Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth
Nominated at Round 31 of the Sunnydale Memorial Awards for:
Best Unfinished Fic, Best Characterization, Best Drama, Best Plot, and Best New Author.
Distribution: No posting elsewhere without express permission please.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Chapter 2. Not in Old Heroic Traces
I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.
I'll walk where my own nature would be leading:
It vexes me to choose another guide:
Where the gray flocks in ferny glens are feeding;
Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.
What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?
More glory and more grief than I can tell:
The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling
Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.
- From "Stanzas", by Emily Brontë
When he ran out of liquor in his crypt, even depleting his backup stash and his impending-apocalypse stash, a reasonable vampire might've said, "Enough is enough," and moved onto the next stage of grief that did not involve attempts at alcohol poisoning. Spike, who ranked "reasonable" much like he did "mediocrity"-the most despicable condition in life and unlife-beat on heedlessly, back set deliberately against reason. Having never done anything by halfsies, he simply switched the drinking to Willy's, his one-man pity party in tow.
"You're not welcome here!" the snitch shrieked, right before bolting out the back door. Might've had something to do with the look of murder in Spike's eyes, not to mention past history. No blood and no sleep except for bouts of passing out cold with nothing for company but bottles of Jack Daniels for how many days now. He smelled bad and looked worse-like a walking skeleton incorrectly assembled and painted by a Jackson Pollock-wanna-be in blood.
He helped himself to a top-shelf bottle of scotch, trusting his nose and not bothering to read the label, and proceeded to take an extended swig, foregoing the poncy rocks glass altogether. With the good part of a bottle lubricating his bones, he shook his shoulders loose and cracked his neck, surveying the bar for a worthy opponent or six to pound into the ground. Couldn't save anybody on a promise, but in maiming and killing, he always hit the mark, even three sheets to the wind. Which, given his vamp constitution, took real commitment.
A trio of Fyarl demon too big for the rear booth they occupied caught his eye. Curiously, the demons were, in turn, swirling, sniffing, and sipping from glasses of red wine, only to spit it back out in a lethal, mucusy projection. Fyarls doing wine tasting? Now he'd seen everything.
"Hey, ugly!" Spike shouted in his best Fyarl, his words just slurred enough to approximate the guttural sounds the language called for. The beasts' heads swiveled to him in a synchronized fashion, confusion quickly giving way to fury.
"Yeah, you lot! You poncy, nancy wankers and-oh, a lady Fyarl! Well, you miserable troll-smelling tart! You empty-headed animal food trough wipers! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!" [1]
That achieved the desired effect. A wine glass flew past Spike's head accompanied by a growl, just before the head-honcho Fyarl, flanked by his buddies, ran at him, full speed. In the few seconds before impact, his head cocked back, Spike bounced on the balls of his feet, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Bring it on!"
It was silly, really, sneaking around in her own house. But Dawn was good at it, the sneaking around, like a special agent on a recon mission. Actually, it was more like a scared kid running for her security blanket, but the other thing sounded cooler in her head. Plus she was tired of pretending to be better for Willow and Tara's sake. Everyone said it was not her fault, that she must not blame herself. But she knew better. Duh. Also, not everyone, because everyone hadn't been by the house since Buffy died; just Willow and Tara. Did they, like, move in or something? Weird. Weird but good. For the most part. She definitely did not want to be alone in this big house all by herself right now.
Truth be told, Dawn was slightly apprehensive of the witches. She didn't trust the knowing looks they shared when they thought she wasn't looking, the awkward prodding with the twenty questions to make sure she was OK (and she was decidedly NOT OK, and not gonna be, never ever). She didn't trust the spells that they (Willow more than Tara) secretly muttered under their breaths, and the medicine-y herbal tea they kept making her drink before bed. She also didn't trust their sunny disposition with the forced cheerfulness, and the sisterly affection so close to her real sister's passing that it felt as fake as the Bot, a betrayal to Buffy's memory.
She had hoped to dream of Buffy-People do, right, don't they, after someone's...gone?-especially since she thought little else during the day. Consumed by guilt and grief and fear in her waking hours, she found it blatantly suspicious that her nights since Glory's tower had been uniformly calm and dream-free. Not a single nightmare. Not even cryptic, nonsensical, or ordinary dreams. Shyeah. Had to be magic.
She wished someone else would come by. It was so quiet in the last week. She hadn't seen Giles or Xander or Anya or even Spike since Glory's tower. She'd heard phone calls, whispers in the early mornings and late nights, as if she didn't know they were discussing her-but still. Were they avoiding her on purpose?
Maybe she shouldn't have been surprised, because they were ever only Buffy's Watcher, Buffy's friends, and Buffy's not-a-boyfriend. She was just the dumb little sister, the hanger-on that they had to put up with to be near Buffy. Because Buffy was cool, Buffy kicked ass, and Buffy always saved the day. But beyond that, Buffy was her security blanket, her safety net, her family. It was only as her little sister that she had knew any of them. Only because of Buffy had she been made real.
With that thought, she crept into Buffy's room and silently locked the door behind her.
There had been one tense moment early on, when Dawn had marched into the kitchen one morning with purpose. Catching the witches flirting under the pretense of making pancakes, she threw the announcement in their faces that Buffy's room was not to be touched under any circumstance. The "or else" part was unsaid but seemed to have knocked Willow back like an elephant that had stormed the room.
Dawn's one triumphant moment as an authority figure with one defiant command, came as rather a shock to Willow, who had always viewed Dawn as a helpless-therefore easily commandeered-little kid. The youngster had no intention to challenge Willow's freshly-installed status, in light of her sister's passing, as the new boss. Neither did she bother, however, to consider just how her one careless teenage act of rebellion might be interpreted by an easily bruised ego unfamiliar with the tactics of a bratty younger sibling; how hostile her territorial claim might seem to the pair of her late sister's friends who, out of concern for her, borrowed shelter under her roof.
She meant Willow no harm, really really. Okay, she might've, just for a teeny tiny bit, relished watching the Not-a-Sister rendered speechless and clearly uncomfortable in the skirmish. But that was only because lately the witch seemed to always have a ton to say to her, and none of which what she wanted to hear.
As if unsure of her own reaction, Willow had kept trying to catch Tara's eye, much to Dawn's satisfaction. But the latter readily agreed to Dawn's request without fuss, and switched without a second thought onto an inquiry regarding how many pancakes Dawn would like for breakfast.
At any rate, everything about the room remained the same: Buffy's clothes spilt out of her closet. Buffy's cosmetics littered the top of her dresser. Buffy's weapons chest (the one with her favorite weapons she didn't like storing, out of reach, in the living room chest) poked out from under the bed. Buffy's stuffed animals stood to attention in a row, next to Buffy's favorite photos, including one featuring the two sisters in identical poses that Dawn had always thought cheesy beyond all get-out.
She grabbed Mr. Gordo and slipped into Buffy's bed, burrowing deeper under the covers to fend off the shudders. When she closed her eyes, she imagined that her sister was still there. In fact, they had just stayed up too late chatting and hanging out in her room, instant slumber party-style, using pillows to muffle their outbursts of laughter so as not to make Mom any wiser. As Dawn had gotten drowsier and drowsier and still stubbornly rejected going to bed, Buffy gently scooted her down the bed and tucked her in beside herself.
If she kept her eyes very tightly closed and refused to acknowledge the tears that were trickling down her face now to land on Buffy's pillow below with a barely audible "tap," "tap," "tap," she could imagine her sister falling asleep next to her under the same blanket. They would wake up tomorrow morning to Mom's yummy breakfast: eggs sunnyside up in a smiley face like Dawn always liked and Buffy always pretended she was too old for, crunchy toast coated in melted butter, and a tall glass of juice-two parts orange, one part grapefruit-for Buffy, milk for Dawn. If she could just hold on to those thoughts as she drifted towards sleep, she thought, then it wouldn't matter if she had no dreams of Buffy, no dreams at all. She was next to her, where she belonged, safe and soundly asleep, and everything was going to be all right.
"I think Dawn has been sneaking into Buffy's room to sleep again," Willow tattled to Giles on speakerphone. Tara frowned at the hint of recrimination in Willow's voice. They were there as her family, not her prison guards. Why did Willow's word choice sound so...accusatory?
There was a pause, then came back Giles' weary reply, "Why do you suppose she feels the need to sneak into Buffy's room, as opposed to doing so in the open?"
That was clearly not the response Willow had expected. "Well, obviously, she's grieving in a not-entirely-healthy way, and-"
"Willow, my dear, in all of my years, I have yet to find a way to grieve that is entirely healthy."
Willow sulked. It almost sounded as if Giles was annoyed with her, and all she'd ever done was care. If she gave off the impression of encroaching upon the teen's privacy by monitoring her activities in her own house, using a truth or tracking spell here and there, it was done purely out of concern for Dawn. For her own protection. For her own good. She was trying so hard to stand in for the sister Dawn lost, out of love for the grieving teen. It wasn't anything serious or sinister. Her hard effort wouldn't have been necessary if Dawn just shared with her willingly.
Getting nothing but silence, Giles continued, "She has suffered unimaginable losses at a difficult age, losing her only family-her mother and her sister-within months of each other. She has the unfortunate fate to have witnessed, in the most traumatic and bizarre way only possible on the Hellmouth, said sister sacrifice herself in order to save her. This, within the same year she discovered that she originated from a mystical energy acting as a dimensional Key, and had been made human only recently, by a secret order of monks. Given the plethora of alarming behaviors you have not mentioned in association with Dawn, which would be easily conceivable under these trying circumstances, I rather think that she is adjusting remarkably well, and is resilient beyond her years. Would you...agree?"
Willow stared at the telephone handset dumbly. How did Giles end up lecturing her about Dawn when she was the one taking care of her, baking fun-time cookies and renting bonding movies and suggesting retail therapy trips to the mall? All while the Slayer-less Watcher watched...what, exactly?
"Y-yes, Mr. Giles. Dawn...is adjusting. I think she just needs more time." Tara filled the silence, and nudged Willow to say something. Willow's lips parted, but no sound came out.
"And time she shall have, Tara." A mirthless chuckle. "Some days I rather think time is all we have." With that, the conversation came to an end.
Willow whirled on her girlfriend. "I don't think Dawn is doing all that well. Otherwise we wouldn't need to be here, taking care of her. I could've used a little backup in front of Giles, Tara."
"Mr. Giles isn't wrong, Willow. I think we may have been pushing her too hard"-Tara considered her words carefully-"with the well-meaning distraction strategy."
"Well-meaning…?" Willow parroted, her mind going a mile a minute. Tara couldn't be saying what she thought she was saying, right? "Well-meaning" sounded like the kind of thing you said when things weren't working out, as in, Oh well, at least she meant well. But it was working. She was doing a great job being in charge, and of course, taking care of Dawn.
"But it is working! She hardly cries anymore, and she no longer shuts herself in her room all day."
Except, Tara thought, she's hiding her tears while she's hiding from us in Buffy's room. But Willow didn't need a direct confrontation; she needed understanding and love. She was mourning her best friend, and had sought to cope by playing the mother hen to Dawn's reluctant baby chick, hiding her own pain behind an otherwise irrational need to see the teen's previous liveliness restored lickety-split. Much like snapping your magic fingers together or casting a spell.
Tara smiled kindly, the image of an indulgent mother humoring a kid having a temper tantrum. "We can't have it both ways, Will. Either she's not doing well and needs more help than we're qualified to provide, or this arrangement is working and she just needs us to trust her to be able to deal in her own time."
"Besides," she added, seeing that Willow had absentmindedly started to chew on a strand of hair, "she's only sixteen. They're unpredictable at that age under the best circumstances. Remember?" She bumped shoulders with her girlfriend with a teasing raise of an eyebrow. "It wasn't so long ago."
Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, Willow reached for her girlfriend's hand, so warm in her lap. "How come you are so wise, with the unflustered eloquence?"
That made Tara blush and her heart fluster. She bought herself a few seconds by covering their joined hands with her free hand. "Oh, Willow. If I'm wise, it's because you lend weight to my opinions. If I'm eloquent, it's because you gave me a voice."
At that, all the morning's unpleasantness with Giles melted away from Willow's mind.
No eyes but clarity of vision, casting the now backward and onward-
No sound but lifted the belljar of silence, of words held back, of thoughts unframed-
No form but cradled in warmth, wrapped in love and immersed in peace-
If there is a body, there's no more vigor to sustain, no more injuries to bear, no more time-laden doom of wear-and-tear to defend, no more frailties that shackle and bind-
If there is reason, there's no reason to be, no rousing bugle or cries of battle, no instruments of destruction to wield and inflict, no nectar of victory to soothe the sorest defeat-
No more power, no more strength, no more Calling, no more, no more-
There is much to gain in the loss, no loss at all; its burden a relief, a Gift now for another, any other-
Is there...an I? A Buffy?
My senses stretch to fill all time and space, looking for an edge to caress-
Yet infinite is my release-
Infinite is my release.
Anya tossed the calculator carelessly back into the drawer and bumped it shut with an economic swing of her hips. She had sought to cheer herself up from the lull in the Magic Box by going over last month's accounting and by losing herself in the eternal elegance of arithmetics. The tradition of bookkeeping was just gaining popularity among merchants when she was a child, so long ago, using Greek numerals that took up a lot of parchment and ink that blackened the fleshy part of her hand when she brushed against it too soon. The simple, dependable rules of addition and subtraction had fascinated her then, in a harsh life where survival was, at best, uncertain; they always infused her with nostalgia now, in a world so different yet no less belligerent.
Presently they failed her, though through no fault of their own. Last month was a wash at best, what with all the store closures she'd had to endure while they alternatively fled from then pursued Glory. The sum from the receipts were so meager, she hadn't needed the calculator, and that was before carrying forward the amortized charges from the last round of repairs. Why the battleground had had to be her store she could not understand. Well, it wasn't her store yet, but it was only a matter of time, right? Giles would be summoned by the Watchers Council and reassigned any day now.
Her forehead creased with thoughts of the future. Everyone around her avoided discussions of the days ahead like the plague, as if wallowing in the past would stop the eternal march of time, as if living in denial would bring Buffy back. Her death was sad, no doubt about it, but it was a good death, a warrior's death.
The vengeance demon in her understood this. What hadn't she seen in her thousand-plus-year tenure? Kingdoms crumbled. Dynasties fell away. People died all the time, some for noble causes, some for no good reason at all. Some, quite a few, died at her hands, but only because they deserved it-she had a code, after all. She might've started a war or two, inadvertently, of course. She had survived the actual plague, twice. She had borne witness to plenty of death and destruction of human origin. It was the circle of life. Buffy had been called for the protection of this world, her Slayer's power but a loan and a mark of her sacred duty, until death. She fulfilled it with valor and determination. It had been a worthy, well-lived life.
So all this weeping and moping irked her. It was no way to honor a Slayer. They should be living their lives, not mourning her passing. Buffy understood that the sum of the collective values of ordinary lives exceeded that of an extraordinary hero. Like the penny drive Anya had done for the Sunnydale Humane Society, each penny so insignificant that sometimes even those not making a purchase would dig through their pockets and purses to donate one or five. Yet together, they added up to something meaningful. Such as warm and well-fed puppies.
There was no point in ruminating, brooding over could-haves and should-haves. That way lay vengeance, and now that she'd washed her hands clean of the whole business, she didn't want to end up on the wrong side of that exchange. Or see her friends end up there.
Friends. Were they her friends now? She thought of Willow and Tara and Giles and Dawn. Of Willow's open hostility and Tara's shyness and Giles' reserved judgement and Dawn's self-absorbed teenage rebellion. They were Xander's friends, and since she and Xander were engaged to be married, by California law she'd own half of their allegiance, right? Turning human had meant losing her demon friends, with the exception of a few close to her heart, whom she'd known for centuries. Throwing her lot in with the Slayer had been an act of love and loyalty, more for Xander than anything or anyone else. But now, even those few gave her a wide berth, preferring to steer clear of her path. What did that leave her, exactly? And who was she these days?
Anya found being human much harder than extracting vengeance from humans. The rules of communication and social interactions Xander kept throwing at her, with abstract and slippery words like tact and finesse and appropriateness, were more like rules of un-communication and un-interaction, because they invariably translated to not saying things on her mind (such as praising Xander's sexual prowess to his friends) and not doing things she thought were helpful (such as asking to assist shoppers to spend their money in the Magic Box). She was only making sure that her boyfriend felt appreciated and that her customers left happy. She couldn't see what was so wrong about either.
She swept aside thoughts of a confusing sort, and focused on planning ahead. That was something practical and tangible she could tackle. She was getting married! She couldn't help squealing with delight. There was so much to do, so much to decide, that it was absolutely exhilarating! Wedding planning is going to be one of the best things about being human; she just knew it.
And Giles leaving...would make her a sole proprietor, at least in practice. Giles might prefer to hold on to the partnership on paper-old Watcher-types always dragged their feet when it came to change-but she was okay with that. Sole proprietor! She threw her head back in pride as she rolled the words off her tongue, savoring them. That was what she was, a businesswoman in charge. She liked the sound of that.
The bell rang and Anya looked up to see Giles shuffle through the front door, his face unreadable. Well, even more so than usual. Did he use a mirror to practice this look of vague disapproval mixed with mild concern? It seemed like it'd be a hard look to master.
"Look who decided to show up to work today!" Anya said, by way of greeting. Not that she couldn't handle the store on her own, but she had work ethics. She'd worked for over a thousand years, and expected partners to pull their weight.
Giles didn't react, taking away Anya's ammunition. "Yes…" Slowly, as if the thoughts were still forming, he said, "I wonder if I may-" he gestured for the backroom.
Anya snapped to attention and followed Giles to the backroom, trying hard to suppress a smile. Sole proprietor! Sole proprietor! A chorus was going off in her head, which made the smile-suppressing difficult.
Giles waited until they were both seated, with the desk between them, before he offered, "Surely you will have guessed that I won't be remaining in Sunnydale long."
Bingo! Anya's eyes lit up. She had been waiting for this conversation. She was ready for this. She was going to nail it like the promotion it was, nail it with a decisive stab of a pin at just that vulnerable place, and watch it wriggle and writhe helplessly until it ceased struggling. She was born ready.
Xander nervously plucked a yellowing leaf off of the bouquet of red roses in his hands as he rounded a corner, the Magic Box's lit sign beckoning from a mere block away. The bouquet had looked beautiful, effortlessly arranged in the florist's vase, but now, cellophaned against his callused hands, it looked fragile and awkward. He didn't much like the thought of giving something that would die in just a few short days as a symbol of his love, but he knew Anya would perk up at freshly cut flowers.
Personally, he preferred potted plants, something sturdy and self-sustaining and whole, with roots and everything. He liked the idea of taking care of something that would thrive in return, especially on the Hellmouth. Sadly, he'd never been much of a gardener beyond supplying the hardware. A wooden planter or raised garden bed, now that was something he could sink his tools into. See, most people didn't realize, but the secret of a well-constructed multi-level raised garden bed was-
He cut that thought short and forced himself to rehearse, once more, the sort-of-a-speech he had prepared and practiced. Anya looked so hurt during dinner last night, when he had zoned out for just a second to fret about Buffy's funeral. Her accusation had not been groundless; Xander realized, holding the shaking form of his tearful fiancee in his arms, that he had been neglecting her, at least emotionally. Hence the flowers, bought and to be delivered in person with a heart-felt apology on his morning break. And that wasn't even his trump card: dinner reservation for two in a booth, at Ristorante Venezia at seven o'clock tonight. The town had been all abuzz with news of its hot grand opening, and to recommend it further, the Sunnydale Herald had just reviewed it as the best Italian restaurant in town. Anya was going to be thrilled.
Although it had never occurred to Xander to walk away, he had to admit that being the Slayer's friend had been a full-time job. Whittling stakes, repairing furniture, planning strategies, diving into demon research, even jumping into the fights. During what he'd come to think of as apocalypse season on the Hellmouth-late spring to early summer, every year-it'd turn into a 24/7 gig. He had no time for outside friends or other hobbies. Consequently, he had no outside friends or other hobbies. He wouldn't even have time to date, if he hadn't brought Anya into the Scooby gang.
That was the good and the bad. Outside work, he and Anya were always together, sure, but it was never about them. Buffy, whenever she was around, was always the center of gravity, pulling everyone else off orbit to rotate around her instead. As for the emotional side…cowabunga! Always heavy, full-forced and head-on, draining him like a-a 12-volt dual-speed cordless drill drains rechargeable batteries. He cursed under his breath at the thought of dying batteries while under a deadline. The day, the very day lithium-ion batteries made it to drills, he was going to-
All right, all right. Enough tool talk. There were more pressing issues at hand. Pausing outside the Magic Box to collect himself, he thought, here goes nothing. Just as he was about to push the door open, he heard Giles' voice, sounding weary and defeated, "...I won't be remaining in Sunnydale long."
Xander withdrew his hand. Giles was leaving? With everything unsettled and messed up and crazy and the Hellmouth unguarded-and holy moly that's a scary thought, right when they needed adult supervision from a real adult-the kind that understood responsibility and exhibited emotional maturity, not just the kind barely of legal drinking age-he was going to pull a John Lennon and break up the Scoobies?
~ ~ To be Continued ~ ~
Author's Note:
Some of Spike's taunts directed at the Fyarls originate from the movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Spike references Monty Python several times on the show. Clearly, he's a fan.
