TITLE: Hell Unleashed
AUTHOR: Drusilla
RATING: R
PAIRING: Buffy/Spike -ish
SPOILERS: The Gift
SUMMARY: Buffy is resurrected.. to fight for a very different cause
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Co.
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!
AUTHOR'S NOTE: As you can tell, I took a huge break, so sorry for the delay to all the "fans"! (If you're even here anymore, LoL.) I must warn you that since I haven't worked on this for so long, this chapter's style is going to be quite different from the previous ones. I was going to ditch this project, actually, but I got re-inspired by Anne Rice's Memnoch the Devil.
HELL UNLEASHED: Chapter 11
--------------------------------------
They sat unmoving, even as the first flickers of heat spat across the corner of the room. The silence seemed preserved, a fly in amber, as though they were, really, that fly, that insect so insignificant caught in some large scale.
"And so it's begun," he whispered darkly, suddenly, and his tone seemed blasphemous somehow, wasting their preservation of some kind of peace. Not like Giles, so unlike him to panic first, to move first to dodge the danger, although this danger was not one with which the game could be played.
"I don't understand!" Xander was shouting now, but there was nothing he could do to help it. "Isn't there-- isn't there something we can do? There's-- there's always! There's always something. Books!" He pointed a finger crookedly at the older man, an accusatory finger for his old friend. "We'll look at books! We'll research! Isn't that right? Isn't it--" But he was breaking already, and the accused never made as though to move, so the arm fell slack against himself once more.
"This isn't something books can know." The former said, simply. "It's too old, too powerful. What will come will come, and we will all die if we must. To save God." He closed his eyes at the word.
"Do you really believe that?" Xander was near pulling out his hair. "Is that what you believe this is? You believe that the creature we are trying to save is God?" He spat. "We don't know shit. You don't know shit. That is not God. That is not the God you *think* you love."
"Isn't it then?" Her voice was high-pitched, nervous but clear. "I've lived for over a thousand years. Not once has anything happened that told me He existed. We were pagans. We had no love for the Christian gods. And yet your angel, your Peter comes here, comes to us with this message, and although we might die simply for that spark of hope, the spark of hope the He exists, it's happiness beyond words." Her breath was broken, and the flames were throwing themselves at their feet.
"I can't--" He was crying hopelessly, his hands pawing at his head. "I can't stay here! I can't." He reached out to touch her face for a moment before snatching his fingers away. "You're-- you're warm." He shook his head. "Anya--"
She smiled lazily as though drunk. The fire crept across her form like insects, furiously gathering and separating in a frenzy.
"Anya!" He shouted, looking around wildly and receiving no reaction either of the two, Giles sitting motionless on the stair, Anya still smiling at him, forever smiling, as though it was all a cruel joke.
"Xander," she sighed, finally, holding his arms as he struggled to keep the flames from her. "Don't you see? Don't you get it?" Her face was earnest, humoring him, he the infant with no comprehension of his surroundings. She ran the back of her hand across his cheek softly, barely making contact with his heated skin. Her voice was a whisper, silkily seductive and somehow appropriate in its low tone.
"We're already dead."
* * *
She had forgotten where she was at first, panicking somewhat to feel her way across the room in the darkness, forgetting the use of her vampiric senses, forgetting intelligence. When memory came to her she was sad, almost, a strange feeling for her, and not one she would have preferred.
She jumped as the doorknob turned once with a click, and a large, looming figure entered the room. His form was barely visible, save a thin outline, a shimmer he seemed to attract, and she gasped, because never in her life had she seen anything so beautiful, so lovely and terrible at once. His poise seemed tragic, his features powerful and sharp. When he spoke it was not a human voice: nothing close. His language was like silver, smooth and bell-like, unhindered by the human roughness.
"You do not believe." It was barely a clash against the shadows, but the sounds fell like satin, washing over her with no hope of resolution.
She could not reply, wasn't able to. No sound would come to her throat though she tried desperately to make some utterance of recognition.
"You see, I understand you. Your thoughts are not concealed from me. I know your emotions. Your hatred for me. Your hatred for Him. But even then you do not believe."
She had given up on language. *Do not believe in what?*
His face moved as though he were amused. It was not a smile, for his face was not human and no smile could have been formed. He was, in fact, nothing like human. His eyes were black, rimmed with a dark yellow and he had no lips or ears that she could see. His skin seemed leathery for the most part, except for his wings, which were two massive folds of black feathers. It was not his features which gave him his beauty, or if it was, there was something much more. More his aura, his very presence that commanded such attention and respect, that was nothing if not beautiful.
"The world. You think it is all a test, or a dream. You expect to wake up soon. You are in love with the past, my Daughter. In love with the memory of your human self. You won't let it go. You believe that when it's all over, everything will go back, and you will venture out again, far, far away. You believe that you can leave God and the Devil behind.
"We aren't real to you, are we? You see us, you hear us, you touch us, but you don't believe it all the same. You don't trust what you see, because your eyes are dead, and you hate it, and you hate me, and you would have them be alive again."
A tear rolled gently from her cheek. "Yes," formed her mouth.
He nodded gently, and it seemed very uncommon for him, that simple gesture. "Do you know why I came to you like this? Without concealing myself, without encasing myself in magic and human skin?" He looked as though in mid-sigh.
She looked at him and it was Death. He was Death, that was what she believed. Who else could be so beautiful, so seductive and disastrous?
"No."
She blinked abruptly at the sharpness of the word. "What?"
"I am not Death. I do not have such a power. You have such a power. And that is why I need you."
She didn't understand, of course, and narrowed her eyes.
"You think we are divine creatures, you all do. You'd be one of us, would you not? Beautiful, magickal? You'd love to feel our power. Because you have not our years. You don't know the value of flesh." He turned away from her so she could not see his face. "Or Death.
"In truth, my Childe, we loathe what we are. We would go into the flesh."
"I don't understand."
"It is only when one lives for an eternity that one recognizes the true worth of death."
"So you cannot die?"
"Oh, we can. We do. But who would challenge us? There is no one. Angels, Devils, we are brothers all the same, although we do not speak to each other, not ever, not a word. We know their names, but we do not say them, and only they are powerful enough to kill us. But they will not. And so we live on, and it's a terrible thing, our existence, but there is nothing else."
"Nothing else," she repeated, whispering, her eyes closed.
"The others I have no use for," He said, very suddenly. "They are worthless. They enjoy what they are entirely too much. They have forgotten our purpose, and that is suffering." He paused to take breath, although he did not need it. "But you," he sighed, almost in awe, "you would be my Daughter. You would do it, would you not?"
"Do what? What can I do that you cannot?" She was utterly confused, bewildered to the point of weeping.
He continued as though he had not heard her words. "You'll find Him, won't you? You'd do it because He has no meaning for you, not like the others. You will kill Him and He will be gone, and I will have His world, and His suffering."
"Yes." Yes! The world was screaming. She'd do it! She'd bloody her hands with Sacred Blood for him! For the Devil!
He turned to look at her again, found her satisfactory. "My Daughter."
How could she not bow her head to every syllable he spoke? He had given her this power.
"No. You still believe in Evil. That my not be so terrible. But you will learn, and you will soon understand. Evil is only a name. And your power is something that cannot be named."
"You hate Him very much," she cried, and the whole concept of what he was saying was beyond her, though she had tried.
"No." His tone was simple. "I love Him."
* * *
TO BE CONTINUED...
Please *Please* review! I'm tired of begging, but I'm going to continue until the number of reviews/updage is satisfactory! LoL. I really need to know what you guys think.
AUTHOR: Drusilla
RATING: R
PAIRING: Buffy/Spike -ish
SPOILERS: The Gift
SUMMARY: Buffy is resurrected.. to fight for a very different cause
DISCLAIMER: The characters aren't mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and Co.
DISRIBUTION: Sure, take it! Just let me know and credit me, please
FEEDBACK: Yes, please!
AUTHOR'S NOTE: As you can tell, I took a huge break, so sorry for the delay to all the "fans"! (If you're even here anymore, LoL.) I must warn you that since I haven't worked on this for so long, this chapter's style is going to be quite different from the previous ones. I was going to ditch this project, actually, but I got re-inspired by Anne Rice's Memnoch the Devil.
HELL UNLEASHED: Chapter 11
--------------------------------------
They sat unmoving, even as the first flickers of heat spat across the corner of the room. The silence seemed preserved, a fly in amber, as though they were, really, that fly, that insect so insignificant caught in some large scale.
"And so it's begun," he whispered darkly, suddenly, and his tone seemed blasphemous somehow, wasting their preservation of some kind of peace. Not like Giles, so unlike him to panic first, to move first to dodge the danger, although this danger was not one with which the game could be played.
"I don't understand!" Xander was shouting now, but there was nothing he could do to help it. "Isn't there-- isn't there something we can do? There's-- there's always! There's always something. Books!" He pointed a finger crookedly at the older man, an accusatory finger for his old friend. "We'll look at books! We'll research! Isn't that right? Isn't it--" But he was breaking already, and the accused never made as though to move, so the arm fell slack against himself once more.
"This isn't something books can know." The former said, simply. "It's too old, too powerful. What will come will come, and we will all die if we must. To save God." He closed his eyes at the word.
"Do you really believe that?" Xander was near pulling out his hair. "Is that what you believe this is? You believe that the creature we are trying to save is God?" He spat. "We don't know shit. You don't know shit. That is not God. That is not the God you *think* you love."
"Isn't it then?" Her voice was high-pitched, nervous but clear. "I've lived for over a thousand years. Not once has anything happened that told me He existed. We were pagans. We had no love for the Christian gods. And yet your angel, your Peter comes here, comes to us with this message, and although we might die simply for that spark of hope, the spark of hope the He exists, it's happiness beyond words." Her breath was broken, and the flames were throwing themselves at their feet.
"I can't--" He was crying hopelessly, his hands pawing at his head. "I can't stay here! I can't." He reached out to touch her face for a moment before snatching his fingers away. "You're-- you're warm." He shook his head. "Anya--"
She smiled lazily as though drunk. The fire crept across her form like insects, furiously gathering and separating in a frenzy.
"Anya!" He shouted, looking around wildly and receiving no reaction either of the two, Giles sitting motionless on the stair, Anya still smiling at him, forever smiling, as though it was all a cruel joke.
"Xander," she sighed, finally, holding his arms as he struggled to keep the flames from her. "Don't you see? Don't you get it?" Her face was earnest, humoring him, he the infant with no comprehension of his surroundings. She ran the back of her hand across his cheek softly, barely making contact with his heated skin. Her voice was a whisper, silkily seductive and somehow appropriate in its low tone.
"We're already dead."
* * *
She had forgotten where she was at first, panicking somewhat to feel her way across the room in the darkness, forgetting the use of her vampiric senses, forgetting intelligence. When memory came to her she was sad, almost, a strange feeling for her, and not one she would have preferred.
She jumped as the doorknob turned once with a click, and a large, looming figure entered the room. His form was barely visible, save a thin outline, a shimmer he seemed to attract, and she gasped, because never in her life had she seen anything so beautiful, so lovely and terrible at once. His poise seemed tragic, his features powerful and sharp. When he spoke it was not a human voice: nothing close. His language was like silver, smooth and bell-like, unhindered by the human roughness.
"You do not believe." It was barely a clash against the shadows, but the sounds fell like satin, washing over her with no hope of resolution.
She could not reply, wasn't able to. No sound would come to her throat though she tried desperately to make some utterance of recognition.
"You see, I understand you. Your thoughts are not concealed from me. I know your emotions. Your hatred for me. Your hatred for Him. But even then you do not believe."
She had given up on language. *Do not believe in what?*
His face moved as though he were amused. It was not a smile, for his face was not human and no smile could have been formed. He was, in fact, nothing like human. His eyes were black, rimmed with a dark yellow and he had no lips or ears that she could see. His skin seemed leathery for the most part, except for his wings, which were two massive folds of black feathers. It was not his features which gave him his beauty, or if it was, there was something much more. More his aura, his very presence that commanded such attention and respect, that was nothing if not beautiful.
"The world. You think it is all a test, or a dream. You expect to wake up soon. You are in love with the past, my Daughter. In love with the memory of your human self. You won't let it go. You believe that when it's all over, everything will go back, and you will venture out again, far, far away. You believe that you can leave God and the Devil behind.
"We aren't real to you, are we? You see us, you hear us, you touch us, but you don't believe it all the same. You don't trust what you see, because your eyes are dead, and you hate it, and you hate me, and you would have them be alive again."
A tear rolled gently from her cheek. "Yes," formed her mouth.
He nodded gently, and it seemed very uncommon for him, that simple gesture. "Do you know why I came to you like this? Without concealing myself, without encasing myself in magic and human skin?" He looked as though in mid-sigh.
She looked at him and it was Death. He was Death, that was what she believed. Who else could be so beautiful, so seductive and disastrous?
"No."
She blinked abruptly at the sharpness of the word. "What?"
"I am not Death. I do not have such a power. You have such a power. And that is why I need you."
She didn't understand, of course, and narrowed her eyes.
"You think we are divine creatures, you all do. You'd be one of us, would you not? Beautiful, magickal? You'd love to feel our power. Because you have not our years. You don't know the value of flesh." He turned away from her so she could not see his face. "Or Death.
"In truth, my Childe, we loathe what we are. We would go into the flesh."
"I don't understand."
"It is only when one lives for an eternity that one recognizes the true worth of death."
"So you cannot die?"
"Oh, we can. We do. But who would challenge us? There is no one. Angels, Devils, we are brothers all the same, although we do not speak to each other, not ever, not a word. We know their names, but we do not say them, and only they are powerful enough to kill us. But they will not. And so we live on, and it's a terrible thing, our existence, but there is nothing else."
"Nothing else," she repeated, whispering, her eyes closed.
"The others I have no use for," He said, very suddenly. "They are worthless. They enjoy what they are entirely too much. They have forgotten our purpose, and that is suffering." He paused to take breath, although he did not need it. "But you," he sighed, almost in awe, "you would be my Daughter. You would do it, would you not?"
"Do what? What can I do that you cannot?" She was utterly confused, bewildered to the point of weeping.
He continued as though he had not heard her words. "You'll find Him, won't you? You'd do it because He has no meaning for you, not like the others. You will kill Him and He will be gone, and I will have His world, and His suffering."
"Yes." Yes! The world was screaming. She'd do it! She'd bloody her hands with Sacred Blood for him! For the Devil!
He turned to look at her again, found her satisfactory. "My Daughter."
How could she not bow her head to every syllable he spoke? He had given her this power.
"No. You still believe in Evil. That my not be so terrible. But you will learn, and you will soon understand. Evil is only a name. And your power is something that cannot be named."
"You hate Him very much," she cried, and the whole concept of what he was saying was beyond her, though she had tried.
"No." His tone was simple. "I love Him."
* * *
TO BE CONTINUED...
Please *Please* review! I'm tired of begging, but I'm going to continue until the number of reviews/updage is satisfactory! LoL. I really need to know what you guys think.