CHAPTER 4: LAMENTATION PT. 2

How it feels to be dry
Walking bare in the sun
Every mirage I see is a mirage of you
As I cool in the twilight
Taste the salt on my skin
I recall all the tears
All the broken words

I am paralyzed by the Blood of Christ
Though it clouds my eyes
I can never stop
never stop

            ~The Blood, The Cure
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Beatrice Hall was petite woman, an inch or two shorter than Faith and at least a size smaller. Still, even for her smaller stature, she was as impressive a woman as Quentin Travers was a man. There was a sort of quiet power in the set of her shoulders, a self-assurance that was captured perfectly in the crisp business jacket and skirt she wore. Her dark hair was swept back from her head in a carefully pinned bun, giving her otherwise lovely features a severe cast. She wore a pair of round-rimmed glasses that seemed to accentuate the intelligence contained in the bright blue eyes behind. Her gaze was sharp and piercing as she surveyed her new charge, and Faith began to wonder if maybe she'd been better off in Quentin Travers' care.

Beatrice flipped perfunctorily through the paper on her clipboard, and then raised her eyes to Angel, her gaze hardening even more. "You're not supposed to be here," the woman said in crisp, British tones that crackled of fire and ice.

"Well, so much for the script," he said sarcastically, giving her notes a contemptuous glance.

"Hmph," she said, unimpressed, then flipped to another page and scribbled a note, her expression inscrutable.

Faith shifted her weight from one foot to another, glancing anxiously back and forth between the two of them. She had no idea what this woman expected of her, and she was torn between thinking Angel's attitude was probably good for the woman and thinking that it was only going to get her into deep trouble with her new Watcher.

"So," Beatrice said, returning her attention to Faith at last. "You're Faith Winters." She gave Faith a look of cool appraisal, eyes traveling up and down the length of her body.

"Last I checked," Faith answered easily, with a shrug and a tilt of her head. She met the woman's icy gaze evenly, determined not to appear intimidated. Maybe she was in their debt—for now—but that didn't mean she had to be completely servile.

"Interesting last name, Winters," the woman remarked, her tone slyly casual, almost questioning.

Faith raised her chin, dark eyes glittering defiantly. "It's legal. Mayor Wilkins saw to that when I was… in his care."

"His… care." Beatrice said, her tone flat, blue eyes icily questioning.

"Yeah. He took care of me," Faith said, her voice tight as she tried to keep a grip on her anger. "Why doesn't anyone ever get that?"

"Well, his turning into a giant snake and trying to eat an entire town tends to make one question his nurturing abilities," Beatrice replied coolly, her voice laced with just the faintest tinge of sarcasm.

"He took care of me," Faith said again with a hard look at the woman, her tone making clear that she wanted no further argument on the subject.

"Yes," Beatrice said shortly, her disbelief obvious. She made another entry in her notes and then looked to Faith again. "Why Winters?"

Faith folded her arms over her chest and set her jaw, not wanting to answer the question, especially since she guessed that the woman already knew. "I… thought it was poetic justice," she answered evasively.

"Poetic justice?" the woman echoed, too politely, thin brows rising questioningly.

Damn. Five minutes with this woman and she was already driving Faith mad. How was she ever going to make it through the next several months?  "Yes," Faith said, her slipping patience beginning to show. "You know: Summers, Winters? Bright and sunny, cold and dead?" She spoke in a condescending tone, as if the woman should have known without her having to explain.

"I see." Beatrice nodded and made another note. "So you took the name opposite your nemesis, Buffy Summers?"

"Yes," Faith said again through clenched teeth.

"And you say Mayor Wilkins supported this obviously unhealthy choice?"

"Do you British people ever get tired of hearing yourselves talk?" Angel broke in, his patience beginning to wear thin as well.

"Hmm," Beatrice said and cut him a look, making another note on her clipboard.

"Do you even know who I am?" Angel asked, agitated, trying to lean forward to see what she was writing.

She pulled the clipboard tight against her chest and drew herself up, eyeing him calmly if mistrustfully. "Of course I know you, Angelus. All of the Watchers know you."

"Hmph." Angel said, and nodded, appearing to glean some great wisdom from her statement. "Should I make a note now?" he asked caustically.

Beatrice eyed him silently a moment more, then ripped a blank sheet from her clipboard, offering it to him with just the hint of a steely smile.

He hesitated, seeming surprised by her reaction, and then snatched the paper from her hand, putting put his hand to his chin, as if in deep thought. "Let's see, since you obviously missed the first memo, I'll have to write you another." He stopped, eyes locking on hers intently, his tone almost challenging. "It's just Angel now."

Her brows raised again with that same too polite, slightly mocking expression, and she nodded primly. "Well, Angel, while you draw upon your… most impressive intellect to compose your memo, I think Faith and I will settle ourselves into our beds for the night." She nodded curtly to him and spun on her heel. She began walking toward the house with a brisk pace, then stopped, pausing to look back over her shoulder.

"Oh. And you're not invited." She flashed him a cool smile and then resumed her course toward the house.

Faith hung back a moment, looking at Angel. "Well, you sure showed her."

Angel was staring after Beatrice with a look of fascination. "I'm not even sure she's human."

Faith started, looking alarmed. "Really?"

"Did you see that?" he sputtered, gesturing wildly in annoyance after Beatrice, and the blank sheet of paper still clutched in his hand flapped comically with the motion. "I always said demons have nothing on the British!"

She laughed out loud and nodded in agreement. "Yeah, she's a real—"

"Ms. Winters!" Beatrice called stridently from the porch, her voice like an arrow through the night, severing the conversation between Faith and Angel with sharp finality. It wasn't a request; it was an order.

Faith bristled at the tone of command. Like a reflex, the old feelings of resentment and rebellion flared to life as if they had been lurking, hiding, waiting to fill her with the familiar fire that always raged out of control and burned her life to the ground. With an effort, she composed herself, then jammed her hands in the pockets of her jeans, gave Angel a last sullen glance, and sauntered toward the porch with pronounced attitude.

"I'll be around," he said quietly, and when she looked back, he was gone.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

The entire house was small and sparsely furnished, old-fashioned in structure and décor, and Faith's room was the most simply furnished room of all. A single antique looking armoire stood in the corner near the window, kept company by a matching wood framed single-bed, slightly narrower than modern convention. The only other piece of furniture was an antique writing desk just to the left of the door. Like everything else in the room, its surface was old and worn, finish rubbed off by many years of writing and studying, and it was devoid of all implements and personality. No curtains adorned the windows, not a single picture graced the walls, and the wooden floor was completely bare. Overall, the room had the impression of something once warm and lovely now stripped down to the bone… barren, ugly and unwanted.

Faith found herself relating very closely with the impression.

"It's not much, but it's the best we could do on such short notice." Beatrice gave the room a glance and raised one shoulder in indifference. "I trust you'll find it more comfortable than your previous accommodations," she added, giving Faith a stern look. "We'll talk tomorrow," she concluded, and before Faith could open her mouth, Beatrice had turned and moved down the hall, disappearing behind her own bedroom door.

"Home sweet home," Faith muttered with a shrug, stepping inside and kicking the door gently shut behind her. Without ceremony, she walked over and fell onto the bed, finding it firmer but not much more comfortable than her prison bed had been. Lifting her feet in the air, she pulled the boots from them and tossed them on the hardwood floor with a muffled thump. With a sigh, she settled in, spread her hair out on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

As angry as it made her, and as much it frustrated her, Faith knew she couldn't expect this woman to understand that Mayor Wilkins had been like a father to her. He had lavished more care and attention on her than anyone else in her life ever had, and for that he would always remain dear to her. All anyone else had ever seen in him was evil. They'd never known how kind and gentle he could be. Perhaps she'd made the wrong choice by joining him, but she'd never doubted that he had cared about her.

And Buffy had killed him.

She had hated Buffy for that when she first woke from her coma and found out what had happened. But the Mayor had left her a gift behind, just in case Buffy won—that was so like him, always thinking of Faith first and best—and she had spent a day in Buffy's body… just one day, but that one day had been more than enough to bring home the pain of how much Faith's own life lacked. Buffy had a loving family, a loving boyfriend, loyal friends, the kind of respect and love granted only to heroes. She had felt it, and for the first time, she knew how truly empty her own life had been. And this time, the hatred had turned inward instead of outward, on herself instead of Buffy.

Once back in her own body, she'd gone on a destructive rampage fueled by a self-loathing so vicious that she'd been sure she would die. She'd wanted to die. But Angel hadn't let her. Like a true Angel, he had saved her. Not that she had any visions of him as her knight in shining armor—okay… maybe a few, late at night when she was all alone, without the armor—but of them all, Angel was the only one who'd ever truly been her friend. He was the only one who could understand her. The others didn't know what it was like to be hungry, or poor, or abused… or a killer.

Buffy tried, a voice at the back of her mind spoke up, and she sighed, shifting her position on the bed. Okay, it was true; Buffy had tried. But she had never been able to see it as genuine. She could never imagine Buffy understanding or even liking someone like her. How could she? Buffy was so straight and narrow, good and noble, so… normal, despite her Slayer life. And yet, there had been a bond between them, a feeling of sisterhood that their shared Slayer power granted them. Even though she had come to loathe Buffy for having everything she didn't, she had always felt that bond, had always wondered… if she hadn't been so overcome with jealousy, so worried about Buffy's approval, then maybe… maybe things would have been different. If it weren't for the all the horrible things that had passed between them, all the things Faith had done, maybe she would have gone to Buffy when she finally broke down. While she was in prison, she had entertained the idea that maybe, someday, she still would.

But now Buffy was dead, too, and all the maybe's and could-have-been's had died with her. There would never be a chance to put things right between them. Never a chance to explain or apologize for all the things she had done. The thought made her feel hollow inside, and it was more than just a physical feeling, more than her need to put things right. She and Buffy had shared something through the Slayer bond, something that linked them forever. It pained her that when she thought of Buffy now, all she could feel was an aching emptiness where that bond used to be.

She pulled the pillow over her head, trying to smother her thoughts. She needed to pull herself together right now, and thinking about Buffy wasn't going to help her do that. Drawing the blankets up over herself, she cleared her mind and closed her eyes, waiting for the peace of sleep to claim her.

It took a long time coming.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Angel was surprised to find the old mansion locked, boarded up and deserted. He'd expected to find some sort of vagrant demon—perhaps several of them—squatting there. But when he'd opened the door, everything had been exactly like he remembered it, save that his belongings were gone and everything was covered in an even thicker layer of dust.

He made a sweep of the place to find that everything was the same; completely untouched, almost as if he had never been gone, and he had to wonder if there were some sort of magic keeping it safe. After going over all the rooms in detail, he decided that if there were some sort of enchantment, it didn't seem to be doing him any harm. At last, he went to the old chair by the fireplace that had been his favorite, and sat down.

Back in Sunnydale. He'd never really liked it here. The Hellmouth was too… busy for his tastes. He'd only come here in the first place because of Buffy, and even then he had hated it. But he had endured it for her sake, for the sake of the greater good, and when he had left, again, it had been because of Buffy.

He'd wanted to leave her to a more normal life, to be free to love a man who could give her the kind of life she deserved. The thought fairly choked him with bitterness now, and he wondered how he ever could have thought the life of a Slayer could end in any sort of happiness. From what Willow had told him, Buffy's life had only become worse since he'd left. Not that he was responsible for it, but he could have at least been there for her. He hadn't even really known. Buffy had never been very forthcoming about her personal life in the few exchanges they'd had since he'd moved on.

He had always thought there would be time… hadn't the prophecies told him that one day he would earn his redemption and become human again? He had thought that meant that he and Buffy would be together again someday… be together like they had been when the blood of a demon had made him human for a few short hours. He had been willing to give that up, to give her up, only because the Powers told him that she would die otherwise. He had sacrificed his humanity that she might live, that they might one day have a future together, and he had carried the memory of that day like a precious gift ever since, thinking it a glimpse of what was to come once they had both fulfilled their destinies.

But destiny was a cruel master. He had known that long before he came to Sunnydale, long before he saw Buffy for the first time. But when they had been together, he had come to hope that perhaps destiny could also be kind. And so it had… until he had lost his soul. The soul returned, the love remained, but nothing between them was the same afterward. Still, he had gone on believing that they could overcome it somehow, both of them trying to stay together long after they should have seen the futility of it, and at last he could no longer ignore the pain he was causing her.

He had left then, burying his love, burying his hope, pushing it deep down inside, and he had tried to forget. Then that one day… the day they had spent together as a normal man and woman. The day he had realized what their love could really be, if given a chance. It had rekindled the hope that never really died, infusing it with a new intensity.

He slammed his fist against the arm of the chair, distantly aware of the sound of breaking wood. The Powers had given him that taste of life, of love, promised him more, and then they had taken it all back in a single instant. He could almost hear their mocking laughter.

And then… two days ago, he had been about to leave for Sri Lanka. He'd decided that he needed to go regroup; to try and reconcile the grief Buffy's death had left him with. Wesley had suggested a spiritual retreat. Gunn had suggested Vegas. Brief consideration brought him to the conclusion that exploring spirituality seemed the best way to cope without going out on a killing rampage or impaling himself on a stake. Then he'd gotten the news about the Council and Faith, and he'd known he couldn't leave just yet.

Faith. She was still something of an enigma to him, even though he felt he understood her in all the ways that mattered. In some ways, he could relate to her even better than he had to Buffy. They had similar incidents in their pasts, similar mistakes and regrets—though admittedly, his were on a far larger scale than hers. She was going to need a friend in the days ahead, and he was the only one willing to take up the challenge.

Besides, he had a feeling that helping her the way he should have helped Buffy all along would be a much better spiritual balm than any he could find among the monks.

He sat thinking, staring into the darkened fireplace until long after the first rays of dawn crept into the mansion.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

In the hour before dawn, twelve vampires gathered in the bowels of the earth beneath Sunnydale, forming a circle atop a pile of stony rubble. Dressed in black, hooded cloaks, they linked hands and drew the circle tight, beginning to chant in an ancient language.

In one wall, secluded in an alcove above them, a lone figure stood cloaked in shadow. Her voice rose with theirs, more powerful, growing with intensity as the chant repeated, until at last all their voices joined in a deafening harmony that reverberated throughout the catacombs. All around them, rats shrieked and scurried for better cover, the very stones shaking with the power their voices invoked, the words repeated faster and faster until at last the walls threatened to shake themselves apart.

A crack split the wall beneath the alcove, and the figure above fell to her knees, nearly thrown from her perch by the tremor. She gripped the edge of the stone so tightly in her excitement that it crumbled beneath her fingers, and leaned over to get a better view of what was happening below.

The vampires still stood in their tight circle, though they were no longer chanting, their eyes fixed on the wall beneath her.

The stone split asunder with a sound like lightning and she leaped from the alcove as it cleaved in two, landing neatly on her feet atop the stones below. She spun, an expectant grin splitting her face, and was rewarded by what she saw.

Within the fissure stood a metal coffin that gleamed silver in the flickering candlelight. Its surface was covered with engraved symbols, some indecipherable and some blatant with their warnings of power. The magic that warded it was an almost palpable thing, and one could easily imagine it coiling in the darkness, hissing, waiting to strike at anyone foolish enough to come near.

She could appreciate the awe reflected in the faces of her followers; she even felt a bit of it, herself. But more than that, she felt elation, an almost religious ecstasy.

"At last," she whispered, her voice slithering like a serpent through the darkness.