---
Isolation
---
Buffy perched on the low garden wall, smelling the delicate jasmine blooms, listening to the muffled sound of traffic rushing by.
Dusk was settling over the city. Late summer breeze ruffled through her hair, and she watched the leaves running across the flagstones in little, random patterns, pulled about by the wind.
She rapped the delicate heel of her sandal against the wall. The silence of the hundreds of empty hotel rooms all around her filled her with a strange hollowness.
Angel didn't live here anymore. This was an empty, lifeless place. But when she'd called, he wanted to meet her here. She'd almost gotten the sense that he'd not wanted her to see where it was that he lived, now.
Here, it was silent. She tried to avoid silent spaces, it made her think. And thinking too much lead to more pain than she could bear. And it was supposed to be so easy now.
But she felt more alone than ever.
Chosen One. She could understand that grim reality. But who could she be now that she wasn't the One. wasn't anything at all. Just a fighter in an army.
But it wasn't true. She was a sister to a girl who was waiting for her back in Cleveland. Because in the end, that was where she went. She was bound to the mouth of hell, and that was the way it would always be. The First wasn't dead. It was alive everywhere, and it was waiting for another chance. And even if she wasn't the only Chosen, she knew these things better than anyone else ever could.
So she made it her duty, and it was a cold comfort to walk the streets of a city, anonymous. A predator. She'd kill as many vampires as she could, every night. Because it was her role. And even more hers, now, because it had not chosen her Not this time.
She'd chosen it. And she knew that choice was right.
She thought she might be growing up.
She breathed in the smell of the jasmine as the last sun faded from the sky, filling it with the blue haze of streetlamps and headlights, that showed no stars.
"Hey."
She turned. He was standing there, stoic and quiet in the archway. His hands were folded neatly, and he regarded her in distant way.
"Hey," she said, smiling a half smile to him from across the garden space.
And there was silence. She didn't know what to say. So she said what came to mind first.
"I'm sorry."
But it sounded weak.
"I'll survive," he responded, and there was something tired, something frosty in the tone. She glanced up, and saw through his minimalist, quiet words. He was barely holding it together. She had come here to help him, but now she wasn't sure if she could even stop the crumbling of his foundations.
Because it was for Cordelia she came. Because Willow had told her to come- Willow had called her from England, where she had gone to study further, to live, because she told her Cordelia had slipped away after a long, withering sleep.
"I think-I think you should go see Angel, talk to him," Willow had said, "Fred said she thought he was taking it real bad."
She didn't think it could possibly be as bad as Willow had made it sound, when she left. It was Cordelia. After all.
But then she remembered how things change, how people's roles shift so quickly and yet so subtlety that you hardly notice until it's too late.
Angel sat down on the stone, next to her. And suddenly, he was talking. He was being more open with her than he usually would allow himself, and his tone cracked with a strange intensity. He was always afraid of losing control. Now he seemed pushed to the edge, and falling.
"She." he started, "She was-she was. kind. she cared about the world. About life. She laughed-she laughed at so much at things. At my jokes."
Buffy smiled.
"Then she was a Saint."
He smiled back, and she saw the glisten of tears in his eyes. Somehow, the connection between them made it possible for her to feel a bit of what he was feeling. He plucked a sprig of jasmine, turned it in his fingers.
"She was brave. She. she grew. She chose. She really became something beautiful, Buffy. I think you would have liked her."
And she looked into his eyes, and she wasn't thinking about Cordelia at all.
"I think that's true." she whispered, softly.
"She didn't get much of a chance," he said, softly.
And it hit her.
"You loved her." she whispered. But there was no shock or jealousy in the tone. Just a quiet understanding.
He smiled.
"It was easy to, really."
And she touched his shoulder, squeezed it firmly. And they sat in silence for a long time, listening to the traffic, and the night sounds.
And when he spoke, it was with a warm, nostalgic fondness, and his eyes began to dry of those hints of tears.
"I love you," he said, with a quiet, gentle sincerity.
And Buffy's lips curved up just slightly, as she stood to go. For them, this was usually the best time to say goodbye. He reached out and their fingers brushed as she went to the archway.
"Buffy-" he said, swallowing something like pride and looking at her, almost awkwardly.
She turned.
"I'm sorry about-"
But he couldn't say the name. It wouldn't come.
"I'm sorry about what happened."
And something fragile welled in her a moment, before she turned away.
"Thank you," she said, quietly.
---
The crater had filled with ground water, forming a lake of eerie silence in this reclaimed wilderness.
The dross of daily life, rubble strewn out from that focused center point, gathered with algae beneath it all, blue with the shafts of sunlight permeating the unmoving water.
Covered in settled silt and growing things, a sign rested on the lake's floor. It welcomed the void to Sunnydale.
And nothing moved in the cold, airless space.
And in the center, where the man had stood, there was nothing. In the deepest depths of the water, everything had been pulverized to dust with the sheer power of the explosion. And the power was gone, now. Nothing of it seemed to remain.
But beneath this, in the very earth and living rock, something stirred.
A grain of gravel twisted, and beneath it the specks of dust floated upwards, pushing through the dirt, slowly, with twitching, uncertain jerks. And they pulled through, growing in speed and number.
They clouded the dim orb of the sun disk, barely visible above.
And in the flurry, they whirled through the water, gaining a current, rippling in a circle in the shadowed space.
The calm of the sunlit surface began to quiver and shake, although the wind was still.
And below, the grains of dust, near invisible alone began to coalesce into the arching foot bones, speeding about in circles, building on each other and reforming into blood and the veins that cleaved firm to those bones like vines on mortar. And rising up from the ground, the earth formed him like the first man.
His face formed into an elated smile, head thrown back in laughter. And as he formed, his eyes snapped open.
He choked on the water, thrashed back with disoriented shock. Water rushed into his lungs, and they burned with the flow.
He gagged, rolled back and saw the light above.
He remembered the glow, the surrounding of light. It was all that was in his mind, he had been in it-been one with it for so long. He had to get back.
He pulled himself up, the soundless cold weight of the water dulling his senses. The world was the pain in his throat and chest, and struggling to get back to the gentle, gleaming wonder of it.
And suddenly, the word `Effulgent' leapt up in his mind, and he didn't remember what it meant. Something. something connected to a sound. or a feeling. before. Was there something before?
And the cold pressure broke above him and he was surround in gleaming brilliance. It hurt his eyes as he instinctually gasped for the air that felt thin and empty in his lungs.
This wasn't right. this wasn't right.
And when the world came into focus around him-the empty expanse of water and the dry, desolate, brush-strewn shoreside-it all came back. It all came crashing back. Everything.
Faces. Places. Blood.
His limbs went slack with shock, and his face sank beneath the water with sudden speed. It burned in his nostrils and he immediately struggled his way back up.
And he treaded water, alone, staring out into the crater he had made. A tiny figure in the glaring noonday sun.
---
Buffy perched on the low garden wall, smelling the delicate jasmine blooms, listening to the muffled sound of traffic rushing by.
Dusk was settling over the city. Late summer breeze ruffled through her hair, and she watched the leaves running across the flagstones in little, random patterns, pulled about by the wind.
She rapped the delicate heel of her sandal against the wall. The silence of the hundreds of empty hotel rooms all around her filled her with a strange hollowness.
Angel didn't live here anymore. This was an empty, lifeless place. But when she'd called, he wanted to meet her here. She'd almost gotten the sense that he'd not wanted her to see where it was that he lived, now.
Here, it was silent. She tried to avoid silent spaces, it made her think. And thinking too much lead to more pain than she could bear. And it was supposed to be so easy now.
But she felt more alone than ever.
Chosen One. She could understand that grim reality. But who could she be now that she wasn't the One. wasn't anything at all. Just a fighter in an army.
But it wasn't true. She was a sister to a girl who was waiting for her back in Cleveland. Because in the end, that was where she went. She was bound to the mouth of hell, and that was the way it would always be. The First wasn't dead. It was alive everywhere, and it was waiting for another chance. And even if she wasn't the only Chosen, she knew these things better than anyone else ever could.
So she made it her duty, and it was a cold comfort to walk the streets of a city, anonymous. A predator. She'd kill as many vampires as she could, every night. Because it was her role. And even more hers, now, because it had not chosen her Not this time.
She'd chosen it. And she knew that choice was right.
She thought she might be growing up.
She breathed in the smell of the jasmine as the last sun faded from the sky, filling it with the blue haze of streetlamps and headlights, that showed no stars.
"Hey."
She turned. He was standing there, stoic and quiet in the archway. His hands were folded neatly, and he regarded her in distant way.
"Hey," she said, smiling a half smile to him from across the garden space.
And there was silence. She didn't know what to say. So she said what came to mind first.
"I'm sorry."
But it sounded weak.
"I'll survive," he responded, and there was something tired, something frosty in the tone. She glanced up, and saw through his minimalist, quiet words. He was barely holding it together. She had come here to help him, but now she wasn't sure if she could even stop the crumbling of his foundations.
Because it was for Cordelia she came. Because Willow had told her to come- Willow had called her from England, where she had gone to study further, to live, because she told her Cordelia had slipped away after a long, withering sleep.
"I think-I think you should go see Angel, talk to him," Willow had said, "Fred said she thought he was taking it real bad."
She didn't think it could possibly be as bad as Willow had made it sound, when she left. It was Cordelia. After all.
But then she remembered how things change, how people's roles shift so quickly and yet so subtlety that you hardly notice until it's too late.
Angel sat down on the stone, next to her. And suddenly, he was talking. He was being more open with her than he usually would allow himself, and his tone cracked with a strange intensity. He was always afraid of losing control. Now he seemed pushed to the edge, and falling.
"She." he started, "She was-she was. kind. she cared about the world. About life. She laughed-she laughed at so much at things. At my jokes."
Buffy smiled.
"Then she was a Saint."
He smiled back, and she saw the glisten of tears in his eyes. Somehow, the connection between them made it possible for her to feel a bit of what he was feeling. He plucked a sprig of jasmine, turned it in his fingers.
"She was brave. She. she grew. She chose. She really became something beautiful, Buffy. I think you would have liked her."
And she looked into his eyes, and she wasn't thinking about Cordelia at all.
"I think that's true." she whispered, softly.
"She didn't get much of a chance," he said, softly.
And it hit her.
"You loved her." she whispered. But there was no shock or jealousy in the tone. Just a quiet understanding.
He smiled.
"It was easy to, really."
And she touched his shoulder, squeezed it firmly. And they sat in silence for a long time, listening to the traffic, and the night sounds.
And when he spoke, it was with a warm, nostalgic fondness, and his eyes began to dry of those hints of tears.
"I love you," he said, with a quiet, gentle sincerity.
And Buffy's lips curved up just slightly, as she stood to go. For them, this was usually the best time to say goodbye. He reached out and their fingers brushed as she went to the archway.
"Buffy-" he said, swallowing something like pride and looking at her, almost awkwardly.
She turned.
"I'm sorry about-"
But he couldn't say the name. It wouldn't come.
"I'm sorry about what happened."
And something fragile welled in her a moment, before she turned away.
"Thank you," she said, quietly.
---
The crater had filled with ground water, forming a lake of eerie silence in this reclaimed wilderness.
The dross of daily life, rubble strewn out from that focused center point, gathered with algae beneath it all, blue with the shafts of sunlight permeating the unmoving water.
Covered in settled silt and growing things, a sign rested on the lake's floor. It welcomed the void to Sunnydale.
And nothing moved in the cold, airless space.
And in the center, where the man had stood, there was nothing. In the deepest depths of the water, everything had been pulverized to dust with the sheer power of the explosion. And the power was gone, now. Nothing of it seemed to remain.
But beneath this, in the very earth and living rock, something stirred.
A grain of gravel twisted, and beneath it the specks of dust floated upwards, pushing through the dirt, slowly, with twitching, uncertain jerks. And they pulled through, growing in speed and number.
They clouded the dim orb of the sun disk, barely visible above.
And in the flurry, they whirled through the water, gaining a current, rippling in a circle in the shadowed space.
The calm of the sunlit surface began to quiver and shake, although the wind was still.
And below, the grains of dust, near invisible alone began to coalesce into the arching foot bones, speeding about in circles, building on each other and reforming into blood and the veins that cleaved firm to those bones like vines on mortar. And rising up from the ground, the earth formed him like the first man.
His face formed into an elated smile, head thrown back in laughter. And as he formed, his eyes snapped open.
He choked on the water, thrashed back with disoriented shock. Water rushed into his lungs, and they burned with the flow.
He gagged, rolled back and saw the light above.
He remembered the glow, the surrounding of light. It was all that was in his mind, he had been in it-been one with it for so long. He had to get back.
He pulled himself up, the soundless cold weight of the water dulling his senses. The world was the pain in his throat and chest, and struggling to get back to the gentle, gleaming wonder of it.
And suddenly, the word `Effulgent' leapt up in his mind, and he didn't remember what it meant. Something. something connected to a sound. or a feeling. before. Was there something before?
And the cold pressure broke above him and he was surround in gleaming brilliance. It hurt his eyes as he instinctually gasped for the air that felt thin and empty in his lungs.
This wasn't right. this wasn't right.
And when the world came into focus around him-the empty expanse of water and the dry, desolate, brush-strewn shoreside-it all came back. It all came crashing back. Everything.
Faces. Places. Blood.
His limbs went slack with shock, and his face sank beneath the water with sudden speed. It burned in his nostrils and he immediately struggled his way back up.
And he treaded water, alone, staring out into the crater he had made. A tiny figure in the glaring noonday sun.
---