Africa, June 2002
The faces blurred by him in an endless macabre parade. Tears poured down his face as his victims all merged into a meaningless form with accusing eyes, staring up at him from a background of blood. Superimposed onto that image was his hands. Crimson. Stained with blood. Stained with sin. With each progressing victim, his hands grew darker and redder, the sin more unwashable. Frantic, Spike scrabbled at his hands, tearing at them with his nails, ripping them with his fangs in a desperate effort to rub the stain out. But it was no use. His efforts did nothing to remove the red…if nothing, the crimson grew deeper, the blood more real, and exhausted, Spike passed out under the benignly full African moon, clutching at his hands and hoping that the deadly rays of the morning sun would burn him out of his misery.
He awoke in a church. It was a familiar wan from his human days, back when he had still been the mild-mannered William the Bloody Awful Poet. After a moment of disorientation, he inspected himself. His hands were still bloody and painful. He remembered everything.Tears filled his eyes again but Spike willed them away furiously. Wandering through the pews, his feet strangely led him to the confessional.
Confused, he sat down in the small box and waited. A few minutes passed and the sliding panel behind the grill opened.
" You have sinned."
The voice was unlike any that he had ever heard. It was full of power and judgement…and knowledge. Somehow, he knew that that knowledge was important. He needed it to survive. He needed it to purge himself somehow of the stain on his hands. He waited.
He was jolted as the being behind the grille did something to him…the memories flooded him again and each face of his victim was pushed past his vision in scrutinizing detail. He opened his mouth to scream in agony, but was stopped by…something…he didn't know what. The procession went on for an eternity, but just as suddenly as it had started, the forced remembrance stopped.
All was quiet for several moments. The panel behind the grille snapped close with a resounding click.
Another eternity passed, and then the panel slid open again. He could not see his confessor…there was no one behind the metal latticework. A voice rang out.
" William the Bloody. The Slayer of Slayers. Spike."
His pseudonyms rang out like the heavy tolling of bells.
" Born William Bradwell in 1864, turned at the age of 25 by one Drusilla the Mad, childe of the Angelus, Scourge of Europe. One hundred and twenty years spent as a killer. One hundred and twenty years spent in unholy blood and sin. One hundred and twenty years spent as the spawn of Satan himself."
Spike bowed his head in acknowledgement of his sins. The voice knelled out again.
" Two hundred thousands murders."
The number hit him like a fist in the gut. Silence prevailed for a moment as Spike digested this.
" Two hundred thousands murders- one hundred and fifty thousand men, forty nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine women. One child."
He remembered the child. He'd always had a fastidious dislike to killing children…in comparison, that is, the rest of the vampire world. Angelus had loved them…loved marring their purity, ripping away their innocence. Dru…well…she had liked to play with them. Serving them tea with Miss Edith until they bored her and she ripped their throats out. The one child he had killed had been a quick kill. A merciful kill. Angelus had tempted him with promises of sweet pure blood. Had told him it was like ambrosia.
It had been a little girl. Bedraggled and grimed, she had probably not been more than 5 or 6 years old when he found her on the street, shivering and crying in the cold. Next to her was a dead prostitute. Closer inspection revealed that she had been knifed…most likely by a deadly customer. The little girl was obviously her daughter.
Spike had grinned, then approached the child, human mask in place. Only twenty years old in vampire age, Spike had no control, no finesse. He grabbed the child and savagely tore into her neck, draining her in seconds.
The blood had been good, but it had not lasted long enough. The whole entire experience had not appealed to him much, and that was the first and last child that he had killed.
That fact did nothing to assuage his guilt.
During his reminiscing, the voice behind the grille had remained silent. But as soon as Spike had remembered, it continued its judgement.
" Lives destroyed, families broken apart. Massacre and mayhem caused in joyful violence. You are a damned creature."
The last five words sunk low into his stomach.
" But you have a soul," the voice continued.
" You cannot be blessed yet. You must pay for your sins first. You will not receive confessional until you do."
For the first time, Spike spoke.
" How?"
The voice was silent for a minute. Then, it continued.
" Body. Soul. Mind. Heart" For each, you have caused much pain for humanity. You must recompense. Body: you have two hundred thousands deaths to your name. Your debt to this is simple. Know and search out two hundred thousand people. Find them and save them. This is a matter of numbers only, and the balance will be restored once you have saved two hundred thousand lives. Soul: you have already paid that debt. Your soul is returned, and you feel the pain and guilt of it. The weight from it will last until you have been blessed. Only then will you accept it and live with it without pain.
Mind: you have prided yourself on your mind. Your cleverness in ruthless cruelty has caused much suffering. You have caused some to go insane, to lose their minds….likewise, for one full year, you must suffer the torture of insanity. You will lose all will and coherent thoughts. You will be alone with your thoughts and your memories. However, this payment will only take place when you are ready. Once you are, you will be forewarned….
Finally….Heart: By all rights you must feel the loss of a brother, the loss of a friend, the loss of a lover, and the loss of a father. The loss of a brother, of a friend, and of love…you will feel those prices. You will go through the pain that you have caused thousands of others by your wanton murders. But as for the loss of a father…
…you have killed one child. The only parent of that child was dead when you killed the child. Likewise, you will become a father, and you must not die. If you kill yourself in guilt, your child will die also. The child you will foster will be very important for the future. Believe in her. Truly, you will not feel the loss of a father if you are careful. Be careful. Be very careful, William. You are Marked by the Powers. You are not yet blessed, by you are marked. Christianity says that their God marked Cain's hands so that men would know not to hurt him. You have been Marked by the Powers, perhaps, by your God. Your mark will be there so that Nature will know not to hurt you. Nature has made you a vampire, but it will recognize you. Find the child. Remember her…"
The voice was dying away. Spike felt a burning sensation in the palms of his hands, the agony was intense, but he embraced the pain, reveled in it. The walls of the confessional seemed to melt and Spike felt an uncomfortable prickling on his skin.
He awoke with blurry vision and a nauseous headache. His hands were healed of the savage tearing they had undergone the night before. But two twin scars looked up at him from his palms. Twin scars in the shape of a crucifix. Overhead, the hot glare of the midday African sun beat down on him and the whole world breathed in silence as a Marked vampire stared up wonderingly at the light and began his long and arduous voyage.
TBC…I don't want to make Spike into a cheap Angel knockoff what with the soul and the redemption and blessing thing going on, but I kind of want to see him become really good. Please R/R and please be nice.
The faces blurred by him in an endless macabre parade. Tears poured down his face as his victims all merged into a meaningless form with accusing eyes, staring up at him from a background of blood. Superimposed onto that image was his hands. Crimson. Stained with blood. Stained with sin. With each progressing victim, his hands grew darker and redder, the sin more unwashable. Frantic, Spike scrabbled at his hands, tearing at them with his nails, ripping them with his fangs in a desperate effort to rub the stain out. But it was no use. His efforts did nothing to remove the red…if nothing, the crimson grew deeper, the blood more real, and exhausted, Spike passed out under the benignly full African moon, clutching at his hands and hoping that the deadly rays of the morning sun would burn him out of his misery.
He awoke in a church. It was a familiar wan from his human days, back when he had still been the mild-mannered William the Bloody Awful Poet. After a moment of disorientation, he inspected himself. His hands were still bloody and painful. He remembered everything.Tears filled his eyes again but Spike willed them away furiously. Wandering through the pews, his feet strangely led him to the confessional.
Confused, he sat down in the small box and waited. A few minutes passed and the sliding panel behind the grill opened.
" You have sinned."
The voice was unlike any that he had ever heard. It was full of power and judgement…and knowledge. Somehow, he knew that that knowledge was important. He needed it to survive. He needed it to purge himself somehow of the stain on his hands. He waited.
He was jolted as the being behind the grille did something to him…the memories flooded him again and each face of his victim was pushed past his vision in scrutinizing detail. He opened his mouth to scream in agony, but was stopped by…something…he didn't know what. The procession went on for an eternity, but just as suddenly as it had started, the forced remembrance stopped.
All was quiet for several moments. The panel behind the grille snapped close with a resounding click.
Another eternity passed, and then the panel slid open again. He could not see his confessor…there was no one behind the metal latticework. A voice rang out.
" William the Bloody. The Slayer of Slayers. Spike."
His pseudonyms rang out like the heavy tolling of bells.
" Born William Bradwell in 1864, turned at the age of 25 by one Drusilla the Mad, childe of the Angelus, Scourge of Europe. One hundred and twenty years spent as a killer. One hundred and twenty years spent in unholy blood and sin. One hundred and twenty years spent as the spawn of Satan himself."
Spike bowed his head in acknowledgement of his sins. The voice knelled out again.
" Two hundred thousands murders."
The number hit him like a fist in the gut. Silence prevailed for a moment as Spike digested this.
" Two hundred thousands murders- one hundred and fifty thousand men, forty nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine women. One child."
He remembered the child. He'd always had a fastidious dislike to killing children…in comparison, that is, the rest of the vampire world. Angelus had loved them…loved marring their purity, ripping away their innocence. Dru…well…she had liked to play with them. Serving them tea with Miss Edith until they bored her and she ripped their throats out. The one child he had killed had been a quick kill. A merciful kill. Angelus had tempted him with promises of sweet pure blood. Had told him it was like ambrosia.
It had been a little girl. Bedraggled and grimed, she had probably not been more than 5 or 6 years old when he found her on the street, shivering and crying in the cold. Next to her was a dead prostitute. Closer inspection revealed that she had been knifed…most likely by a deadly customer. The little girl was obviously her daughter.
Spike had grinned, then approached the child, human mask in place. Only twenty years old in vampire age, Spike had no control, no finesse. He grabbed the child and savagely tore into her neck, draining her in seconds.
The blood had been good, but it had not lasted long enough. The whole entire experience had not appealed to him much, and that was the first and last child that he had killed.
That fact did nothing to assuage his guilt.
During his reminiscing, the voice behind the grille had remained silent. But as soon as Spike had remembered, it continued its judgement.
" Lives destroyed, families broken apart. Massacre and mayhem caused in joyful violence. You are a damned creature."
The last five words sunk low into his stomach.
" But you have a soul," the voice continued.
" You cannot be blessed yet. You must pay for your sins first. You will not receive confessional until you do."
For the first time, Spike spoke.
" How?"
The voice was silent for a minute. Then, it continued.
" Body. Soul. Mind. Heart" For each, you have caused much pain for humanity. You must recompense. Body: you have two hundred thousands deaths to your name. Your debt to this is simple. Know and search out two hundred thousand people. Find them and save them. This is a matter of numbers only, and the balance will be restored once you have saved two hundred thousand lives. Soul: you have already paid that debt. Your soul is returned, and you feel the pain and guilt of it. The weight from it will last until you have been blessed. Only then will you accept it and live with it without pain.
Mind: you have prided yourself on your mind. Your cleverness in ruthless cruelty has caused much suffering. You have caused some to go insane, to lose their minds….likewise, for one full year, you must suffer the torture of insanity. You will lose all will and coherent thoughts. You will be alone with your thoughts and your memories. However, this payment will only take place when you are ready. Once you are, you will be forewarned….
Finally….Heart: By all rights you must feel the loss of a brother, the loss of a friend, the loss of a lover, and the loss of a father. The loss of a brother, of a friend, and of love…you will feel those prices. You will go through the pain that you have caused thousands of others by your wanton murders. But as for the loss of a father…
…you have killed one child. The only parent of that child was dead when you killed the child. Likewise, you will become a father, and you must not die. If you kill yourself in guilt, your child will die also. The child you will foster will be very important for the future. Believe in her. Truly, you will not feel the loss of a father if you are careful. Be careful. Be very careful, William. You are Marked by the Powers. You are not yet blessed, by you are marked. Christianity says that their God marked Cain's hands so that men would know not to hurt him. You have been Marked by the Powers, perhaps, by your God. Your mark will be there so that Nature will know not to hurt you. Nature has made you a vampire, but it will recognize you. Find the child. Remember her…"
The voice was dying away. Spike felt a burning sensation in the palms of his hands, the agony was intense, but he embraced the pain, reveled in it. The walls of the confessional seemed to melt and Spike felt an uncomfortable prickling on his skin.
He awoke with blurry vision and a nauseous headache. His hands were healed of the savage tearing they had undergone the night before. But two twin scars looked up at him from his palms. Twin scars in the shape of a crucifix. Overhead, the hot glare of the midday African sun beat down on him and the whole world breathed in silence as a Marked vampire stared up wonderingly at the light and began his long and arduous voyage.
TBC…I don't want to make Spike into a cheap Angel knockoff what with the soul and the redemption and blessing thing going on, but I kind of want to see him become really good. Please R/R and please be nice.