Title: To Carthage They Came (Chapter 3)
Author: Chris
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: You're kidding, yes? Not mine; don't sue.
Summary: Less with the mind-bendy, more with the storytelling. Some indeterminate but smallish amount of time has passed. Buffy's on another date, Spike gets some advice, Dawn mucks about where she shouldn't, and Willow and Giles have a visitor.
-- -- -- -- -- --
John watches her from across the table, marveling at the fact that she is here with him. She smiles, and the room lights up around her. He doesn't know if it is the wine or the music that has relaxed her enough to let pleasure in, but he knows it is not he who brings her to happiness. It is what he represents.
Is he doing her any favors, letting her pretend at normal girl with him? At this moment, she seems to be nothing more or less than an ordinary, if strikingly beautiful, woman. But he knows better.
He's seen a lot of hellholes in this world while with the Merchant Marines, and has somehow landed here in Sunnydale, a different kind of hellhole. He has an unusual ability to recognize the truth around him, and he knows both what Buffy is and what she does. He's seen it himself, responding to the call to pick up the two bank robbers and later, at the ruins of The Magic Box .
As has become their habit, the conversation is light, touching on Dawn's escapades and favorite flavors of ice cream. She skillfully avoids anything deeper, until he reaches out to grasp her hand. "Look at me, Buffy. You know we can't do this forever, don't you?"
"What? Eat Alfredo? Yeah, artery-hardening badness, but when you eat it off china plates, the calories don't count, right?" She is flip, and he recognizes the maneuver. She has heard the seriousness in his tone and wants to avoid it. Avoidance is one of her many talents.
He gives in, for the moment, and lets go of her hand smoothly as he picks up the half-full wineglass.
He catches her eyes over the rim of the glass, since she won't let him keep her hand. "So...you haven't said how the job is working out for you. Still liking the work?" It has to be an improvement over burger-flipping, but how is she dealing with the emotional issues of working for a women's shelter?
"You know you probably saved my life by sending me there, John." Buffy returns his gaze, grateful. "But...sometimes? It's hard. I look at the pain in their eyes, and I want to pound the men who hurt them. It reminds me that I'm helpless to fight so many of the monsters in this world. I wish I could do more, that I could wipe those assholes off the face of the earth."
John sees the anger in the set of her jaw, but does she see the whole picture? He remembers his own anger every time he responds to a domestic call and is sent away with a wave of the hand in front of a tear-stained face. 'No, officer. I don't want to file charges.' 'He loves me.' ' I don't want him to go to jail.' 'He promises he won't do it again.' 'He just has a little trouble when he drinks.' They let their blind love drag them into the pits of despair, over and over again.
He knows she won't hear him, but he has to say it anyway.
"You know Buffy, it takes two people to create an abusive relationship. Those cretins who abuse their wives and children should burn in the hottest fires of hell, but the women who let them...they have their own problems."
Now she is truly furious. "Are you trying to tell me that it's their fault they've been beaten? Come on, John. That's like saying a woman who ..." her eyes take on that sad cast, then flash bright rage. He interrupts before she can finish the thought. He knows she's been hurt.
Gently now. "Buffy, you need to understand this, before you get too attached to these women. Do you know how many of them will ultimately return to the men who hit them, because they love their abusers so much they've given up everything that they are? I've seen it happen, over and over again. They literally beg for it.
"No, the women who escape are not to be pitied. If you want to help, don't do it by protecting them. Help them learn to stand on their own, to value who they are and their places in the world."
Before their discussion can escalate to full-scale argument, his cell phone rings and his beeper goes off. He doesn't want to leave it here: they've come so close to touching something real together. But there's a problem at the station, and he has to go.
Kind brown eyes apologize as he rises from the table. He leans in, steeling himself for the hesitation he knows will come when his lips reach for hers.
"We're still on for the baseball game, right?" At the last moment, he goes for what's easy and lands the kiss on her cheek.
She sees the disappointment in his eyes, gives herself a little shake, and reaches up to kiss him briefly on the lips. This is what normal relationships are like. No burning fires, no grand passions. Only comfort and caring.
"Of course. Wouldn't miss it for the world." She pushes him away with a light touch. "Now go, save the world." She fights back tears as she watches him walk toward the door.
-- -- -- -- -- --
"Well, then. What're you after? Missin' the campfire entertainment?" Spike stands to face the tall, thin man in the shadows at the mouth of the cave.
The shaman moves closer and settles himself cross-legged on the ground. "It is time for you to go." His vaguely British accent is familiar, bringing an odd sense of comfort to the agitated vampire.
"But we do not mean you to go in flames."
"I don't bloody see why not." The anger is still there in his eyes, ever present, but it has diminished over the weeks they've been playing this game. "Can't keep track of time, no idea what's going on when, keep getting bloody lost in the past. What good 'm I to anyone like this?" Spike slides to the ground, leaning against the wall of the cave for support.
The shaman speaks gently, as if to a frightened child. "Your fugues are only partly caused by the changes you've undergone. We laid protective spells on you from the moment you emerged from the cave -- spells to keep you functional when you would otherwise have gone mad. You have been so filled with anger that we feared you would destroy yourself and what chance the world has, at the same time. "
Spike throws back his head, laughing maniacally. "Oh, that's rich. The survival of the world, dependin' on me? Tell me another one. You sound like another git I know."
Standing to tower over the shaman, he cocks his head and mocks the genteel accent. "Has it occurred to you, that there may be a higher purpose?"
On automatic pilot, he begins to pace the shadows. "He's a fool and so are you. I'm no good. Never have been, never will be. Thought this soul would fix it, but the only difference it's made is that I know what I am. She knew it. Now I do, too." He comes to a stop, hand in hair, the familiar gesture suddenly foreign as brown eyes watch knowingly.
The shaman shakes his head. "You miss the point entirely. The soul isn't meant to tell you who you are. It is meant only to give you a choice, to remove a barrier to change. Only you can decide what your choice will be, but one thing is certain: the choice you make will ultimately decide the fate of the world."
Spike's laughter is a harsh bark. "A choice, you say? Fucking joke! Live in pain, or die in peace. Where's the higher purpose in that?"
"You must open your eyes to see. The soul is not the only gift you've received. Without you, the world will die. It is your task to discover why that is so."
The shaman withdraws a pack from the folds of his robe and hands it to Spike. "There is blood enough to get you to civilization, and a list of contacts in most areas. We've thrown a wide net, and most covens will assist you. Use them to survive, or die."
The shaman rises to leave the cave. "I can help you no more. The long periods of lost time will dissipate, but the visions will continue to come. You must learn from them."
The lightening in Spike's skull doubles him over with pain, and images begin to flash. He is alone, again.
-- -- -- -- -- --
A magnetic force pulls her to this place for the third time in as many weekends, the seductive call of its power stronger than her dislike of the physical labor required. Every day the whispering voice becomes clearer, and she cannot resist another attempt to uncover the treasure she knows lies buried.
After verifying that she is alone at the site, Dawn moves quickly. She has only an hour before the sun goes down, and she knows better than to stay here after dark.
Digging down deep in a spot where smoke rises, she hears a child-like voice calling to her in its low-pitched murmurings. "Come to me, pretty one. We shall have such fun together, you and I. The world will be our playground. Shhhh. We are alone tonight."
The voice lulls her into accepting what she knows is wrong. She should tell Buffy, or at least Anya, what she knows, but that would mean giving it up.
Shuuuuck. Thud.
Shuuuuck. Thud.
Dawn lifts and lowers the shovel in cadence with the murmured encouragements, unaware of her surroundings. Sooner than she'd expected, the shovel hits something solid, and she jumps back with a cry of surprise.
Carefully, she lays the shovel aside and digs with her hands. She touches the small black box and shudders. This is what she's been seeking.
"Yessssssssss." The sibilant whisper is clearer than ever before. "Let them out, my sweet. They can free me. And they will obey your commands as if we are one. My pretties want to play, and so do you."
Dawn licks her lips, running a finger along the edges of the lid. There is no obvious way to open the box. Her fingers trace the edges, bringing the surface of the box to a high gloss where the dust is cleared. A hint of apprehension gathers in her stomach as she wipes the lid clean to reveal a small design etched in the center: a pale green sphere with an intricate pattern worked in silver across its surface.
Somewhere in her mind, a voice is shrieking at her to stop, to wait. But she continues to move, tracing the design repeatedly, murmuring to herself. A dusky green aura surrounds her body, glowing ever more brightly as seconds tick past. She feels the power building with her motions and closes her eyes to focus.
Suddenly, the lid releases with a small pop, obscured by her sharp intake of breath. Dawn peeks inside apprehensively. No fireworks, no whooshing wind, no sparklies flying. Just a grey rock. She sits back on her heels in disappointment, resting the box on her thighs to stare at its contents.
Just a rock. She picks it up, feeling its rough surface for a hint of the power she knows must be there. It is faint, but present. Closing her eyes, she wraps the rock in her fist and concentrates.
The voice comes, clearly this time. A female voice. "It is done. My captains are free, and soon, so shall I be. They will obey you, and only you."
The rock slides into her pocket smoothly, filling her with a sense of contentment. Dawn closes the lid on the box and shoves it under the pile of dirt she's raised. Twilight is upon her, and there'll be no further searching tonight.
Monday will be soon enough. And Anya will be pleased with the box.
A secret smile curves Dawn's lips as she gathers her shovel and returns home.
-- -- -- -- -- --
Dawn, the sister of his soul, dances in the air with darkness surrounding her. She is not herself. Thousands of glowing souls are her captives, twisting and crying in shame and anger. Some of them glow darkly, oozing their sins in amorphous blobs of suffering. Others are bright, clean. And she twists them to her purpose, laughing at the pain she causes. The delight in her blue eyes is not her own -- she is buried beneath a monster.
The dark figures that marshal the souls are her champions, and they are free in the world. He can feel their hunt beginning. The pale white face hangs above them all. Red hair and sad green eyes have been their first, and will be their last, victim.
Spike rises from his prone position on the dirt floor of the cave. Higher purpose, bloody hell. He knows now what he has to do, but hasn't a clue how to do it. He withdraws the scroll the shaman gave him and searches for a name and a location.
-- -- -- -- -- --
The sounds of the twilight turning to night surround Willow as she sits on the back steps of the cottage, concentrating. The fierce wrinkle of concentration between her brows belies the serene feel of the air, and she gasps and falls forward with a whoosh of lost breath.
Through gritted teeth, she groans, "I can't do it any more, Giles. I can't."
He moves forward from his position in the doorway and takes a seat on the steps near her. Clearing his throat, he responds gently but firmly.
"You can, Willow dear. You must." He puts one arm around her shoulders and helps her to her feet.
"Let's go back inside. We have to get that pit in Hungary closed off tonight, but perhaps a break won't hurt."
Willow quietly follows his lead. She's too exhausted to respond, and she doesn't understand why. The pressure of the burdens in the village seems to have increased tenfold over the last hour. Has something terrible happened? She can't identify the source, but the pain and suffering is sharp and clear, invading every nerve ending in her body.
Before she realizes it, she's holding a cup of tea and staring at a tall stack of thick books on the kitchen table. Her voice is thin. "This is a break?"
Giles puts the kettle back on the stove and turns to regard his charge. "We're running out of time, Willow. We have to finish this soon; new fissures are erupting almost daily. While you're resting, we can look for other references to 'the lost one' in the new books Ailsa brought." He turns to face her with a frown, "Unless you're too weak? I could..."
"No, I can manage it. I don't know why it's so bad this afternoon. Something terrible must have happened in the village -- I can feel the pain as if it were yours. But I can't read it. It's worse than when Peter drowned last month."
With a heavy sigh, Willow puts down the cup and reaches for the first book in the pile as Giles joins her at the table. Both are so absorbed in their reading that the knock at the door startles them. Giles looks questioningly at Willow, and, receiving a shrug in response, heads for the front of the cottage to answer the door.
What he sees takes his breath away. Spike, or a nearly exact replica, is standing on his doorstep looking for all the world as if he's been another round with Glory.
Giles feels the hatred bubbling in his chest and grits out the words, "You. Are. Not. Welcome. Here." Giles spins to slam the door, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Spike reach out a hand as if to stop the door from closing.
"Help me... Dawn and Will--" The words, spoken as if dragged from the mouth of Hell itself, penetrate Giles' consciousness only when the door is closed and he is halfway to the kitchen.
"Help him, indeed. Why I..." Muttering under his breath, Giles barrels onward, nearly knocking Willow into the door frame in his haste to reach the weapons. She's clutching her stomach with one hand and holding a thin book in the other.
The surprise in her eyes is nothing compared with the jolt of electricity that runs through him at her words. "Have to help him, Giles. He's the one. Hurry, before he leaves."
Giles stares at her in astonishment, frozen at the implications of her statement. Only when she shoves him backward does he recover the ability to move. Ignoring the questions flooding his thoughts, he rushes to the door, standing motionless once again when he sees no sign that Spike was ever present.
-TBC-