughter he never named.
Buffy Summers was many things to many people. She saved the
world, a lot. And she was gone.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Don't stand beside my grave and weep,
For I'm not there, I do not sleep,
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond's glint on snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush,
of quiet birds in circle flight,
I am soft stars that shine at night,
Don't stand beside my grave and cry,
I am not there. I did not die.
Author still unknown, "I did not die"
(Prayer for the dead, Hopi Indian Tribe (not verified)
I always liked Spike and Giles. ~Kei
Rated: PG
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply... yadda yadda =)
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~Graveside Vigil~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He let one trembling hand rest on the tombstone. It was cold,
hard, unyielding under his questing fingers and he gripped it fiercely,
letting the stone cut deeply into his palm. He knelt on the damp
earth, on the freshly turned dirt. The other hand, shaking like the
first, touched one of the dozens of bright flowers that surrounded the
headstone before traveling downward, to rest upon the clay like earth.
He bowed his head, let hair that hadn't been cut in weeks fall
forward and obscure a face that, kept young by her life, was
infinitely older by surviving her death. A name stirred and died on
his lips even as he fought a tearless sob. He had no tears left,
since her funeral.
He had been a Father to her, and she, his Daughter. He had
been sent to her for duty's sake but had stayed, through death and
grief and the raging fires of Hell, for love. Rupert Giles and Buffy
Summers... He had never called her his Daughter but there were times
that it was so clear between them... When her eyes lifted, met his,
and for one instant he saw how much Buffy cared for him, how much he
meant to her, a girl bereft of a future, surrounded by demons so much
more real and concrete than anyone else's.
He rarely understood Buffy in the years that he had been
graced with her presence, those too short years, but he understood
their relationship, and that had always been enough. He had loved
women but he had never had a family that he could call his own by
blood... By love though... Buffy had been his family, and Willow and
Xander and Dawn and the dozens of others who had drifted in and out of
their timeless existence.
He had never respected and cared for someone so much, not even
Jenny Calendar- the woman who lay dead and buried in a grave so much
colder than Buffy's, a woman killed by his almost Daughter's first
love. Angel... Old anger, old rage, old hate that, but still there,
a demon that Buffy had never even known was there to fight, nestled
between his bruised heart and aching soul. He hated Angel still for
what he had done to Jenny, hated him just as much for the pain he had
caused Buffy.
But what could he have done to stop that pain? He knew of
passion's fire, so much different yet the same as Hell's. Mortal
hearts can't contain it, that love, first love, true love, soul mates,
that burned fiercer than any spell, than any weapon, that seared
deeper and left bigger scars than any other. But his Daughter had
learned of that fire though, had been tested, tempered, and proclaimed
mistress of it. It had not been an easy lesson but he had stood
beside her, through it all.
He had shaped her, guided her, held her while she wept, and
she wept in front of few. He had seen the girl become a woman, had
watched her as she became a mythical Atlas, as she hoisted the world's
burdens upon shoulders too slim to carry that kind of weight. Had
watched her stand tall though, through the tears and laughter, watched
her walk unfaltering...
Had never faltered himself in his patient vigil of her, this
earth's most unsung hero. He had helped her bury her mother, and he
had seen her defeat a God. He had watched his almost Daughter die.
His throat constricted at that last unbidden, unwanted
thought, and the memories it called up. Her face, unholy in its
serenity, that leap of faith, of blind faith, and the way the harsh
lights had softened as they touched her still, cold, face, and painted
it golden. They had gathered, her family by love, numbed by loss,
unbelieving as she gently set the world down, and passed her duties to
another, at last, some unnamed, untested girl. Someone who claimed
another as Watcher. One who had never met her predecessor, who would
never know how extraordinary of a reputation she had to live up to,
who would never, by the rules decreed by the Powers to Be, know the
woman, his Daughter, named Buffy.
A hand, unsteady as his own, gripped his shoulder. Giles
didn't turn to face Spike. The vampire dropped his hand and Giles
heard, faintly, fumbling fingers lighting a cigarette. The smell of
smoke reached him moments later.
"Come on, old man. She..." tears clouded that voice and Giles
wondered, distantly, how one could mourn so completely, so deeply,
without a soul, for someone who fought for light when he was already
pledged a thousand times to darkness, by each drop of blood he
spilled. Spike continued doggedly. "Let's go get drunk somewhere, in
some dark bloody pub." Giles didn't answer and Spike turned away
before tortured eyes could be drawn back to all that remained of the
one woman that had made him feel alive...
Not that the drink helped any. Grief burned the alcohol away
faster than he could drink it, no matter how strong it was. Giles's
soft voice shattered his sorrow filled thoughts.
"She... I know... I won't stay here forever, just tonight...
For one last vigil. I, I am still her Watcher." Spike swallowed,
took one last deep breath from his calming cigarette before tossing it
to the damp ground and crushing it fiercely under one thick heeled
boot.
"Yeah..." he replied helplessly, "I know." He didn't leave
though, and Giles didn't acknowledge his presence any more than that.
The two men stayed there until dawn, one standing, one kneeling, one
weeping unnoticed tears, one with saddened, dry eyes, one mourning a
Love he never realized, one mourning a Daughter he never named.
Buffy Summers was many things to many people. She saved the
world, a lot. And she was gone.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Don't stand beside my grave and weep,
For I'm not there, I do not sleep,
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond's glint on snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush,
of quiet birds in circle flight,
I am soft stars that shine at night,
Don't stand beside my grave and cry,
I am not there. I did not die.
Author still unknown, "I did not die"
(Prayer for the dead, Hopi Indian Tribe (not verified)