Title: Weeping Willow (part 10 - New Life)
Author: Nimue
Rating: PG - 13 - close to R in parts. Please be warned.
Feedback: Yes, please
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.. Just Borrowing.
Summary: Luke makes Spike face the repercussions of his ways, Buffy continues her journey to find Spike, and finds something she never wished to see.
Weeping Willow
Luke dragged Spike from Buffy's bedroom with such force that Spike felt his shoulder pull from the socket. It was all seemed so real. Still, somewhere he knew she was alive. The girl in his dream had promised him she'd tend to her and for whatever reason, Spike trusted the Peacemaker.
They were back in the hallway now, the thick red carpeting like a sea of
blood beneath their feet. "You know, Willie, I can make all of this stop. You're a demon, man! You belong here. If you'd just let go of the damn humans, we'd be upstairs playing pool, listening to the Ramones and sexing up the succubae. Whadya say Spike?" Luke gushed, clapping Spike on the shoulder. "Give up the girl, the kid, her little sister, her friends, and get the keys to the kingdom. Humanity's over rated. Bunch of frantic lost pansies doing everything they can to forget they are human. And you *want* that? Come on, Spike. This is the *real* deal."
Spike looked thoughtfully at Luke. It really was not that long ago that
this would not have even been a choice. Love had been rabid and ferocious and insane. Pleasure was everything. Taking was the only aspiration. The demon inside craved that. Every day, craved the kill, the cheap thrill, the untamed lust without the bridle of emotion. Spike had fought the demon for so long now. He thought he had won. He thought he had crushed it in Africa, but there it was, rearing its ugly head again. 'Take the money and run,' he thought. 'Make this stop. Rip my bleeding hear out of my chest and crush the love and get this *bloody well* over with. Buffy'll find her way.'
Buffy.
Her goodness. Her light. Her loyalty. Her beauty. They rushed over him like the tide. Spike felt himself standing naked in her sea letting her warmth rush over him, crash into him, sometimes knocking him flat. But she was always there, rushing and receding like the tide.
"No, mate," Spike said, straightening his shoulders as if willing the demon away, "fraid that time is over."
"Suit yourself," Luke replied, shoving Spike through yet another door.
*****
Buffy had walked for hours. Still, nothing changed. It was sea of rocks. No big, red houses. Not even a big red shrub. The screaming went on, but she was used to it now as one gets used to a vile smell. Her body ached and her stomach cramped with hunger and fatigue. The baby, for once, was dormant.
"Catching a nap?" she asked the basketball between her hips. "Don't blame you. We need to find a place to hole up a while. Wonder if this dimension has room service?"
In the distance, the farthest distance she could see, was the oddest vision. A tree. An enormous Willow, to be exact, its branches sweeping from the sky and dipping down to kiss the earth. Resolutely, Buffy headed toward the closest thing to shelter that she was likely to find.
It took her a good ten minutes even to get close to it. The branches were so lush and low, she could not see the trunk. Her brow furrowed as a cold chill shot down her spine. She ignored it, knowing that this was the best she was going to do. With a deep breath, Buffy parted the branches and darted under cover.
The first thing she saw was a glimpse of black leather. Buffy slid a branch out of her way and could see a form sitting on the ground, leaned against the massive trunk. His back was to her, but she saw the leather and what she thought was a glimpse of blonde hair.
"Spike?" Buffy almost screamed, making her way to the trunk, rounding the edge. There was no answer. "Spike, is that you?"
Buffy rounded the trunk and there he was, sitting silently, staring off into the distance. Only three wasn't a distance. Just a tangle of branches. "Spike?" she whispered, kneeling down, her knees resting on the leather of his duster. She could smell the smoke and old darkened leather. "Spike?" Tears were creeping into her eyes and the dragon of her fear was coiling its way up her back. "Spike?" she said again, reaching out to touch his shoulder.
He toppled onto his side. Frozen. Unmoving, staring into the unseen
distance.
"Spike?" Buffy whispered, tears beginning to fall. She was shaking him
almost violently now. He couldn't be dead. He was already dead. "Spike, wake up dammit!" Her hands were on his frozen shoulders, gouging at the leather, his head lolling with every shake. "Spike, no. Oh God, no," she cried, dropping her hands. Her palm slapped to her moth, trying to stifle the scream. It rose from her throat like a primal roar, shaking the branches of the Willow. The last note caught in a retching sob and she could feel it all again. The playground. Reaching. Gone.
Buffy grabbed Spike's wrists and pulled him upright then over to her, his head resting on her lap. Her eyes were sore and felt as if they were bleeding. The anger and hurt boiled in her veins. Softly, her hands skimmed over his beautiful face. It was sculpted like marble, like a statue, and the sapphire orbs stared up at her quietly. Never to say another word again. The tears. How many could one woman cry? They dripped down onto the smooth plain of his skin like rain.
"I love you," she choked out. "Even when I hated you, I loved you. Always. Every day." Buffy leaned down, pressing her lips to his, breaking down completely when her prince did not magically flutter to life.
She had no idea how long she sat there, rocking, cradling his head in her lap, sobbing, until her throat was sore and her eyes dry, hollow wells. Buffy felt arms wrap around her shoulders. Warm, lithe, strong. The air smelled like vanilla. She closed her eyes and drank in the warmth.
"It's not real, you know," a sweet female voice sang in her ears. Melodic and rich and smooth. "Nothing you experience here is real. Remember that."
Buffy fell back into the girl's embrace, leaning her back into her
chest, closing her eyes. The young girl stroked Buffy's hair and rocked her as Buffy had rocked her lover. "You need to rest," the girl whispered, brushing the hair from Buffy's cheek. "You have much to do."
"Who? Who are you?" Buffy muttered broken heart and soul.
"I am the Peacemaker," the girl answered quietly. "But you know who I am."
Buffy opened her eyes. The vision of Spike was gone. She stared up into a beautiful face, glowing like moonlight. Piercing blue eyes and smooth peach skin, spun silk hair. " I know you?" Buffy struggled to speak.
"You are my protector, I am why you are here."
"Protector?"
"You and the Vampire."
"Spike?" Buffy was far too weary to be adding two and two.
"I will help you," the girls said quietly, " but you must rest. You will have your answers."
"But I need to find him. My love," Buffy whispered, mesmerized by the
beautiful young girl. The Peacemaker smiled.
"Drink," she girl whispered, placing a chalice to Buffy's lips. Buffy drank deep, feeling the sweet fluid course down her throat, light the fire in her veins. The child awoke, kicking with delight. Buffy coughed at the sudden outburst, chuckling softly.
" I guess were both thirsty," Buffy said. "What was that?"
The Peacemaker smiled serenely. "Sleep now," she whispered, kissing Buffy's cheek so tenderly and laying a hand on her belly. The baby instantly calmed and Buffy could feel the child curl into a peaceful ball inside of her.
Buffy drifted off, wrapped in the young girl's arms.
*****
This time, when Spike was forced through the door, he found himself in
nothing even remotely resembling a room. On the contrary, it was a huge
meadow with tall, ancient trees scattered along the landscape. He felt
different. He coughed and found that he had air in his lungs. His heart was racing in his chest. The duster was long gone, replaced by the black silk suit he had worn to Tara's funeral. Everything was different.
He walked into the sunlit meadow seeing thousands of grayish blocks in the distance. Slowly he headed toward the area, feeling the warmth on his face, closing his eyes and noticing the soft caress of the wind on his cheeks, the rustle of the leaves as they blew softly to the ground. The feelings were completely new and completely familiar all at once. This was the world he could not touch. The world that was only a distant memory now. The world where he and Buffy had been together and had been right.
Spike came closer to the speckled horizon and noticed that the blocks were not random boulders on the English countryside of his youth. They were stones. Headstones to be exact. At least a thousand of them lined in neat, well kept rows. He smelled flowers. In his hands were clutched two bouquets. One large arrangement of white lilies. One small collection of tiny daisies. A shiver spontaneously crept up his spine.
He came upon the stones and looked down at the first row. Name upon endless name. Date upon endless date as he walked the rows. None of them meant anything to him. Just names and dates and angels and crosses and little trinkets left by those who loved the departed. And then he came to the large Rowan tree.
There were two perfect marble stones, side by side. One larger, one
smaller. Spike kneeled between them before he even realized what he was
doing, settling the flowers in their proper place. His eyes focused and
what he saw was too much to bear.
"Buffy Anne Windsor. Beloved wife and mother. Dear friend and
Savior."
Spike scanned right at the smaller stone.
"Emma Joyce Windsor. Beloved daughter. Miracle."
His eyes filled with tears. Even if this wasn't real, it would be. This was his future. He had always known that living with humans carried the most painful price of all. One day he would bury them all. He would bury his beloved. He would bury his child. He would tend to their graves until the world ceased to exist, but would never lay with them.
Spike fell forward onto the grass, bowing to the Earth. Begging her to take him back, to let him live like her and die like her and never have to tend another grave again. To never have to read his daughter's name in marble, for it is so unnatural for a parent to outlive a child. To give him another chance to make this right. He begged the soil, the tree, the marble, the sky with every tear he had left. But she would never make him whole. He was a demon, wasn't he? Not to be given the grace of a God he had been forced to reject. He begged all the same.
A hand rested softly on his shoulder. Spike lifted his head, his face
covered with tears and chiseled with grief. An withered woman stood behind him, stooped with age and lined with wisdom. "You loved them," the woman said, kneeling down next to Spike as if in a pew at church. "You still love them."
"Every day," he whispered, his voice breaking, the tears stinging his skin.
"Grief is what makes us all alike," she said, holding his hand in hers. She was kind, he thought.
"I suppose it is," Spike answered, his hand brushing over the headstones.
"That's my son over there," the old woman said, pointing at a cross a few markers away. "He was 18 when he died."
"I. I am so sorry," Spike muttered, feeling he actually meant it. "That is so young to pass. How did he die?"
The old woman looked at Spike softly, compassionately. "You don't know
where you are, do you?"
Spike thought for a moment. In all honesty, he did not. "No," he answered simply.
"This is yours, Spike. You made this."
"What do you mean?" Spike asked, fear gripping him. The old lady's hand
tightened around his, not in a threatening manner, more as a brace against a storm.
"The stones in this garden," the woman said softly, " are lives that you
took. Except for these two." She gestured at the marble stones in front of her. "They were taken from you."
"Wha?" Spike stuttered, scanning the field. There were thousands of
stones. Thousands.
"Every stone, every marker, represents one life that you took in order to survive. Each one you drained the life from. Including my son." The woman stated simply. Spike pulled his hand away in disgust, not with her, but with himself. He stood, staring, spinning, looking at the sheer number of markers in this place. The magnitude of lives that he had taken. He began to shake, to panic, his human heart pounding into his ribcage.
The old woman stood again, her eyes looking directly into his. "You killed my son," she said calmly, her hands on his shoulders. "You took him from me. " Spike was puzzled. She was not angry, she was not yelling. She just told him. Somehow that was worse.
"I..." he stuttered. He wanted to scream, 'I didn't mean it'. But he had. He wanted to say that that is what vampires are supposed to do. But he knew now they didn't have to. He had killed him, he killed all of them, because he *wanted* to. Because he could. Because he was a monster.
"Madam, I am sorry," Spike said, mustering whatever dignity he could. "I have no excuse. I am sorry I killed your son. That you are here. That you are feeling... this."
The woman's face softened. "You loved them," she said again, gesturing at the stones.
"Always."
"They changed you."
"Yes."
"Are you truly sorry for this?"
Spike thought for a long moment. He had never really thought too much about it. He killed to eat. Like a hunter. He didn't kill to torture, to hurt anyone's mother or wife, or husband or child. That was the problem. He hadn't really thought at all.
He closed his eyes, imagining the countless times he fangs sank into human flesh, stealing its essence and making it his own. Leaving the body where he had found it. Then he allowed himself to think of the person who found the body. Had they reacted like Buffy when her mum died? Had they hurt like he had when he saw her body on the pile of rubble? Did they die as well like Willow had done when she buried her lover? He multiplied every life he took by those he destroyed and the weight nearly crushed him. Tears streamed down his face.
"I am truly, deeply sorry," he whispered, his head dropping back to the
ground, his face feeling like it might drown in the tears, his head explode with the sudden magnitude of what his unlife had amounted to.
"And this girl, she loved you knowing this?" the woman said, nodding at
Buffy's headstone.
Spike nodded. "She did," he said. "She knew and she loved me. In her own way."
"And you child?"
Spike smiled. He wasn't sure how he knew. "She adored me."
"She forgave you." The old woman said. "So have I."
Spike stared at the woman quizzically. "How in the world can you forgive me? How can anyone forgive me for this?" he screamed, spinning, his arms out to his sides.
"Because she did. Because people change. Because forgiveness is all we have to bind us. Forgiveness and grief. The question is, can you forgive yourself?" the old woman said, running her whizzened palm along his cheek.
"Thank you," he whispered, the tears streaming fresh on his cheeks. She
patted her hand against his face and smiled.
"Make peace," she whispered, and walked away.
To be contd.
Author: Nimue
Rating: PG - 13 - close to R in parts. Please be warned.
Feedback: Yes, please
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.. Just Borrowing.
Summary: Luke makes Spike face the repercussions of his ways, Buffy continues her journey to find Spike, and finds something she never wished to see.
Weeping Willow
Luke dragged Spike from Buffy's bedroom with such force that Spike felt his shoulder pull from the socket. It was all seemed so real. Still, somewhere he knew she was alive. The girl in his dream had promised him she'd tend to her and for whatever reason, Spike trusted the Peacemaker.
They were back in the hallway now, the thick red carpeting like a sea of
blood beneath their feet. "You know, Willie, I can make all of this stop. You're a demon, man! You belong here. If you'd just let go of the damn humans, we'd be upstairs playing pool, listening to the Ramones and sexing up the succubae. Whadya say Spike?" Luke gushed, clapping Spike on the shoulder. "Give up the girl, the kid, her little sister, her friends, and get the keys to the kingdom. Humanity's over rated. Bunch of frantic lost pansies doing everything they can to forget they are human. And you *want* that? Come on, Spike. This is the *real* deal."
Spike looked thoughtfully at Luke. It really was not that long ago that
this would not have even been a choice. Love had been rabid and ferocious and insane. Pleasure was everything. Taking was the only aspiration. The demon inside craved that. Every day, craved the kill, the cheap thrill, the untamed lust without the bridle of emotion. Spike had fought the demon for so long now. He thought he had won. He thought he had crushed it in Africa, but there it was, rearing its ugly head again. 'Take the money and run,' he thought. 'Make this stop. Rip my bleeding hear out of my chest and crush the love and get this *bloody well* over with. Buffy'll find her way.'
Buffy.
Her goodness. Her light. Her loyalty. Her beauty. They rushed over him like the tide. Spike felt himself standing naked in her sea letting her warmth rush over him, crash into him, sometimes knocking him flat. But she was always there, rushing and receding like the tide.
"No, mate," Spike said, straightening his shoulders as if willing the demon away, "fraid that time is over."
"Suit yourself," Luke replied, shoving Spike through yet another door.
*****
Buffy had walked for hours. Still, nothing changed. It was sea of rocks. No big, red houses. Not even a big red shrub. The screaming went on, but she was used to it now as one gets used to a vile smell. Her body ached and her stomach cramped with hunger and fatigue. The baby, for once, was dormant.
"Catching a nap?" she asked the basketball between her hips. "Don't blame you. We need to find a place to hole up a while. Wonder if this dimension has room service?"
In the distance, the farthest distance she could see, was the oddest vision. A tree. An enormous Willow, to be exact, its branches sweeping from the sky and dipping down to kiss the earth. Resolutely, Buffy headed toward the closest thing to shelter that she was likely to find.
It took her a good ten minutes even to get close to it. The branches were so lush and low, she could not see the trunk. Her brow furrowed as a cold chill shot down her spine. She ignored it, knowing that this was the best she was going to do. With a deep breath, Buffy parted the branches and darted under cover.
The first thing she saw was a glimpse of black leather. Buffy slid a branch out of her way and could see a form sitting on the ground, leaned against the massive trunk. His back was to her, but she saw the leather and what she thought was a glimpse of blonde hair.
"Spike?" Buffy almost screamed, making her way to the trunk, rounding the edge. There was no answer. "Spike, is that you?"
Buffy rounded the trunk and there he was, sitting silently, staring off into the distance. Only three wasn't a distance. Just a tangle of branches. "Spike?" she whispered, kneeling down, her knees resting on the leather of his duster. She could smell the smoke and old darkened leather. "Spike?" Tears were creeping into her eyes and the dragon of her fear was coiling its way up her back. "Spike?" she said again, reaching out to touch his shoulder.
He toppled onto his side. Frozen. Unmoving, staring into the unseen
distance.
"Spike?" Buffy whispered, tears beginning to fall. She was shaking him
almost violently now. He couldn't be dead. He was already dead. "Spike, wake up dammit!" Her hands were on his frozen shoulders, gouging at the leather, his head lolling with every shake. "Spike, no. Oh God, no," she cried, dropping her hands. Her palm slapped to her moth, trying to stifle the scream. It rose from her throat like a primal roar, shaking the branches of the Willow. The last note caught in a retching sob and she could feel it all again. The playground. Reaching. Gone.
Buffy grabbed Spike's wrists and pulled him upright then over to her, his head resting on her lap. Her eyes were sore and felt as if they were bleeding. The anger and hurt boiled in her veins. Softly, her hands skimmed over his beautiful face. It was sculpted like marble, like a statue, and the sapphire orbs stared up at her quietly. Never to say another word again. The tears. How many could one woman cry? They dripped down onto the smooth plain of his skin like rain.
"I love you," she choked out. "Even when I hated you, I loved you. Always. Every day." Buffy leaned down, pressing her lips to his, breaking down completely when her prince did not magically flutter to life.
She had no idea how long she sat there, rocking, cradling his head in her lap, sobbing, until her throat was sore and her eyes dry, hollow wells. Buffy felt arms wrap around her shoulders. Warm, lithe, strong. The air smelled like vanilla. She closed her eyes and drank in the warmth.
"It's not real, you know," a sweet female voice sang in her ears. Melodic and rich and smooth. "Nothing you experience here is real. Remember that."
Buffy fell back into the girl's embrace, leaning her back into her
chest, closing her eyes. The young girl stroked Buffy's hair and rocked her as Buffy had rocked her lover. "You need to rest," the girl whispered, brushing the hair from Buffy's cheek. "You have much to do."
"Who? Who are you?" Buffy muttered broken heart and soul.
"I am the Peacemaker," the girl answered quietly. "But you know who I am."
Buffy opened her eyes. The vision of Spike was gone. She stared up into a beautiful face, glowing like moonlight. Piercing blue eyes and smooth peach skin, spun silk hair. " I know you?" Buffy struggled to speak.
"You are my protector, I am why you are here."
"Protector?"
"You and the Vampire."
"Spike?" Buffy was far too weary to be adding two and two.
"I will help you," the girls said quietly, " but you must rest. You will have your answers."
"But I need to find him. My love," Buffy whispered, mesmerized by the
beautiful young girl. The Peacemaker smiled.
"Drink," she girl whispered, placing a chalice to Buffy's lips. Buffy drank deep, feeling the sweet fluid course down her throat, light the fire in her veins. The child awoke, kicking with delight. Buffy coughed at the sudden outburst, chuckling softly.
" I guess were both thirsty," Buffy said. "What was that?"
The Peacemaker smiled serenely. "Sleep now," she whispered, kissing Buffy's cheek so tenderly and laying a hand on her belly. The baby instantly calmed and Buffy could feel the child curl into a peaceful ball inside of her.
Buffy drifted off, wrapped in the young girl's arms.
*****
This time, when Spike was forced through the door, he found himself in
nothing even remotely resembling a room. On the contrary, it was a huge
meadow with tall, ancient trees scattered along the landscape. He felt
different. He coughed and found that he had air in his lungs. His heart was racing in his chest. The duster was long gone, replaced by the black silk suit he had worn to Tara's funeral. Everything was different.
He walked into the sunlit meadow seeing thousands of grayish blocks in the distance. Slowly he headed toward the area, feeling the warmth on his face, closing his eyes and noticing the soft caress of the wind on his cheeks, the rustle of the leaves as they blew softly to the ground. The feelings were completely new and completely familiar all at once. This was the world he could not touch. The world that was only a distant memory now. The world where he and Buffy had been together and had been right.
Spike came closer to the speckled horizon and noticed that the blocks were not random boulders on the English countryside of his youth. They were stones. Headstones to be exact. At least a thousand of them lined in neat, well kept rows. He smelled flowers. In his hands were clutched two bouquets. One large arrangement of white lilies. One small collection of tiny daisies. A shiver spontaneously crept up his spine.
He came upon the stones and looked down at the first row. Name upon endless name. Date upon endless date as he walked the rows. None of them meant anything to him. Just names and dates and angels and crosses and little trinkets left by those who loved the departed. And then he came to the large Rowan tree.
There were two perfect marble stones, side by side. One larger, one
smaller. Spike kneeled between them before he even realized what he was
doing, settling the flowers in their proper place. His eyes focused and
what he saw was too much to bear.
"Buffy Anne Windsor. Beloved wife and mother. Dear friend and
Savior."
Spike scanned right at the smaller stone.
"Emma Joyce Windsor. Beloved daughter. Miracle."
His eyes filled with tears. Even if this wasn't real, it would be. This was his future. He had always known that living with humans carried the most painful price of all. One day he would bury them all. He would bury his beloved. He would bury his child. He would tend to their graves until the world ceased to exist, but would never lay with them.
Spike fell forward onto the grass, bowing to the Earth. Begging her to take him back, to let him live like her and die like her and never have to tend another grave again. To never have to read his daughter's name in marble, for it is so unnatural for a parent to outlive a child. To give him another chance to make this right. He begged the soil, the tree, the marble, the sky with every tear he had left. But she would never make him whole. He was a demon, wasn't he? Not to be given the grace of a God he had been forced to reject. He begged all the same.
A hand rested softly on his shoulder. Spike lifted his head, his face
covered with tears and chiseled with grief. An withered woman stood behind him, stooped with age and lined with wisdom. "You loved them," the woman said, kneeling down next to Spike as if in a pew at church. "You still love them."
"Every day," he whispered, his voice breaking, the tears stinging his skin.
"Grief is what makes us all alike," she said, holding his hand in hers. She was kind, he thought.
"I suppose it is," Spike answered, his hand brushing over the headstones.
"That's my son over there," the old woman said, pointing at a cross a few markers away. "He was 18 when he died."
"I. I am so sorry," Spike muttered, feeling he actually meant it. "That is so young to pass. How did he die?"
The old woman looked at Spike softly, compassionately. "You don't know
where you are, do you?"
Spike thought for a moment. In all honesty, he did not. "No," he answered simply.
"This is yours, Spike. You made this."
"What do you mean?" Spike asked, fear gripping him. The old lady's hand
tightened around his, not in a threatening manner, more as a brace against a storm.
"The stones in this garden," the woman said softly, " are lives that you
took. Except for these two." She gestured at the marble stones in front of her. "They were taken from you."
"Wha?" Spike stuttered, scanning the field. There were thousands of
stones. Thousands.
"Every stone, every marker, represents one life that you took in order to survive. Each one you drained the life from. Including my son." The woman stated simply. Spike pulled his hand away in disgust, not with her, but with himself. He stood, staring, spinning, looking at the sheer number of markers in this place. The magnitude of lives that he had taken. He began to shake, to panic, his human heart pounding into his ribcage.
The old woman stood again, her eyes looking directly into his. "You killed my son," she said calmly, her hands on his shoulders. "You took him from me. " Spike was puzzled. She was not angry, she was not yelling. She just told him. Somehow that was worse.
"I..." he stuttered. He wanted to scream, 'I didn't mean it'. But he had. He wanted to say that that is what vampires are supposed to do. But he knew now they didn't have to. He had killed him, he killed all of them, because he *wanted* to. Because he could. Because he was a monster.
"Madam, I am sorry," Spike said, mustering whatever dignity he could. "I have no excuse. I am sorry I killed your son. That you are here. That you are feeling... this."
The woman's face softened. "You loved them," she said again, gesturing at the stones.
"Always."
"They changed you."
"Yes."
"Are you truly sorry for this?"
Spike thought for a long moment. He had never really thought too much about it. He killed to eat. Like a hunter. He didn't kill to torture, to hurt anyone's mother or wife, or husband or child. That was the problem. He hadn't really thought at all.
He closed his eyes, imagining the countless times he fangs sank into human flesh, stealing its essence and making it his own. Leaving the body where he had found it. Then he allowed himself to think of the person who found the body. Had they reacted like Buffy when her mum died? Had they hurt like he had when he saw her body on the pile of rubble? Did they die as well like Willow had done when she buried her lover? He multiplied every life he took by those he destroyed and the weight nearly crushed him. Tears streamed down his face.
"I am truly, deeply sorry," he whispered, his head dropping back to the
ground, his face feeling like it might drown in the tears, his head explode with the sudden magnitude of what his unlife had amounted to.
"And this girl, she loved you knowing this?" the woman said, nodding at
Buffy's headstone.
Spike nodded. "She did," he said. "She knew and she loved me. In her own way."
"And you child?"
Spike smiled. He wasn't sure how he knew. "She adored me."
"She forgave you." The old woman said. "So have I."
Spike stared at the woman quizzically. "How in the world can you forgive me? How can anyone forgive me for this?" he screamed, spinning, his arms out to his sides.
"Because she did. Because people change. Because forgiveness is all we have to bind us. Forgiveness and grief. The question is, can you forgive yourself?" the old woman said, running her whizzened palm along his cheek.
"Thank you," he whispered, the tears streaming fresh on his cheeks. She
patted her hand against his face and smiled.
"Make peace," she whispered, and walked away.
To be contd.