It's black and white. Of course it's black and white -- that's what people dream in, isn't it? Spike just can't remember it ever being this black and white, everything falling in such harsh contrast, pooling shadows and blinding highlights...

Not that he really has time to critique the cinematography, what with the mob of villagers chasing him with torches and all.

They're all there, the flickering flames turning them into visions of nightmare, and that's right, too... this is a nightmare, isn't it? Prague wasn't like this, Prague was living color, too many colors, sulfur-yellow and bruise purple and god, so much blood red...

"Right about you all along," Xander smirks, and Giles gives him an of-course-you-were-son pat on the shoulder.

And Fred, sweet little calico-and-steel Fred, Fred who he's so desperately missed, Fred who he even now wants to turn around and give a big soddin' hug to... Fred is staring at him with disgust.

"Never would have helped you if I'd known," Fred says in horror. "If I'd known you were just a monster."

And Angel is chuckling, that maddeningly superior poofy nancy boy chuckle, shaking his head. "Nice try, Willy. You'll never be one of us."

"I can't believe I let that soulless, evil thing touch me," Anya frowns.

He knows Buffy's not gonna let that one go by without hopping on the insult train, but when he turns to her... and why he can do this and still run like... well, like a really flammable guy being chased by a mob with torches... is tangled up in dream-logic...

But Buffy just stands there, scythe drooping in her hand, looking at him.

And this is the worst. The pain, the betrayal in her eyes, the revulsion; she shakes with it.

He wants her to scream at him, beat him up, call him names... anything but just stand there looking miserable, those wide green eyes full of unshed tears.

She's wearing a bathrobe.

Of course she's wearing a bathrobe.

And when the crowd falls on him he welcomes it.

-----------------------------------------

Spike's eyes snapped open, nightmare fading into...

Well, this really wasn't that much of an improvement.

Through the haze of blood that filled his vision, Spike could see her, dancing towards him, spinning gleefully, holding something wreathlike in her hands... something she raised up and placed on his head, patting it down like a mother with her child's toboggan.

A hundred stings took him at once, like the worst headache in the history of the world, relentless and sharp and everywhere and...

Oh, bloody hell.

Drusilla clapped her hands, stepping back from him in delight. "Oh, Spoike -- you're a gorgeous blasphemy. It matches your eyes."

Bloody nuns, why did Angelus have to be so obsessed with bloody nuns...

"Pretty as a picture," Drusilla smiled serenely, turning expectantly to the minion beside her.

Flashbulbs in his face. Well, wasn't that lovely. Suppose these would be arriving for Angel in the morning post, then.

"Not sure Peaches is into the religious re-enactments, Pet," Spike croaked. "Though I'm sure he'll appreciate your eye for detail."

Dru accepted the Polaroid the minion handed her, watching greedily as the film swam into focus.

"Might want to be careful with that, Dru. Seein' me all Jesused up might give Angelus one of those inconvenient happys, an' then he might not make it to your party."

"Daddy doesn't do that anymore," Drusilla peered at the photo. "Daddy will only come back once more, and I won't get to see him. But you will, Spoike. Soul-sick. He's all Angel-beast at present, thump-thump, thump-thump."

"Ah. Thrilled to hear you're in the loop."

"The Angel-Beast will come once he learns of the special present I've given the little one. A lovely, glistening present, like I gave you on your birthday. He'll come with tears in his eyes and Africa on his mind..."

Spike's spine turned to ice; he struggled to keep his voice casual. "Plannin' to turn the boy, then?"

"Oh, no, Spoike," Drusilla giggled. "Grandmother's told me again and again, I'm no good at it. Don't you remember? First you and then Grandmother... all full of cracks where the light can get in... and light's no good for us, it sizzles and burns..."

She waltzed over, adjusting the crown of thorns at Spike's brow.

"So you see... I'm not going to give him his present."

And Spike screamed as the minion thrust a spear deep into his side, blood gushing from the wound.

Drusilla patted his cheek fondly. "You are."

-----------------------------------------

The bathroom door closed behind Wesley, and Tara turned to an anxious examination of her -- well, Dawn's -- fingernails.

"I am glad that we are alone," Illyria said. "I wished to speak with you. You have not yet informed us of your transformation. Have you informed the half-breed?"

"H-half-breed?"

"The white-haired one. Spike." Illyria smiled. "He is my pet."

Tara stifled a slightly hysterical giggle. "Well... t-that's a turnaround."

"You speak of his characteristic overuse of diminutive epithets."

"Well... I think I do..."

"In your former existence, you were a witch of great control and understanding."

"I, uh... thank you?"

"Great control. Great understanding. And very little real power."

"Well, I..."

"Now you have all three. You inhabit a vessel drenched in power. You are as a superbly trained marksman, suddenly given a much larger weapon."

Tara paled. "N-no, I couldn't use Dawn's energy, you don't know... you don't know what happened to Willow..."

"But I do know. The shell knows. The shell was acquainted, and had many additional discussions with the half-breed. It was a topic in which the shell was most interested. I find that I am also interested."

Illyria suddenly lounged against the bureau, crossing her arms, her movements more coltlike than catlike, and Tara blinked... but the bizarre moment was over as soon as it had begun.

"I know that your lover wished to take the energy from the shell you now possess. But she would use it for other ends. You have a strength and will, a focus, a clarity, she lacks."

"I c-couldn't..."

"I know power, witch. I have had it in measure you cannot begin to fathom. I have surrendered it, and tasted the bitterness of that sacrifice. We are at war. To ignore the presence of a mighty weapon is to ensure defeat."

Tara wrung her hands in her lap, letting Dawn's hair fall in a curtain around her face.

"You should think on these things I have said."

-----------------------------------------

"All your pretty insides all over your pretty outsides," Drusilla said pleasantly, worming her finger into the hole in Spike's side, tugging at it. "You must be getting terribly hungry, darling, and I've brought you something so much nicer than a puppy."

Blood coursed down Spike's side, Drusilla watching it, measuring it, measuring him. Her eyes flicked over to Connor, still shackled in an unconscious heap.

"Nah. Got to watch my girlish figure n' all."

Drusilla laughed, her fingers painting his cheeks with blood. "Your pain flies from your mouth, lashing out, your tongue like a blade; I've missed it. How you made me laugh and laugh."

"S'like that Manilow-lovin' poof tellin' me he fancied my poetry, Dru, dirt could make you laugh. Did, on several occasions that spring to mind."

"That's because it's so funny. Funny and wet and full of little squirmy eyes." She dragged her finger up his cheek, making a loopy red swirl. "Did you miss me, Spoike?"

"Sure I did, pet. Love to give you a big ol' hug, too, only seems I've gotten myself nailed to a cross somehow. Don't suppose you know how that happened?"

She lifted her bloody hand, sucking a little of his blood from her middle finger. "You used to break easier."

"Ought to have kept in touch, love. Right sad how people grow apart, innit? Gettin' chained up n' tortured by the big bad whatever's gettin' to be a little hobby of mine. Hell on the skin, though. Lucky I moisturize."

"Why do you fight it, Spoike? Your spark is all gone. She'll never love you now. Not like I do..."

"Didn't love me then, my sweet. Either one of you. Not as I wanted, anyway. You know better than anyone how this tune goes. Only person in this world's ever liked me better than ol' Angelus is the Nibblet, which really ought to have tipped me off to the whole slaverin' insanity thing she had goin' on the sly. What can I say, Dru? Broodin's all the rage these days. I blame Cobain, really I do."

Drusilla shook her head, tugging at his blood-matted curls. "You're mine. The wisest and bravest knight in all the land. Mine forever with a kiss. Daddy promised."

"Sorry, Pet. But if it's any comfort, this whole thing's your fault. Never would have gotten addicted to the do-goodin' if you hadn't gone all Jenna Jameson on that Chaos Demon."

"That's not your world. You belong in the shadows, with me..."

Spike smiled. "Y'know, I remember the first time you said that to me, Princess."

Drusilla perked up, hope dawning across her face.

"Thought it had a certain poetry. Recycled it once. Proverbial lead balloon. Y'know, I don't mean to hurt your feelin's, love, but you really didn't teach me a lot about healthy relationship management. Dr. Phil'd have a field day."

"How you hurt, my darling. I feel it... in your head, in your heart, a million stings with each little breath. You burn and reach out, but you're falling, you're falling... and no one wants to catch you... they kick you aside, they play you in minor notes, use you and spit you out. Do you still think she believes in you, Spoike?"

Spike closed his eyes, wincing.

"No chip. No soul. You're free, my love. Free to hunt, free to take, free to feed... with me. Your glory lies at your feet, waiting for you to be who you really are."

"Got me all figured out then, have you?"

"I know you," Drusilla purred. "You're a monster, my lovely."

"So's Grover."

Drusilla recoiled, confused. "But darling... the spark..."

"Look, ducks, I'm not your Daddy, all right? Believe me, nobody lets me forget that. And besides a lifetime supply of second-place ribbons, it also means I don't have his bloody on/off evil switch. I've seen better evil recruitment drives on the Home Shopping Network, love, and I never knew crucifixion could be so bloody dull. So get on with your master plan or bloody well bugger off."

"You've changed," Drusilla keened, curling her arms over her head. "You went back to the beginning. But Willy's gone, how can it be? Willy's all burnt and you're still back at the beginning..."

"Pet, do you really want to know what changed me? More than the chip, more than even the soul, which apparently I only had on a bloody short-term rental?"

"Yes, Spoike." She looked almost pathetically eager. "Tell me, please."

"A hundred and forty-seven days," Spike smiled, taking a deep breath and ripping...

It was a damn good thing Dru was more concerned with artistry than historical accuracy; Spike gasped as the meat of his palms tore away, and oh god, the wrongness of feeling the nails slide within his flesh, the little bursting at the head of the nail... but oh, it was worth it when his elbow connected with her cheekbone, sending her staggering back long enough for him to repeat the process with his feet, feeling the small bones crunch and crack, dropping to his knees.

He hooked her knees with his arm and sent her crashing to the floor, crying out, scrambling to right herself. He pinned her long dress with a knee, Drusilla kicking out at him for purchase.

Spike swiveled back to the cross, crashing his elbow through the footrest at the bottom, feeling his elbow break as the wood flew free, and oh God the pain as he forces his other hand to grasp it, ruined bones and torn tendons refusing to cooperate, dizzy with blood loss and sorrow for what he knows he is about to do.

"Goodbye, Dru," he whispers, and falls on her.

A moment later, he is lying in a pile of dust, tears streaming down his cheeks.

-----------------------------------------

"They're bringing us back, one by one," Willow said softly, watching Angel charge down the hallway, cellphone pressed to his ear and Gunn dogging his heels.

"Huh?" Buffy raised an eyebrow. "What's the big deal about a phone call from Cordelia? I haven't seen Angel this excited since... well, I've never seen Angel this excited."

She crossed her arms. "And over Cordelia. I feel a pout coming on."

"Wow, you really don't listen in the meetings."

"I listen! It's just, well, there's so much talking and Andrew always has to relate everything to the Kobayashi Maru and -- hey! You messed with my brain! I'm allowed to phase out a little."

"Cordy's dead, Buffy."

"She -- huh?"

"Dead. Makes it a little more exciting when she reaches out and touches someone, y'know?"

Buffy sat down hard on the edge of the bed. "Cordelia's dead?"

"Well, uh -- theoretically? I mean, the whole phone call thing would kind of indicate otherwise."

"Do you think she's the First?"

Willow sat down next to her. "God, Buffy, I don't know. Between Spike and Wesley and the prophecy... I'm getting tummy-rumblins. I mean, apocalypse, hi, that's Tuesday night, right? But this... y'know, what Spike said, about the 'final curtain call'... it sounds kinda, um, final. And when the Powers or whatever are on this... resurrection spree... I dunno, it's all very Aragorn going to get the dead for the big battle, y'know?"

"You do realize that made no kind of sense, right?"

Willow touched Buffy's knee. "So, um... how are you doing? With the whole, uh, Dawn revelation, and the unscheduled Spike injection which I am still very, very sorry about?"

Buffy sighed, putting her elbows on her knees. "I don't... I don't know, Will, I... I had this major freaky nightmare, almost like a Slayer dream, only it was... I think it was Spike's memories, but they were... all mixy with mine, and sometimes I was Spike, and sometimes Spike was Xander, and then Spike was actually there... oh, I don't know. Angel was there, too... or Angelus, I guess, and Darla and Drusilla..."

"I had freaky nightmares the night it happened, too. I think it was brain overload, y'know? Neurons weighted down with a century of memories all of a sudden, and your brain's trying to sort through it."

"It was... really confusing. And... really yucky."

"I guess it would be. I mean, it's not sticking. The download or whatever, I mean. I've lost pretty much everything except the memories with a lot of emotional whoomph. So those are probably the ones you got. And hi, vampire, big on the whoomph."

"Yeah, they were definitely... whoomph-y." Buffy broke off. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Looking at you like what?"

"Like someone just told a joke and I haven't gotten it yet."

Willow's lips twitched. "Figured out what William the Bloody's real last name was yet?"

"It's not hitting me over the head with a big stick or anything." Buffy bit her lip, deep in thought. "Every time I try to remember it, it's getting all mixy with that time you did that spell."

"No, it's not."

Buffy paled. "No. No way. No way!"

"William Alden Giles," Willow smiled. "Came by that Slayer obsession honestly."

-----------------------------------------

"C'mon, kid," Spike begged, shaking Connor's shoulders, wincing at the pain. "Really bad time for a nap, okay? The cavalry's comin' and they aren't wearin' white hats..."

Bloody hell. Bloody hell. Spike could feel them all around him, approaching quickly. Dozens, maybe a hundred vampires, converging on them. Not the best odds even with functional limbs and without a comatose Prophecy Kid.

Footsteps behind him.

So this is how he was going to die.

"Hail, William the Bloody, Master of Aurelius."

More footsteps, the room filling up, other voices joining the chant.

"Hail, William the Bloody, Master of Aurelius."

Well didn't this bugger all.

"Master... we await your command."