Rating: R
Disclaimer: All BtVS characters belong to Joss
DARK TIDESBy Saj
Chapter 2
Clarity
Not alive, not dead:
Awake, I am awakeIn the desert of an eye.
Insomiac
Octavio Paz
Bloody hell. Bloody, fucking hell.
Ducking and swerving to his left, he kept his eyes focused on the advancing demon. Not for the first time, Spike was thankful for the gift of vampiric speed. Rolling to the ground, he felt the scattering of bits and pieces of bones under his moving body. A regular fucking grave this was. Jumping to his feet, he watched for his opening. Unfortunately, his opponent had been waiting with as astute attention as he and was the first to strike. A searing fist plowed into Spike, igniting a path of flesh-eating flames that burned their way across his chest.
An angry and determined howl curled up around his spine and shot out of him. He grabbed a fiery wrist within an iron grip, burning his fingers to the bone as he maintained his hold. He slammed his other fist into the beast's face and jumped him as he went down. Spike grabbed his head and twisted it with the force of the warrior and monster he knew himself to be, and basked in the glory of victory as the neck bones snapped in a lively little chorus of crunches.
"I get what I came for…I passed right?"
Well, yes and no. He'd known better. It was just that he'd been so damned desperate, it'd blinded him. He knew that these shamanic-types were tricky. He had just sorta forgot, in his pain driven haste and all.
Now what was it he had wanted from this jaunt to the bloody ends of the earth? Slayer! There had been a time, before the Slayer….he almost strangled on the bitter bile that gathered around his throat. The bitch had found her way into his dreams, his thoughts, his blood. The pissy little bint had whittled him down to a shadow of himself. He'd become a prick of a whining impotent shell of a vampire. Worse.
As she looked up at him, disbelief and terror in her eyes, he continued to pin her down, pulling aside her robe. Rage and desperation coursing through him, he reached down lower, to force himself into her, before feeling himself thrown against the bathroom wall behind him.
He'd not seen that kind of terror on her face before. How many times had they fought each other—mock and real—and never had he seen that look. He knew all of her expressions--hate, rage, shock, and the rest--but not this. It turned his stomach. And it had caused a self-loathing to arise that he could not explain away, nor live with.
Right, a few more trials. Bring it on, you wanker.
Hard, crusty fat little bugs wormed their way through his orifices, tunneling and squirming, crawling, sucking, and chewing their way deeper into his gut. Only to find nothing of him, just her. Everywhere, just her. The little black buggers swarmed through every inch of him and he took it--lasted it out until it had seemed there was nothing left of him but a hollow carcass.
Lurky's unearthly voice vibrated through the cavern, sounding far away and within his head at the same time. "You have endured the trials."
Bloody right I have, you holy fucker. Waves of bitter sadness floated along a current of rage, taking him to why he was here. Everything in him resisting, and with feelings akin to hate, he growled out the words:
"Make me what I was, so I can give her what she deserves."
The ancient demon reached forward and touched Spike's chest.
He felt it soar through him, burning open wounds and sorrows so piercingly painful, he thought he wouldn't survive. Made the flaming fists and bug thing seem like acts of mercy. Then he passed out.
When he came to, he felt the cool night air flowing against his skin, his body rocking back and forth within a hand-made stretcher. Six tall black women, each with a strong grip on the carrier, walked barefoot in a synchronized rolling gait. They wore dresses made out of colorful cloth and draped in such a way that their muscular shoulders remained bare, reflecting the moonlight. There were more women in front, one carrying a torch for light, and a few trailing behind. They were chanting softly in a dialect he couldn't recognize, but that soothed the pain in his body and soul. Every so often a woman came along side of him and gently wiped a cool wet cloth against his face and chest. He tried to say something, but couldn't speak, all thoughts and words taking too much effort.
After a time, the familiar sounds of village life—the occasional radio or rumble of an automobile--faded away. The infrequent aura of electric lights disappeared completely, leaving a purity of night that nourished his vampiric cells. They continued carrying him along a narrow path for hours, deep into the wild plains. At one point, only the sound of their chanting and occasional dialogue and laughter reassured him that he wasn't floating in space, lost. Bird cries drifted through the air, accompanying the rhythmic clap of bare feet against hard earth.
He lost consciousness before they reached the witch's clay hut. When he awoke, he found that he had been laid out on a thick padded blanket, nude, except for a piece of soft fabric that had been skillfully twisted and wrapped into a loincloth. A bowl of clear water had been set by his side.
For days, he lay in a state seemingly outside of time, with floating images and strange sensations alone telling him of his existence. Through the blurry thickness of his mind, he noticed a strange black woman appearing regularly, bringing him fresh water and blood--human blood. She poured it through his dry cracked lips slowly, delicately, as if tending to Christ himself. She probed, washed and massaged him--her fingers sliding against his skin like fine sandpaper, while droning low incantations.
He had broken bones, torn muscles and ligaments, and organs that seemed to have forgotten their original shape and location. He knew about brokenness, the physical kind, and found comfort in the familiarity of it. He sank into the pain of his mending as if finding his way home. It was the other that inspired visions of a valium drip.
His consciousness journeyed into realms of hell and ecstasy, his body unable to move. Sometimes it was as if he were within a nightmare, with bleeding corpses fucking him while tearing his insides out. And sometimes he was in an incredible state of softness and beauty, so exquisite that he felt he would die of knowing God too intimately.
Slowly, the drugged-like quality of his drifting awareness faded into a dull clarity, as if he had been dropped to earth with a thud of unblemished sight. All he could see was what he was.
Each moment shattered upon the next, projecting vivid images until he was shaking with violent tremors, and longing for the peace of ignorance. Terrors that had for over a century fed his cravings, now shuddered through him in a continuous shrill wail, slicing his heart to pieces. Each victim called to him to watch them die again, only in slow motion, with every nuance of agony, his own. Over and over.
He had been a thing. That was what things, monsters did. It was what had been in his nature to do, and he had done it beautifully. With pristine clarity he watched as the pain and pleasures of his vampiric nature played itself out on the world. There were no waves of guilt or self-flagellation, just clear panes through which he viewed his 150 years of existence, so sharp they cut through him as piercingly as his fangs had cut through countless arteries. He felt saturated with a heart-wrenching sorrow beyond telling.
The brilliant brightness of it was unbearable; taking him into a pain that existed beyond words, that was so shatteringly stark he wanted to stake himself. Each act of torture and murder, each life he had taken and the sorrow it had placed in the world, lay before him like glittering red beads, scattered as far as his eye could see.
__________________________________________
Tonight was the night. He slowly sat up and tested his strength. After trying out a few stretches, he stood up. His leg muscles shook with weakness, but all major muscle groups and bones seemed to be working. He had been standing there, his head almost touching the ceiling, wearing only a hand-dyed ochre loincloth, when she walked in.
"Aiii! He is up. The vampire stands." She bowed, in a mock sort of fashion.
"Who are you?" Looking at her more closely, he added, "What are you?" He was pretty sure she was human, but there lingered a small doubt. Maybe it was the unearthly yellow of her short fuzzy hair, or the sharpness of her teeth, or the muscled lean torso attached to a face as wrinkled as a walnut, or more than anything, the odd bluish gleam in her eyes. There was something about her that was just plain off. The khaki shorts, fluorescent pink halter top, and puke green parrot on her shoulder screeching, "Vampire! Vampire!" didn't make her seem any more human like.
"What am I?" She laughed a deep belly laugh that sounded like brown bags crumpling in the wind, and pointed at him. "What are you? A vampire with a soul dangling from his heart! Now there's a sight." She then turned to her parrot, "Shut up, Dracula."
Dracula? Where the bloody hell was he? The moment had more than a tinge of unreality to it. The shaking was gaining in momentum. He could sure use a smoke about now. Looking around, he said, "Alright, now that we've made with the introductions, where's my bloody fags?" He noticed a pile of neatly folded black clothes, standing out like a low scream in contrast to the brightly colored designs painted everywhere on the walls.
"Fags?" A British term, as I remember." In a flash, she was next to him, her arm around his waist keeping him from falling. The bird took that opportunity to nonchalantly step from her shoulder on to his, screeching, "I said, Vampire! Where's my stake?"
"So, you're thinking a smoke would do the trick?" She asked sarcastically, while supporting him as he lowered himself back on to the bedroll. Drac decided at that point to move to safer ground and hopped on to the dirt floor, hissing as he walked away, "Damned vamps."
Spike had been staring at the retreating parrot, perplexed, when an odd but familiar energy whipped through him. She had power, old power. And something else he couldn't quite put his finger on. She was definitely not a witch to mess with.
"Just might. What did you do with my cigs, witch? And what mojo have you worked on me? An old bird like you ought to be careful who she slings her magics at, if you get my drift, love." He threw her one of his more threatening glares, although its ability to instill fear had been significantly hampered by the fact that he was violently shaking, crumpled on the dirt floor in a semi-sitting position, and speckled with parrot shit. Hard to maintain the upper hand that way.
Pulling a cigarette out of her pocket and handing it to him, she said, "Ahh, it must have been your charm that won her heart. Oh wait, her heart is still flying free as a bird. Clear to see why."
"What do you know about that?"
Taking a burning candle from a nook in the wall, she bent down and lit his cigarette. "Hmm. By "that", are we talking about the tender wooing of the woman of your dreams? You know, poetry, roses, sweet talk? Oops, sorry, mistaken again, that was her lover before you. No, I think your approach was more along the lines of pulling out the chains and shackles and throwing in a spattering of insults and barbs. That always works."
Spike shook his head. Who was she? This couldn't be for real. "Best not speak of matters that don't concern you, witch. Where the hell am I?" He took a drag, attempting to look calm, cool, and dangerous.
Looking down at him, her hands on her bony hips, she sneered, "You know, for a 100-year-old vampire, you're certainly lacking in some basic charm and thrall skills. You could learn a thing or two from Dracula. The vampire, or course."
He stopped mid-drag, his jaw dropping, "You know Dracula?"
She smiled, her eyes slightly glazing over as if recalling a delicious memory, "Ahh, yes, I know the Count. Now there's a truly evil vampire." She looked down at Spike and frowned, as if to say that he wouldn't even register on the scale of evilness. "Hmmm. Yes, he and I are old, ah, friends, you could say. He gave me Drac. As a parting gift." She looked around. "Where is that bird? Drac?" With that she let out a few shrill whistles. "Oh well, he tends to wander."
Spike was flabbergasted. He leaned back against the wall, trying to sort things out in a logical manner. She was clearly a witch. Had some power. But, had obviously gone bonkers. Been alone in the wilds too long. Best if he just played along and then got the hell out of here as soon as possible. "Listen, witch. You're pretty good with the insults yourself. Now if you could just hand me my clothes, I'll be on my way."
The old crone walked towards the pile on the floor. "Oh there you are. You bad boy. No, you can't eat the idiot vamp's clothes." The fat parrot had nestled into the stack and was viciously chewing, spitting out little pieces of black cloth on to the ground with violent shakes of his head. The witch leaned down and put out her wrist, which dangled with an assortment of flashy bracelets. "Come on, up you go. You know how sensitive your digestion is." Drac hopped onto her wrist, climbed up to her shoulder, and began crooning, "That old black magic, got me in a spell."
The witch twisted her head and gave Drac a kiss, then turned back to Spike. "Sorry about that. Just a few little holes." She was holding his t-shirt, examining where the light sparkled through a multitude of tiny ragged tears. "Drac has a tendency towards passive-aggressive behaviors. What he can't outright kill, he finds ways of torturing. You might understand that dynamic."
Okay, that did it. Crazy or not, the witch had gone too far. He glared at her while he tried to stand up. "Listen you bag of bones, I've torn the throats out of bints far more mouthy than you without even blinking an eye." He had intended to leap up, go into game face and show the daft old bird who she was dealing with, but before he could even raise himself slightly, she had leaned over and softly touched his chest. A rush of power surged through him, throwing him into the wall behind him.
She stood looking at him with a steely gaze for a moment, then calmly walked over to him and extended out her hand.
Dazed, he muttered, "Back off, mum. I've had enough of the dark powers playing with me." Leaning back against the cool clay, he looked into her beady eyes and slowly asked in measured tones, "Who are you? What do you know about me?" He had figured she had some powers, but he had greatly underestimated her strength.
"I know much about you, vampire." Her voice became soft, falling on him like a rough caress. She gracefully lowered herself into a squatting position within a few feet of him, reminding him of a heron as she rested on her thin legs, radiating a calmness that permeated the room. She answered his question in a tone of patient strength, "I am, as you said, a witch. What powers I have applied have been to help you heal. The demon's games of chance are most often deadly in one fashion or another, even for those who think they have won."
She paused before continuing, "My name is Ralph."
Right. He rolled his eyes in disbelief, and smirked. "Ralph? Dracula? Where am I? The African version of Sesame Street? What the bloody hell kind of name is Ralph? "
She smiled at him and said, "Ahh, and Spike. Now there's a name that'll make a girl swoon."
With that, she tossed his shirt at him. She then bent down and picked up his jeans from the floor, throwing them to him as she left. After managing to pull his pants on, he collapsed upon his bedroll and rested for half an hour before venturing to move about again.
The sounds of crickets pulsed through the open windows, and a cool breeze was flowing through the room. He suddenly felt like he had to get outside into the night, the stars, the blackness, the moon. It was a whining of a craving, like the way he yearned for the feel of Buffy's warm body next to his. He had a need to sink into the dark ground of his basic nature and rest.
The witch returned as if hearing him call her. Without a word, she scooped up a blanket and took it outside, spreading it across a section of the ledge that overlooked the village. She gave him a hand as he left the womb-like room. He closed his eyes and inhaled the night air deeply, savoring the coolness of it and the mixture of wild scents. Then he stretched out on the blanket, basking in the starlit evening as if sunbathing by the ocean.
The witch's place jutted out from the side of a steep hill on to a broad ledge, perched above a valley. From where he lay, Spike could watch the movements of the villagers below, and he took comfort in the faraway quietness of it. She sat with him awhile, neither of them speaking. Then she left, returning with a bowl of blood for him to drink.
He wondered where she had gotten the fresh human blood, "Tell me, Ralph, who's your supplier?"
She nodded toward the village.
He wasn't surprised, since they seemed to be the only humans around, yet it confused him. "Right, no doubt there's a daily sacrifice of virgins to keep the local population of vamps fed and domesticated, and all that."
"Some are virgins, some aren't," and she laughed, "And some can't remember that far back." She added sarcastically, "We have ways of gathering blood just short of ritual sacrifice." She then looked at him, meeting his gaze directly. "Their blood is for you to help you heal. We no longer domesticate vampires for our entertainment and pleasure. Just you."
Spike felt a tingling sensation rise up through his spine as she said those last words. "So, where am I, old one? What's the deal here?"
She did not answer him immediately, but took her time as if weighing her thoughts. Closing her eyes, she spoke with words that carried the pulse of enthrallment, "There is no deal. You are far away, and right here--swimming the currents of your actions--swallowing your soul, as you find your way back to the source of that which claimed you."
As she spoke, he felt a lightness travel through him, stealing his questions, replacing them with a vague yet definite knowing. Her words became as fog, and he knew that he was exactly where he should be, at the hands of a witch and her village.
Before he had been able to pursue that particular thread of understanding any further, she gently pushed the conversation in a different direction.
"So, you don't think my name is befitting such a powerful and dark witch as myself?
"Well, love, I can't exactly say it doesn't fit you. I'm just saying it's not a name you'd normally hang on a woman, or a witch. But, you know, it's you. You better stick with it."
"It has not always been my name, as Spike has not been yours. Things sometimes come to us in unpredictable ways, taking on the power to shape the future."
"Christ, Ralph, do you always talk in mystical riddles? Cut the crap. And, mind you, I'm not even wanting to know how you know my name. Okay, so tell me, what's the story? How did you come by your name?" He didn't really care particularly about the history of her name or her insinuations about his. He just wanted to continue to rest in the quiet rocking of her voice.
She shifted her position so that she was sitting beside him, close enough that he could feel the subtle vibration of her heartbeat. Her voice seemed to rise from deep within, spinning a web of rhythmic sounds and hypnotic images. She talked of distant times, describing in rich detail an Africa of long ago. She spoke of her life as a young woman, strong and with the skills and nature of a warrior. And she told of how she had come to meet a strange and beautiful man.
"I was Raaeolaphogusia, strong and willful. Death was as familiar to me as my own hands, and I killed easily, with a hardness of heart and spirit. He appeared one day as if walking out of a dream. He stood before me, having traveled from far away in search of primal truths and powers. He called me Ralph, for short. It made him laugh, and caused me to smile. He was with a group of Englishmen, trudging through our parched plains, seeking what was not theirs to know or wield. The Elder of the village put it upon me to see that they found their way back, taking nothing with them but the laugh of hyenas. She failed to warn me of the blue of his eyes that would wash through me, leaving me as transparent and open as the sea. His foreignness melted away before me, to reveal a heart that beat with a passion as familiar and wild as my own. Through him I came to know a vein of strength that bends with the wind and weeps as easily as rivers flow. He released in me a gentleness of spirit that could embrace the sorrow and beauty of my being. We fell into a love for each other that bound us together until his death. I had been Raaeolaphogusia, the warrior of death, and became Ralph, the laughable and powerful witch who now brings you fresh blood and cigarettes. "
Spike felt young and small, like when his older sister had told him favorite fairytales to help him sleep at night. Images of a wild Africa and a fierce dark warrior danced around him.
And a tissue of sadness drifted across his heart. He released in me a gentleness of spirit that could embrace the sorrow and beauty of my being. He had wanted his love for Buffy to be as shining and deep. In the first movements of his soul's return he had been thrown into a pool of pure burning light. His spirit had become clear and bright as if he were made of sparkling glass, in awe of each molecule of existence. His heart had felt as if it had burst open and had been released of all yearnings except for one, to have her know this amazing purity of being, of love, his love for her.
His heart twisted into a dark knot of regret. Instead he had tried to possess her, claim her, make her his. He would have dragged her into the darkness of a soulless world and kept her his prisoner there, his own precious jewel, if she would have let him. Tears of despair gathered in his eyes. Slowly, he became aware that Ralph was watching him.
To break the pain of the moment, he asked "So, love, where does your little meeting with Dracula fit in here?"
Ralph continued to softly look into his eyes, and then looked away. She took a breath, then chuckled, "Yes, Dracula and I. Now, that's another story. You'll have to earn that one."
It might be worth it, he thought to himself. Not too many escaped Dracula's powers of enthrallment, let alone became the recipient of such an obnoxious gift as Drac. He hoped the pieces of his one and only t-shirt would give the bird a good case of constipation. Maybe it'd even be so painful a case as to shut its mouth for a while.
The witch, who had been quiet, said, "So, a love story lies rooted within my name. And your name—Spike—what lies within it? Does it speak the truth of who you are?"
He didn't have a quick comeback. Her question didn't bounce off him as it would have a week earlier. "Did, love. Fit me perfectly. Don't suppose things have changed. Let's leave it at that."
* * *
Within a couple of days he had most of his strength back, although he continued to experience frequent bouts of tremors, sometimes so bad he had to sit or lay down. Some lasted for hours, and others longer. At those times Ralph insisted that she work on him. She massaged his quaking muscles and murmured low sounding chants that soaked into his skin like snake oil. That usually didn't stop the shaking, only changed how it felt. At times it became moderately cathartic and an odd form of grounding, as if something was finding its way through him, tying him to the earth in the process.
He started to go for walks at night. The witch had asked him, in such a way as to be a command, not to go into the village. That was fine with him: he didn't have any pressing need to introduce himself to the locals. He didn't have any desire to pursue company of any kind. Ralph was not to be avoided, she made sure of that. Or he would have stayed clear of her too. Didn't want no one around him.
He tried to stop thinking when he was out roaming at night. Just wanted to be in his senses, in his predatory nature, alert to the hunt. But the thoughts wouldn't let him alone. Thoughts, memories, emotions. God, the emotions. He had forgotten how saturatingly unbearable those buggers could be. He had thought the pain he felt when he went to Anya for magics was excruciating—hell, that was a little bruise of a heartache compared to this. This was like his heart was torn in shreds and being marinated in acid. All he could see and hear were the thousands of people he had mutilated, tortured, or, hell, just said a cruel word to, for Christ's sake. The range of his history of brutality was laid out before him in all its horrors and mundaneness. No act of hurtful intent left out.
He could understand William's relief at his soul's departure. Not having a soul had been an amazing freedom and release. Those little creeping feelers of sensitivity worming their way about, picking up not only what he felt, but what everyone around him felt, had been a constant pain in the ass. William had an overabundance of those little suckers, with their accompanying commentary on right and proper thoughts and actions. As he sat hunched over, rocking against the piercing pain in his chest, he cursed himself for his stupidity and longed for the clear absence of the soul's knowing,
One morning he found himself gazing toward the half-closed door, the brilliant sunlight shimmering in like a neon light along the floor calling to him. It would be quick, easy. Just as he was about to move in that direction, he spotted Ralph watching him. She gave a sigh and came to where he stood. "That's not the way out. Not your way out. Someday your heart will leap into flames, as She bids. It will be a birth, not a death." She met his eyes in a steady gaze. "You can bear this." She motioned for him to lie down. She began massaging him in that way she had that felt like a moderate pummeling, and rubbed her stinky burning oils all over him, and chanted until his inner screams quieted into low moans, enough to bear.
Spike wept. Every night. When he felt he was far enough away from the witch and the village, just him and the hollow sound of the breeze, he wept. A black sorrow would soak through him and tears ran down his face like rain. Sometimes a dark rage would come over him like a thunderstorm and he would let out an anguished roar while cold tears continued to fall.
One night the Bit came to mind.
You wanna know what I'm scared of Spike?…I must be something so horrible, to cause so much pain and evil.
Rot.
What do you know?
I'm a vampire. I know something about evil. You're not evil.
Maybe I'm not evil. But I don't think I can be good…
Well, I'm not good. And I'm okay.
Gah, what a moron he was. Which was a good thing for Dawn in that moment. Well, I'm not good. And I'm okay. Made him feel like puking. Right. He was as fine as the guy next door. It was like there had been a barrier between him and full knowing of what he was, something that made his acts appear two dimensional like flat pieces of a dark puzzle. Between the two, a chip implant and a soulectomy, a vamp could dance through time like a fool thinking he was an alright guy, even a man, a man a Slayer could love.
Memories of her passed before him.
Her blond hair glowing in the moonlight as she bounced through the cemetery, a stake in her hand and a pun on her lips, just waiting for the right moment. The primal preciseness and speed of her athletic body when fighting, and her pleasure in it. The golden gloss of her hair fanned out across his chest as she slowly moved against him, her hands clenching his, while he whispered in her ear sweet obscenities. Her almost shy sideways glance, after biting and clawing him like a wild animal just moments earlier.
God, he loved her. Every bit of her. Every bitchy inch.
As soon as he had tasted her, the hunger had taken over. His desire for her had knocked all sense out of him and he had thrown himself into trying to possess her. Not that his love for her had been all that pure and unselfish before he had known the sweetness of her lips and breasts. But it had had a certain amount of honor to it, even a small element of self-sacrifice. Then she had reached for him. He didn't stop for a second to ponder or care if he was what she really needed. He had just taken, grabbed, and swaggered, the arrogant and desperate wanker he was.
What in the world caused her to touch him, to sleep with him? Yeah, he could shag, he knew those moves. But it took more than being good in the sack to catch the Slayer. How had he managed to fool himself? It wasn't him she had wanted. It was the vampire she had come for--that simple.
He had heard the stories. One being that the blood of a slayer was an aphrodisiac. Which was only partially true, from his experience, which he didn't want to think about. Another was that slayers were drawn to the energy of vampires and got off on it, especially sexually. That, he personally could say, may be true. The electric heat between them was like nothing he had ever felt before. When they were touching, moving against each other, an energy had formed that was so alive he could see it, like a subtle shimmering aura around her. She had come to life under his hands, as if she were lit by the sun. He had felt his essence flowing into her, wave after wave.
Like him, with his soul battering away at him, leaving him bruised and desperate inside, she had torn parts in her trying to heal, to find their way back into a wholeness. She had reached for him out of a primal need to feel alive again. He got that.
When he thought of her, a blanket of embarrassed shame and horror would overcome him. How could he have convinced himself that she loved him? And how, how, could he have tried to rape her to prove it?
A dizzying nausea had come over him that night as he saw her hurt on the bathroom floor. Back at his crypt, the memories of it had made him crazy. He had paced and cursed, and hadn't been able to make any sense of what he was feeling. He shouldn't have felt anything; he was a demon. But that he had hurt her caused him to feel an inner sickness that was foreign to him, and that he couldn't bear. He had pounded his fists against his head, making low groaning and whimpering sounds, like a wounded animal.
Then it had hit him. He wasn't capable of love. Without a soul, his feelings could only be a shadow of real love. He would always be acting out of passions ultimately grounded in darkness and pain.
That's when he had decided and it had caused him to rage and fight with himself all the way to Lurky's miserable cave. Every bit of him, except for the tiny burning red hole in his heart, had screamed against getting back his soul. But that small piece of burning passion had been insistent.
* * *
While on his evening wanderings, he had found a spot where he could sit to have a smoke and mindlessly watch the routine comings and going of the villagers.
Every night, shortly after sunset, a small group would head out into the surrounding plains led by a woman who had the posture and gait of a warrior. They would return every morning just before the sun came up. The ritual of it caught his curiosity with its feeling of familiarity.
Several times as he was silently roaming, going about his nightly ritual of trying to contain his torment and sort it out, he heard someone or something tracking him, staying only close enough to watch him. As he extended his senses, he could pick up the sound of a human heartbeat, and an energy that sent a quiet alarm through him. He tried to backtrack and sneak up on the creature, but he or she was too wily for that. Later, he asked Ralph what might be wandering the nights with him.
She let out a crusty laugh and said, "A curious and dangerous hunter, no doubt. A white-haired vamp with a soul is not the usual sight around here. You might want to be careful that you don't end up as somebody's prize catch."
Spike retorted with a bitterness that caught him off guard, "I'm no one's pet vamp, witch." Then he scoffed, "Just cuz I happened to come across a soul don't mean I'm not still dangerous, you old bint. I haven't had a good kill in awhile, and I was just wondering if what's hanging about out there might not be worth putting out the effort." He moved into a predator stance as he talked, taking on his seriously evil look, stopping just short of shifting into game face. But even to him, his words were like echoes falling through space, softly clunking to the ground from lack of passion. He had no desire to beat up, let alone kill, anything. Although he tried to convince himself a good fight was just what he needed to get the juices flowing again, he just didn't have the heart for it. Sides, what had been lurking about him at night was human and would only give him a bloody headache if he took it on. That's all he needed, a migraine on top of the shakes.
One evening it became clear to him that there was no reason for him not to be heading out. He was sitting on the earthen roof of the hut having a smoke, staring into the black night sky when she approached. Her movements had been soundless, but he had felt her energy ripple through him as she came close--the strange ancientness of it reminding him again of something he couldn't place.
"You are ready."
"For what, Ralph? I'm ready for what?" He understood what she meant, and the pain in his voice confirmed what she knew.
"Perhaps you are ready to know more of what you are."
The shaking had started again. "Sounds intriguing, Ralphina, but places to go and people to eat, that sort of thing." He hadn't told her about the chip, though he guessed that somehow she knew.
"Yes. Your new trembling soul is eager to tear throats open. I understand. If you can stop shaking long enough."
"You're a sarcastic and cruel old bitch, Ralph." Taking a deep drag off his cigarette and exhaling, he said quietly, "You know, don't you?"
"Yes. " She reached out and barely touched the back of his head with her fingertip. "I see the tiny electric web that pulses." She almost sounded sad. "Spike, there are many things I know about you. I know what has brought you here. I know what you seek. And it is more than a soul."
The shaking escalated until he was sure she could feel the vibration of it from where she sat on her heels a few feet from him. "Don't think I can handle much more than a soul, witch. As it is, I may have to nick some Prozac when I hit civilization."
"From what I have seen, you are not one to choose the easy ways, impatient one. Taking in a drifting soul is rather like swallowing the sun. It will burn right through you with a heat and brightness that most could not bear." She laughed softly, what almost sounded like a cackle. "And you reached right out and grabbed it, like a beautiful fool." She paused, then continued, "If you can contain the fire of your soul until it burns free, it will transform you in ways you cannot imagine."
"Right. I think that was exactly what I was after here, Ralph. Transformation. Although, I admit, I didn't think it all the way through. Since you seem to know all about me, you probably have a clue that I'm mad, like in out of my mind. Crazy in love. It's her that's burning through me like a wild fire. Had some thought that my getting a soul would make me capable of loving her the way I yearned to, the way she needed. That's what I was desperate for." Spike grew quiet as he softly added, "Hell, witch, I'm pretty sure I'm not much more capable of loving her any better than before. And I'm positive that a soul hasn't changed what I've been, or lessened the demon in me. Here I am, being fried from the inside out and wondering what's been the use of it all. It's as clear as the lack of a heartbeat in my chest that I'm the last thing she needs, ever, whether I love her well or not." He pulled out his flask, taking a swig of what little was left.
"There is a reason you are here, and not perhaps the one you think. There is much you might learn." She spoke with that deep wise voice again, the one that said more than the crisp of words that floated between them.
"Again with the mystic inferences. I am not thinking there's any reason I'm here, other than being dragged off by your Amazon minions. Don't remember being asked if I wanted the ride." He felt a need to throw out some snarkyness, just to reassure himself he still had it in him.
In truth, he wasn't eager to move on. Where would he go? He had thought of London, but couldn't get excited about wandering midst the drizzle and fog. He had no reason to return to Sunnydale. Buffy didn't need him--just the opposite. And Dawn would be better off without him. At the thought of Dawn, he felt a surge of tender and protective love well up in his chest, wrapped in the brittle veil of his betrayal.
He lay back, putting his hands behind his head, and sighed.
"What do you have in mind Ralph? "
* * *
As the ritual began, they sat across from each other, weighing the power between them. When face to face with the witch and her black seed-like eyes, Spike had a tendency to shrink inside, for which he overcompensated by moving into a casual slouch and putting on a penetrating gaze.
Normally the witch might make a sarcastic remark, nailing him with the obvious. It was part of what had caused him to begin to like being around her. He couldn't fool her—although he still occasionally made the effort just out of habit.
He continued to watch her as she moved deeper and deeper into trance, softly mumbling strange-sounding words and incantations. Her eyes became glassy and completely black, the way Red's did when she was into the magics. What was really scary, making the damp fogginess of London seem suddenly appealing, was her outfit. Her usual fluorescent colored halter-top and shorts had been replaced with a minimum of body coverage fashioned out of leopard skins. And instead of her mouthy parrot perched on her shoulder, she had on a headpiece made up of beads and feathers from the bird's relatives. She had covered her face and a large part of her leathery body with mud-based paint, adding dots and stripes of red, orange and white pigments here and there. In her hand she had a gourd and was shaking it in a rhythm that seemed to dance in tune to his own quaking bits.
Candles were lit and set around the room. Ralph had drawn a mandala with earth pigments on the ground between them and had placed an impressively large uncut amethyst in the center. Incense was spiraling around the dark chamber like a lost spirit. Faraway drumbeats and chanting drifted in upon the currents of night air.
Then she spoke.
"The body has healed. But the soul has not found rest in the heart of this vampire."
Slowly pronouncing each word, she poked her forefinger directly into the pale skin over his heart, causing a surge of sensation to burst open like a small fire, creating a sweet, sucking, pain. Taking refuge in her eyes, he surrendered to her will, which took him into a dark inner stillness.
"A vampire is a mysterious creature. Death's lover and companion, yet undying. A tender heart, the point of vulnerability."
Her words toyed with him, catching hold of places that made no sense. His eyes became lost in her face, which seemed as old as the sun.
"What love you possess, or, perhaps, unfortunate karma, to have earned the return of your soul, warrior. Now, you must find your innocence or you will divide into bitter, confused pieces."
Reaching behind her, she picked up something. Turning, she placed before him a cup formed out of a human skull. Noting that there had been a time he would have fancied such an object as a nice touch for the old crypt, he now only numbly observed that it held blood, with a thick black froth bubbling on top. The smell of the strange mix drifted up to his nostrils, mostly unidentifiable, except for the pungent scent of fresh blood. Placing the skull cup into his hand, and looking into his eyes, she whispered, "Trust me, poet."
Placing her right hand over his heart, she added, "Drink it slowly. It will bring Her to you."
Right. What did he have to lose?
Taking the skull cup and bringing it to his lips, he tasted the mix of blood and magics. A little bitter, but rich. Stopping mid-swallow, Spike looked up surprised, meeting the wise one's sharp black eyes, squinting with tender amusement. His body began dissolving softly, floating away through mental mists, while one clear question reverberated through his soggy mind: How had she come across the blood of a Slayer?