He was the outcast. He received no invitation to be a part of any miracle, nor did he expect any. On this night, as on every other, he stood guard at the grave of his fallen enemy, his fallen lover, his fallen heroine. The wind tousled his white-gold hair, swept his long coat into a billowing dance as he weaved his way through the gravestones in an uneven stride. His hand clutched tightly to the cold glass of a bottle of liquor. This night was no different.
Yet, something changed. He felt it before he saw it. A sudden rush twisted him about, nearly threw him to the ground with its force. Scrambling to look at her grave, he uttered in a fearful oath the name of the goddess whose final sleep he guarded.
Light. There was a brilliant light. He had to hide, had to see, had to know. Crouched behind a crumbling grave marker, he watched as the ground before his love's grave split apart. Tentacles of solid light writhed from the opening, all battling to escape. They clung desperately to each other as they climbed higher, higher. Perhaps, thought the sentinel with no small amount of sarcasm, his terror was what Jack had felt as his beanstalk grew.
And the light twirled on, up and up, each beautiful yet somehow gruesome arm melting into the others until what stood upon the mound of earth resembled a quivering tree trunk made of glowing clay. And still, as the guardian watched, the shape grew more distinct. It didn't take him long to realize what was happening.
Soon, the seemingly reincarnated form of Buffy Summers stood upon the grave. She was dressed in a gown of flowing white, bare-footed, yet in her eyes was the flame of resolve -- a flame which burned brighter to Spike's eyes than even the light-tentacles had.
Without a word, without a pause, the girl began to walk. And without wasting even a moment in shock, Spike followed.
Buffy came home to her favourite room.
Buffy sat down in the kitchen.
She opened a book and her box of tools.
Buffy came home with a mission.
She navigated her way through branches and debris scattered over the streets by the wind storm. She confidently entered her own home, switched on the lights. From a window, Spike saw her leave his line of vision only to return shortly afterwards with a tattered book and a wooden box whose aged paint remained only to stain the wood just enough to reveal its once-grand pattern of gold Celtic knots twisting all around the edges on a background of blue.
She says "Days go by, I'm hypnotized.
I'm walking on a wire.
I close my eyes and fly out of my mind
Into the fire."
From inside the box, the now-living goddess gently lifted a beeswax candle, a shallow stone bowl nearly a foot in diameter, and a small leather pouch bulging with whatever mystery it contained. Her hands danced over the candle, igniting it into flame as if by her will alone. She opened the pouch and sprinkled the fine dust within into the stone bowl, then tilted the candle towards it until the heat forced the powder to burst into magnificent green flames.
Spike watched, entranced, as his goddess spoke words he could not hear to the fire. Gradually, the flames subsided, leaving what appeared to be a liquid mist. Buffy stared with wide eyes into the mist, obviously seeing something the rest of the world was blind to.
Buffy came home with a list of names.
She didn't believe in transcendence.
"It's time for a few small repairs," she said.
Buffy came home with a vengeance.
Without warning, the ghost-Buffy turned her eyes to look directly at Spike. He was too startled to move, but held her gaze steadily. Once more, the goddess began to speak -- but this time the words bled into his mind, as if they had always been there.
She says "Days go by, I'm hypnotized.
I'm walking on a wire.
I close my eyes and fly out of my mind
Into the fire."
And she burst into the same green flames that had engulfed the mysterious powder in the bowl. Spike leaped back from the window as the fire filled the room. He scrambled backwards, too panicked to even stand up straight. Then, the window shattered. Shards of glass flew out, raining down around him. And in the middle of the deadly rain, the burned-black gown the Slayer had worn as she entered the house. The body within the garment landed on its feet before the terrified vampire. He looked up to see the grinning, hideous face of Drusilla, transformed into vampire form. She shone her horrible teeth at him, opened her mouth, and taunted him with a strange, murmuring song.
Get the kids and grab a sweater.
Dry is good and wind is better.
Count the years, you always knew it.
Strike a match, go on and do it!
With a horrible cackle, she leaped up and flew above his head, where her body exploded into sparks that turned into the fading stars dotting the dusky morning sky.
Morning.
And had this been a dream?
The glass in the window was still shattered. His pale skin was cut and red where the shards had hit him. With the fascination of a scavenger watching its meal rot, he plucked a few larger shards from his flesh and carelessly discarded them by his feet.
Morning.
Days go by, I'm hypnotized.
I'm walking on a wire.
I close my eyes and fly out of my mind
Into the fire.
Spike clambered to his feet. Mad. He was going mad. And madly, he began to run. Fast and faster, swifter than his legs could carry him, his speed a matter of will as much as physical ability, he seemed to fly over the deserted pavement.The wind still howled through the streets. He was running from himself. He was running towards....
Where was this place? This surely was some magic, for when his feet stopped moving, he was mere yards from the edge of a high cliff. And ahead of him on the Eastern horizon, the sun would leap at the land soon. It would be only moments.
Light the sky and hold on tight.
The world is burning down.
She's come back on her own and she's all right.
Buffy came home.
Buffy came home.
Again he took off running. The cliff ledge was now five yards away, now three. Now his toes touched the edge. He spread his arms and leaped as the sun's cruel eye slipped over the horizon.
The pain was excruciating, glorious. This was perfect. This was death as he had never imagined it. He was fire. He was heat. This was better than any life, any sex, any feeling he had ever dragged up from the pits of his memory over the last nearly 130 years. He was the fire.
And he was falling. His long black coat billowed behind him -- above him, for his feet flew over his head, contorted his body in a way that would have been painful if not for the agony of the flames that numbed all else. It seemed like an eternity as he fell, though it was mere seconds. The flames ate him until he could no longer bear it, then numbed him until he longed to feel their sensual fingers clawing at him again. Then, at last, he felt other arms fold around him. Through the white pain that clouded his vision, another sight broke in. His goddess's face smiling at him, her arms wound tightly around him. Rejoicing, he pressed his lips to hers.
His last sensation before his body disintegrated into a cloud of ash was one of ecstasy. Then even afterwards, the cloud of ash in the wind seemed to dance with joy.
Buffy came home...