Title: In Diamond Light

Author: Ivytree

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc.

Feedback: Please!

Summary: How will Spike get from "B" to "A"?

Setting: After "Chosen."

In Diamond Light

Part Four

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"Buffy." Giles leaned his folded arms on the poolside bar, and looked seriously at his former charge. An oversized, coral-and-white striped beach umbrella shaded the countertop, reflecting an attractive blush onto her cheeks. The aqua-tiled, kidney-shaped pool itself stood empty in the blazing sun, but the city's electricity had been restored, and an assortment of drinkables chilled in a convenient refrigerator. "Do you plan to explain at all? Why have you brought us here?"

Buffy looked away, sipping a strawberry margarita through a straw. She wore a light flower-printed sundress, with her hair done up in two ponytails, and he thought, with some exasperation, that she looked about twelve years old—yet she remained steadfastly elusive about the impetus for this visit.

"I needed to see Angel," she said, enlightening him not at all. "Anyway, it worked out okay, didn't it? We've got money, clothes, and communications, right? When the others get here, we can research ourselves silly." Her hazel-green eyes glinted as she smiled and stretched. "Meanwhile, I'm gonna kick back. Is that all right with you?"

"But WHY did you need to see him? Angel, I mean," he said, refusing to be distracted. "Is it something to do with Spike?" Aha, he thought, as she quickly looked away. Apparently, she still didn't trust him on the subject of Spike. "Buffy—I'm willing to admit I might have been wrong about Spike."

"Gee—ya think?" Her tone was light, but her face hardened. "You mean, after he sacrifices everything he cared about, including his own existence, to save the world—including you—then you decide he might not be all bad?"

"Buffy, I said I'm sorry."

"No, you didn't." With a defiant slurp, she sucked the dregs of her drink through the straw.

Giles sighed. "Very well, then—I'm very sorry I doubted you regarding Spike. You were right, and I was, ah, wrong. Will that do?"

"Giles, this is not about me being right!" Buffy cried, slamming her glass down. "It's about HIM! Couldn't you see how he struggled? Couldn't you see how he fought to do what was right? Could any of the rest of us do what he did, of OUR own free will? How could you not believe in him?" Abruptly, she quieted, and looked down, twirling the straw between her fingers. "I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Are you still in love with him?" Giles couldn't imagine why he had popped out with such a question. Except that he wanted to know the answer quite badly.

Instead of ripping up at him, Buffy answered softly. "I love him. I'll always love him. He'll always be a part of me." She put one hand over her heart, and he saw with helpless tenderness that her eyes were full of tears. "But it doesn't matter anymore, does it?"

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"Soarra, soarra, soarra," Wesley intoned. He, Angel, Fred, Lorne, and Gunn sat on the floor outside the circle of flickering candles; Wes held the tattered red leather volume, and the Lirin Stone stood unobtrusively before him.

"Soarra, soarra, soarra," Angel, Fred, Lorne, and Gunn chanted in unison.

"Tiimo, tiimo, tiimo," Wes went on.

"Tiimo, tiimo, tiimo," the others dutifully repeated.

"Uram, uram, uram."

"Uram, uram, uram."

"Vikka, vikka, vikka."

"Vikka, vikka…"

"Vikko—I mean vikka. Darn! Sorry!" Fred gasped. Then she asked, in a stage whisper, "Is that okay? We don't need to start over, do we?"

"Man, I hope not, 'cause this is BORING," Gunn grumbled.

"Shhh!" Wesley frowned sternly. "May we proceed, please?"

"Yeah, only two more repetitions, guys, come on," Angels said.

"Now, where was I?" Wes turned over a page. "Ahem. Watti, watti, watti."

"Watti, watti, watti…"

In the sputtering candlelight, they plodded on through the pre-ordained ritual of transformation.

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As he rose and emerged from beneath the willow fronds, the assorted water birds spotted him. But instead of fleeing as he approached the edge of the pond, they made a beeline for the shore where he stood and paddled in place, looking up expectantly, quacking and honking. Suddenly he knew just what they wanted.

"Oops!" he said, automatically feeling his pockets (he wore jeans and nothing else) and holding out empty hands. "Sorry, chucks, I've nothing to give you."

Finally, to avoid what he couldn't help feeling were the reproachful eyes of the assembled fowl, he decided to stroll about the place a bit, to see what was what, and turned up the path to his right.

Enticing scents of earth and grass and spicy blossoms wafted on the breeze. He passed a border set with geraniums, marigolds, and larkspur, and their blazing crimson, gold, and cobalt almost seemed to sear his eyes. Sunlight washed down along his body, warm and caressing, and almost involuntarily he stretched his arms to the sides to take it all in.

He sauntered for what felt like hours, but felt no weariness, thirst, or hunger. Lovely vistas met his gaze wherever he turned—here a small bridge crossed a burbling brook; there a mighty oak spread its venerable branches wide. Soon, to his surprise, the voices of men, women, and children, chatting, laughing, and playing, drifted toward him from somewhere in the distance as he walked. He even heard the sporadic barking of dogs, and a horse's neigh. The intonations were somehow achingly familiar, and, pondering this, he realized with a considerable start that the voices he heard were English. He felt an odd reluctance to seek out these people, who or whatever they might be, and made his mind up to put that off until later. For now he was content—indeed, more content than he could remember being in his entire existence—to wander alone through the serene beauty that surrounded him.

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"Yicksi, yicksi, yicksi."

"Yicksi, yicksi, yicksi."

"Zohra, zohra, zohra."

"Zohra, zohra, zohra."

"There!" Wesley let out a slow breath, as the others sagged into postures of relaxation. "That bit's done."

"Wesley, honey, I'm sorry, but I really must say—this is the dullest ritual I've ever SEEN," Lorne complained. "Is the good part coming soon?"

"I'm not precisely sure that there IS a good part, exactly," Wes replied. "After the next few steps, the Codex becomes rather vague, in point of fact."

"What do you mean, vague?" Fred asked, her voice rising. "And, you know, I've been thinking—how do we know we DIDN'T conjure up, you know, a Zoth demon, or something bad? After all, we did make a few teensy little mistakes…"

Wesley sighed. "Yes, the 21st Century mind isn't really cut out for extended chant-based rituals, I must say. But I don't think a minor slip-up here or there matters."

"Well, I sure hope it doesn't, 'cause you're the one who said we didn't need weapons," Gunn pointed out.

"No, no, I'm quite certain we won't. At any rate, let's move on, shall we?"

"So what's next?" Angel said, staring inscrutably at the great diamond that lay in the center of the circle, winking in the candlelight.

"Now I perform the final incantation, and dispense the wine. Like so: Aibocedefigohaii-jokoleminaoapoquri-satauuviwixayaza!" With that, he poured the contents of the second paper cup over the Lirin Stone, and sat back, staring at it expectantly.

After a few moments, Lorne broke the silence, again. "You know, for sheer entertainment value, folks, I think I actually prefer watching floor wax dry. At least you get a nice, shiny…"

But all at once, he was hurled to the floor, as a tremendous peal of thunder cracked violently right over their heads, and the surface beneath them swayed and shimmied. All except Angel clapped their hands over their ears and recoiled against the din. A whirlwind formed within the chamber, slowly picking up speed as it buffeted against the windowless walls. From the corners of the room, lightening crackled and struck, again and again, at the Lirin Stone, now shimmering with kaleidoscopic colors. The sonorous rumbling sounded again, and a swirl of blinding, blue-white light flared into being in the center of the circle.

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Striding casually through a thicket of rose bushes, he saw that the lane he followed led over a small ridge, topped with a stand of graceful beeches, and disappeared down the other side. For some reason, the sight made him catch his breath.

A not-unpleasant sense of anticipation welled within his breast. Could it be—was someone waiting for him?

The closer he got to the little hill, the stronger the feeling became. Now he was certain that when he reached the other side, someone dear to him would be there to greet him. He quickened his pace.

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The floor bucked and trembled beneath them; they lay cowering, deafened by the wind and thunder, and made sightless by the dazzling glare. Only Angel had the strength to push himself up on his elbows, and even he could only look upon the uncanny whirlwind of brightness by shading his eyes.

After a few disorienting, interminable minutes of sheer noise, the gusts seemed to assume a sort of rhythm—there came a great whoosh, tossing their hair and clothes, and then a pause, and then another whoosh, and another pause. It was like being sniffed by some gigantic animal. The shuddering of the floor became more regular, too; but, dismayingly, it seemed to be speeding up with unstoppable momentum to some kind of climax. There was another tremendous lightening strike to the center of the circle, causing Angel to flinch away.

And then, shockingly, all sound and motion ceased.

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He proceeded toward the crest of the hill, utterly relaxed, his gaze lingering on the gentle beauties of the scene, when abruptly, he tumbled forward into blackness. He lost all sense of time and space, saw nothing but distant sparks of some kind, and heard nothing but a far-off gale.

"Bloody hell," Spike thought, irritated. After all, he was just getting accustomed to the place.

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TBC