2675, an unknown amount of time later
My senses come back to me one by one. . . slow as honey pouring tediously out of a barely-tilted bottle. My first perception is like a sandpapery cat tongue laving over the skin on what I vaguely recognize as my hands and face and neck. Next, I am aware of my tongue, laying thick and heavy in the cavern of my mouth like a giant slug that's unwilling to obey the command to move. I taste the faint tinge of something metallic and a scratchy itch in the back of my throat like someone's forced blood down my throat.
Light brushes across my eyelids, lighting my world scarlet red as if I am staring directly into the sunlight with my eyes shut tight. Automatically. . . instinctually, I flinch away but find my muscles are pressed firmly against something warm and feathery soft. Inwardly, I sigh with relief, and I momentarily forget the effulgence of the unexplored outer environment.
Then, I hear a sound. . . .
A sound is beating toward my eardrums in a hesitating rhythm. . . .
The resonance is so painfully obvious but unidentifiable to my underwater consciousness. . . .
Wait. . . .
Something wet and hot and liquid is seeping through the cotton covering on my forearm. . . . A stray drop winds a path down to my hand and burns there. . . .
Salt, salt burns. Tears! Triumphant, I grin inwardly at my ability to put a word to something. . . .
But tears mean someone is crying. . . hurting.
Forcing my muscles to obey me, I defy the pain in my eyelids and open my eyes. My vision is cloudy, but I am able to recognize Ayledan's shiny dark hair covering her face. I part my lips to speak to her, but only a small moan escapes my mouth.
She lifts her head at my utterance and smiles through bloodshot eyes that she rubs vigorously as if she is trying to hide her tears. "You're awake."
I lay unmoving, uncertain how to respond.
"I suppose you'll want to know what happened." She lets silence build for a moment. "I mean, I would if I just woke up and didn't know."
My eyes flick around the foreign room, searching for Spike. Ayledan knows what I'm doing.
"He. . . Spike is in the other room sleeping. He didn't want to leave your side, but I made him because he hadn't slept in hours. . . actually, make that days."
I attempt to convey the relief that fills my heart with my eyes; however, the slayer doesn't notice. She's already lost in her own world. . . almost separate from herself.
"The vampires are gone. We, Richard, Bandel, Sage, Spike, and I, killed all but a handful. When Spike took off after you, we pretty much followed because we were all too weak to carry on by ourselves. The remaining vamps got away.
"I don't know what made Spike go after you like he did. Maybe he sensed something the rest of us didn't. Maybe you have a connection with him that I could never understand. But one minute he was fighting, and the next, he left. Richard carried Sage because she was unconscious at that point. . . with his gloves back on, of course. Bandel limped along because he twisted his ankle and broke his arm, so Richard hung back with him to make sure no stray vamps attacked him. I kept up with Spike who ignored every attempt I made to get him to slow down and explain what was going on.
"We arrived at your location just as you opened the exit. Sunlight literally poured into the underground, and you and Nabald lit afire. The scariest thing was that you didn't make a noise, but Nabald screamed like a banshee. He staggered back into the shadows and began to roll around. You just stayed in the light, and Spike dove after you, knocking you into the darkness again.
Ayledan's face hardens in deep anger. "And I made sure Nabald made it back into the sunlight. I had to hold him there. . . i-in my lap. He burned until there was only ash. The screams were awful. The worst sound I've ever heard. . . ever felt against my body. . . and so very loud." She shivers. "I think I'll be having nightmares about them for a very long time."
She seems to have more to say, but she hesitates. I transmit encouragement with my eyes. She caves to her innermost feelings before me.
"M-miros is gone. . . d-dead." Tears rise anew. "He was my whole family, and now he's gone."
Without thinking, I reach for her, stroking her long, soft hair with my left hand as she buries her face on the sheets covering me. We stay in that position for a long time until Ayledan has cried out all her hurt. . . for now. She will probably cry again later when the pain hits fresh. I wish I had words for her, but perhaps the quiet is better. . . less like false comfort.
Finally, she stands and clears her throat. "Wait here. I'll get you something to drink." I almost protest that I'm not in the least bit hungry, but instead, I let her go. She wants to be helpful after her emotional display. I've felt the same way in the past.
As soon as she is gone, I muster my energy and swing my aching legs to the ground. The floor is uncarpeted but is covered with a thin rug that's rough beneath my feet. Shaky from lack of blood, I sway in position for several seconds, balancing myself with my hand on the bed. Once the world has ceased spinning, I find that I'm able to place one foot in front of the other although only at a snail's pace. At the end of the bed, I am suddenly on my own, and I stumble to the doorway, clinging painfully to the doorframe and feeling thankful that I did not fall.
Then, I see him.
Lying in a stiff chair with his legs partially splayed, the love of my life sleeps with his eyes tightly shut, hair tousled and askew, and his lips slightly parted. The only sign that he is not completely at peace is the thin line of worry that etches his brow. There is an energy between us that is palpable even when one of us is asleep, and that bond pulls me to him now.
Before I am aware that my body has moved, I find myself directly in front of him. Settling carefully onto one of his thighs, I study him. As if to wipe away the anxiety, I bring my fingers forth to touch him only to be confronted with the wounds in my flesh for the first time. Jerking my hand down, I stare at the lesions on my hands. My blistered skin looks like a mosaic of pinks and reds and yellow-greens. Unable to tear away my gaze, I am filled with an odd mix of feelings, ranging from wonder to horror. The feeling is not unfamiliar.
"My angel."
His voice is low and filled with the British accent that I only hear when he is hoarse from sleep. He brings his hand up to caress my upper arm that is bare and unscarred. I flinch away. His arm returns to his side, and he ducks his head so that I am forced to view the brilliance of his eyes.
"What's wrong?" he asks simply.
I shake my head and part my cracked lips, croaking, "I'm horrible."
I close my eyes to shield myself from his rejection of my scars. I should have known better. Spike's never been afraid of my scars. . . emotional or physical. He loves me the same no matter.
"No, you're beautiful; you'll always be beautiful, love," he states with a certainty I wish I felt.
"I wish I could see myself. . . wish I could look in a mirror and see myself," I whisper.
"Do you trust me?"
My eyes fly open to meet his earnest ones. Once upon a time, I would have said no. Now, . . . "Always." I have never been more certain of that emotion. . . trust.
"You are beautiful. . . inside and out. Always have been. The wounds will heal. . . no scars, I promise." Careful not to press too hard, he runs his fingertips lightly over the wounds on my face, staring at their path as if to remember every inch of my wrecked skin before returning his gaze to my own. "And I love you."
Tears erupt then, cascading down my face in scalding, stinging waves, and I hide my face in his familiar chest, weeping. He massages my back to comfort me and kisses the top of my messy hair. He holds me close until my tears cease, and I am hiccupping quietly. Then, he takes me by my shoulders and presses me back.
"What made you stay in the light, pet?" The urgency and fear is an undercurrent in his forcibly calm tone.
I stare at him steadfastly. "I wanted to see the sun again. I missed it."
"Did you want to die?" He is point blank. . . always straight to the truth.
Without hesitation, I reply, "No."
His features relax visibly, and I suddenly realize what he was thinking and feeling. Discounting the violent pain in my hands, I slide my arms around his middle. "No, silly, I didn't wish to leave you. . . didn't wish to be human again. . . although being human might make it easier to do my hair." A smile creeps onto his face. I continue, "And, besides, if I were human, I'd be very dead. And I wouldn't be around to bug the heck out of you."
The smile is more evident now. "You do have a tendency to be a pest."
"Who me?"
Spike gently kisses my burnt forehead. "Yep, love. It's always been you."
"I do love you," I remind him.
"Love you, too, Buffy."
I rest my hands tenderly on his shoulders. "Now, I have a proposition."
He leans his head back against the chair and rolls his eyes in mock annoyance. "What?"
"I want to adopt Ayledan. She needs a family. I think we do, too."
"Think we need a family, huh?"
"Yes, we do. We need a new identity. . . one not all hidden in the dark."
"But, what will the Council do?"
"Screw the Council," I say pointedly.
"That's the Buffy I know and love." Spike's face brightens considerably at my show of spunk, but when he glances over my shoulder, he sees something behind me that makes him freeze.
I turn my head slowly to view Ayledan standing in the doorway, holding two mugs of steaming blood. She is wearing tears of joy.
TBC. . . the year 3000. . . hope you enjoyed the portion on 2675. . . we now leave behind Ayledan and crew for a new adventure. . . that of course, ties in with the plot! Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews! I really enjoy reading what you are liking about the story! :o) And I hope you keep on enjoying!!! ;o)
My senses come back to me one by one. . . slow as honey pouring tediously out of a barely-tilted bottle. My first perception is like a sandpapery cat tongue laving over the skin on what I vaguely recognize as my hands and face and neck. Next, I am aware of my tongue, laying thick and heavy in the cavern of my mouth like a giant slug that's unwilling to obey the command to move. I taste the faint tinge of something metallic and a scratchy itch in the back of my throat like someone's forced blood down my throat.
Light brushes across my eyelids, lighting my world scarlet red as if I am staring directly into the sunlight with my eyes shut tight. Automatically. . . instinctually, I flinch away but find my muscles are pressed firmly against something warm and feathery soft. Inwardly, I sigh with relief, and I momentarily forget the effulgence of the unexplored outer environment.
Then, I hear a sound. . . .
A sound is beating toward my eardrums in a hesitating rhythm. . . .
The resonance is so painfully obvious but unidentifiable to my underwater consciousness. . . .
Wait. . . .
Something wet and hot and liquid is seeping through the cotton covering on my forearm. . . . A stray drop winds a path down to my hand and burns there. . . .
Salt, salt burns. Tears! Triumphant, I grin inwardly at my ability to put a word to something. . . .
But tears mean someone is crying. . . hurting.
Forcing my muscles to obey me, I defy the pain in my eyelids and open my eyes. My vision is cloudy, but I am able to recognize Ayledan's shiny dark hair covering her face. I part my lips to speak to her, but only a small moan escapes my mouth.
She lifts her head at my utterance and smiles through bloodshot eyes that she rubs vigorously as if she is trying to hide her tears. "You're awake."
I lay unmoving, uncertain how to respond.
"I suppose you'll want to know what happened." She lets silence build for a moment. "I mean, I would if I just woke up and didn't know."
My eyes flick around the foreign room, searching for Spike. Ayledan knows what I'm doing.
"He. . . Spike is in the other room sleeping. He didn't want to leave your side, but I made him because he hadn't slept in hours. . . actually, make that days."
I attempt to convey the relief that fills my heart with my eyes; however, the slayer doesn't notice. She's already lost in her own world. . . almost separate from herself.
"The vampires are gone. We, Richard, Bandel, Sage, Spike, and I, killed all but a handful. When Spike took off after you, we pretty much followed because we were all too weak to carry on by ourselves. The remaining vamps got away.
"I don't know what made Spike go after you like he did. Maybe he sensed something the rest of us didn't. Maybe you have a connection with him that I could never understand. But one minute he was fighting, and the next, he left. Richard carried Sage because she was unconscious at that point. . . with his gloves back on, of course. Bandel limped along because he twisted his ankle and broke his arm, so Richard hung back with him to make sure no stray vamps attacked him. I kept up with Spike who ignored every attempt I made to get him to slow down and explain what was going on.
"We arrived at your location just as you opened the exit. Sunlight literally poured into the underground, and you and Nabald lit afire. The scariest thing was that you didn't make a noise, but Nabald screamed like a banshee. He staggered back into the shadows and began to roll around. You just stayed in the light, and Spike dove after you, knocking you into the darkness again.
Ayledan's face hardens in deep anger. "And I made sure Nabald made it back into the sunlight. I had to hold him there. . . i-in my lap. He burned until there was only ash. The screams were awful. The worst sound I've ever heard. . . ever felt against my body. . . and so very loud." She shivers. "I think I'll be having nightmares about them for a very long time."
She seems to have more to say, but she hesitates. I transmit encouragement with my eyes. She caves to her innermost feelings before me.
"M-miros is gone. . . d-dead." Tears rise anew. "He was my whole family, and now he's gone."
Without thinking, I reach for her, stroking her long, soft hair with my left hand as she buries her face on the sheets covering me. We stay in that position for a long time until Ayledan has cried out all her hurt. . . for now. She will probably cry again later when the pain hits fresh. I wish I had words for her, but perhaps the quiet is better. . . less like false comfort.
Finally, she stands and clears her throat. "Wait here. I'll get you something to drink." I almost protest that I'm not in the least bit hungry, but instead, I let her go. She wants to be helpful after her emotional display. I've felt the same way in the past.
As soon as she is gone, I muster my energy and swing my aching legs to the ground. The floor is uncarpeted but is covered with a thin rug that's rough beneath my feet. Shaky from lack of blood, I sway in position for several seconds, balancing myself with my hand on the bed. Once the world has ceased spinning, I find that I'm able to place one foot in front of the other although only at a snail's pace. At the end of the bed, I am suddenly on my own, and I stumble to the doorway, clinging painfully to the doorframe and feeling thankful that I did not fall.
Then, I see him.
Lying in a stiff chair with his legs partially splayed, the love of my life sleeps with his eyes tightly shut, hair tousled and askew, and his lips slightly parted. The only sign that he is not completely at peace is the thin line of worry that etches his brow. There is an energy between us that is palpable even when one of us is asleep, and that bond pulls me to him now.
Before I am aware that my body has moved, I find myself directly in front of him. Settling carefully onto one of his thighs, I study him. As if to wipe away the anxiety, I bring my fingers forth to touch him only to be confronted with the wounds in my flesh for the first time. Jerking my hand down, I stare at the lesions on my hands. My blistered skin looks like a mosaic of pinks and reds and yellow-greens. Unable to tear away my gaze, I am filled with an odd mix of feelings, ranging from wonder to horror. The feeling is not unfamiliar.
"My angel."
His voice is low and filled with the British accent that I only hear when he is hoarse from sleep. He brings his hand up to caress my upper arm that is bare and unscarred. I flinch away. His arm returns to his side, and he ducks his head so that I am forced to view the brilliance of his eyes.
"What's wrong?" he asks simply.
I shake my head and part my cracked lips, croaking, "I'm horrible."
I close my eyes to shield myself from his rejection of my scars. I should have known better. Spike's never been afraid of my scars. . . emotional or physical. He loves me the same no matter.
"No, you're beautiful; you'll always be beautiful, love," he states with a certainty I wish I felt.
"I wish I could see myself. . . wish I could look in a mirror and see myself," I whisper.
"Do you trust me?"
My eyes fly open to meet his earnest ones. Once upon a time, I would have said no. Now, . . . "Always." I have never been more certain of that emotion. . . trust.
"You are beautiful. . . inside and out. Always have been. The wounds will heal. . . no scars, I promise." Careful not to press too hard, he runs his fingertips lightly over the wounds on my face, staring at their path as if to remember every inch of my wrecked skin before returning his gaze to my own. "And I love you."
Tears erupt then, cascading down my face in scalding, stinging waves, and I hide my face in his familiar chest, weeping. He massages my back to comfort me and kisses the top of my messy hair. He holds me close until my tears cease, and I am hiccupping quietly. Then, he takes me by my shoulders and presses me back.
"What made you stay in the light, pet?" The urgency and fear is an undercurrent in his forcibly calm tone.
I stare at him steadfastly. "I wanted to see the sun again. I missed it."
"Did you want to die?" He is point blank. . . always straight to the truth.
Without hesitation, I reply, "No."
His features relax visibly, and I suddenly realize what he was thinking and feeling. Discounting the violent pain in my hands, I slide my arms around his middle. "No, silly, I didn't wish to leave you. . . didn't wish to be human again. . . although being human might make it easier to do my hair." A smile creeps onto his face. I continue, "And, besides, if I were human, I'd be very dead. And I wouldn't be around to bug the heck out of you."
The smile is more evident now. "You do have a tendency to be a pest."
"Who me?"
Spike gently kisses my burnt forehead. "Yep, love. It's always been you."
"I do love you," I remind him.
"Love you, too, Buffy."
I rest my hands tenderly on his shoulders. "Now, I have a proposition."
He leans his head back against the chair and rolls his eyes in mock annoyance. "What?"
"I want to adopt Ayledan. She needs a family. I think we do, too."
"Think we need a family, huh?"
"Yes, we do. We need a new identity. . . one not all hidden in the dark."
"But, what will the Council do?"
"Screw the Council," I say pointedly.
"That's the Buffy I know and love." Spike's face brightens considerably at my show of spunk, but when he glances over my shoulder, he sees something behind me that makes him freeze.
I turn my head slowly to view Ayledan standing in the doorway, holding two mugs of steaming blood. She is wearing tears of joy.
TBC. . . the year 3000. . . hope you enjoyed the portion on 2675. . . we now leave behind Ayledan and crew for a new adventure. . . that of course, ties in with the plot! Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews! I really enjoy reading what you are liking about the story! :o) And I hope you keep on enjoying!!! ;o)