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 3: On the Shore of the Wide World

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

— "When I Have Fears", by John Keats


"Surely you will have guessed that I won't be remaining in Sunnydale long."

Anya could hardly contain her excitement. She knew how to interview for a position she was more than qualified to handle: deliver short, action-filled sentences with plenty of confidence and enthusiasm. "I can handle the store on my own, Giles. My skills are more than a match for the task. You've witnessed how I've been able to turn this store around and make it profitable. Now I may have to hire someone to help me move heavy inventory and mind the store while I take care of the accounting," Anya thought out loud. "But don't worry. Without having to pay you, which requires a co-owner's salary, the cash flow will actually improve." Having given Giles that piece of good news, Anya beamed at Giles and waited for him to cheer up.

Instead, he let out a mirthless chuckle. Softly, almost too softly for Anya to hear, he said, "Apparently, I'm even less needed than I thought." Then louder and more determined, "Very well. To help smooth the transition, I will notify the suppliers I've been handling and give you an introduction. You're more than welcome to contact me, of course, should the occasion arise that I may be of assistance."

Anya waved away that thought like an annoying gnat. "Oh, I'll be fine, Giles. Quit dithering." She thought she should nail down the exact terms of their partnership before Giles left, since it would directly affect budgets and profits—but later. Right now, she wanted to appear confident and authoritative, as if she had all the answers in the world and nothing could ever faze her.

Giles looked rather hurt, which confused Anya, who was doing everything to put Giles' mind at ease. Then she remembered reading an article on small talk, which someone with a lot of titles behind his name had called "the thread of social fabric." It had sounded like the kind of thing Xander would want her to learn. Anya resolved to tame the thread with a firm but surprisingly enlightened system of reward and punishment and become the best weaver she could be. She would master it until it rolled over obediently, exposed its soft belly, and called her Boss. She dutifully prompted Giles with the small talk, "When's your departing flight?"

"Eh…" Giles sputtered, "I uhm—that is to say, I haven't exactly settled on a date yet. You see, Buffy's funeral—"

"Oh, right! Tomorrow at sundown," Anya supplied helpfully. "Of course you wouldn't leave until after Buffy's funeral."

"Quite right." Giles looked as if he was struggling to come up with something else to say, which pleased Anya. She had seen another conversation come to a successful conclusion, like closing a sale. Well done! She mentally patted herself on the back.


A sudden crash from the front of the store cut short Giles' effort to inject a new topic into their dying conversation and instead, brought it to a premature end. Anya darted out in an instant, and Giles, thinking fast, picked up the crossbow leaning against the wall, and followed in haste.

Xander, one arm gingerly cradling a bouquet of roses, was righting a stand of walking sticks. His legs kept getting tangled in the process. Giles lowered his crossbow and watched the boy's clumsy efforts at reparation, which only unwittingly sprinkled blood-red petals over the whole display.

"Oh, honey!" Anya squealed with delight, "You bought me roses!"

Briefly, Xander froze like a deer caught in the headlights, then redoubled his effort only to fail twice as fast. With a sheepish grin, he shouted back over the clattering, "Anya, Giles, yeah, little help here…"

Anya dashed to his rescue and lifted the roses out of his arms, gently as if it were a puppy. "Awww, poor flowers," she cooed at them. "Let me find you a vase and some water, and you'll perk up in no time!"

Both stunned, Giles and Xander watched her leave for the backroom, a spring in her step.

Xander resumed shoving the walking sticks back onto the hooks, only to have them crash down to the floor again. Heaven only knows how the boy had managed to keep his job in construction. No longer able to watch from the sidelines, Giles stepped up.

"Would you please—," said Giles with forced calmness, "stop moving!" Xander froze. Giving him a stern look, Giles reached out and restored the chaos back to order.

"Sorry about that, Giles," he mumbled. As if determined to prevent his hands from getting in trouble again, he shoved them deep into his pockets. With a hangdog expression on his face, he grumbled, "Why would a magic store carry canes? Do you get a lot of senior customers?"

"They're walking sticks, not canes." Anya reappeared and placed the roses, now in a tall crystal vase, on the counter. "They appeal to customers with an interest in Victorian fashion, and people who cosplay as mages. I've analyzed our customer demographics and diversified our inventory portfolio to increase product offering for our top market segments. You wouldn't understand."

The boy nodded numbly, clearly eager to concur. Giles doubted Xander even knew all of the words in Anya's over-enthusiastic explanation. In fact, Xander looked downright lost as he appeared to survey the inventory meaningfully, taking in the shelves of herbs and crystals, eyes lingering over spell books and the occasional fertility god. In the two years that the Magic Box had served as a sort of command central for slaying, he'd never shown any interest in the world of magic. Now he looked disoriented, as if he hadn't been frequenting it like a second home, but had only stumbled upon it for the first time quite accidentally.

Anya didn't seem to notice Xander's discomfort. Throwing her arms around him and standing on tiptoes to give him a passionate kiss, she added sweetly, "Thanks for the flowers, hon."

Afraid he might inadvertently witness something not fit for public consumption, Giles cleared his throat behind them. "Time for my exit. Anya has proven quite capable of running the Magic Box on her own. I will see you and the rest of the gang tomorrow at Buffy's funeral."

He turned to leave, but Xander blocked his path. "And then what? You'll leave Sunnydale?"

"Seeing that my Council obligation has concluded here, yes."

"This all just obligation to you? I thought you'd built a life here, Giles, with us." His tone was surprisingly vehement. Giles was taken aback. Among the group, Xander had always exhibited the most respect for seniority and hierarchy. Whereas Buffy had been challenging, Willow inquisitive, Anya dismissive, Spike confrontational, and Dawn apprehensive, Xander had always upheld Giles' Council-backed official title as basis for his authority. Perhaps the boy considered Giles' decision to leave to be a willing abdication of his leadership status, and with it, all accorded deference.

Giles sighed in resignation. This was precisely what he had hoped to avoid. Setting business to order with Anya had been necessary. He hadn't anticipated seeing any of the Scoobies here, not this early in the day, when Xander would be at work and the rest of them at school. His plan had been to delay the announcement and slip it to the gang after the funeral, then answer any questions once and for all. The prospect of repeat reveals and appeals, on a matter he considered personal and suspected to be untenable, seemed more exhausting than he could withstand at the moment.

Neither did he wish to dwell on the fact that the decision had been extremely difficult, and his resolve shaky to begin with. He had to get out of there, before the grief consumed him, devoured him, settled in the large hole in his heart like the Southern California smog that never budged on windless summer days like this, and permeated to stifle every aspect of his remaining, tattered life.

"Xander…it's time that..." he started patiently, sensing the need to placate, only to break off when he realized he had no idea what to say, how much to disclose. Years of secrecy by necessity due to the nature of his work combined with casual passivity on his part had reduced his social circle to essentially his Slayer's social circle, which consisted mainly of members of the MTV generation brought up on Jerry Springer. They valued habitual oversharing and emotional confessions above their respect for personal boundaries, prized melodrama followed by a quick resolution over nuanced development of genuine progress.

Giles wasn't one of them: His thought process could not be distilled into a single bullet point to suit their short attention span. His need for healing could not be satisfied by the Californian belief in the therapeutic powers of a group hug, or by anything external at all. In the end, his English upbringing won out. "It's time," he finished simply.

Xander bristled. "That's it? 'It's time'? What, now that the one-week Council-imposed mourning period is over, you're just going to abandon ship and leave us? Desert us?" Chest puffing, Xander seemed poised for a fight.

Giles cringed and retreated further into stoicism. He heard the hurt behind Xander's accusation, and he had no wish to hurt anyone. How many apocalypses had they prevented as a group, standing side-by-side, fighting shoulder-to-shoulder? Was it too much to wish for an amicable farewell, a dignified departure, a gentle slip into that good night?

"Xander," Anya looked like she could no longer hold herself back. "Do you really think the Watchers' Council won't recall Giles and give him a new assignment? They're probably waiting for him to report back right now."

Anya jumping to his rescue was unexpected, but Giles was not going to look a gift ex-demon in the mouth. He had always fought his own battles, and now he desired nothing more than a rest. He'd earned it with his losses, hadn't he?

Suddenly it occurred to Giles that a capable, ambitious business partner like Anya would naturally crave the opportunity to stretch her wings and fly solo, taking the Magic Box to new heights. Losing him would be akin to shedding dead weight. The thought that his departure might at least make someone's dream come true proved to be bittersweet.

Meanwhile, Xander whirled on Anya, and before Xander even opened his mouth, Giles felt sorry for him. He had a feeling Anya won every lovers' spat she'd ever had, and poor Xander would only be redirecting his anger, anger Giles had caused.

He had purposely neglected to mention that he was, in fact, going on holiday. He had requested a month of leave from the Council which, given the circumstances, had acquiesced. He glanced at the couple. Xander and Anya were now locked in a heated argument, which was probably not even about him anymore. Before either of them could notice, he seized his opportunity and slipped out of the Magic Box.


"Spike!"

He could hear the tears in her voice and scent her desperation. He leapt up the last three steps to land on the platform and took in the scene. Dawn, tear-stained but unhurt, was bound at the end of the platform. A few steps away, Doc, curiously dressed in a tuxedo, tried to conceal an ornate knife. The air felt charged with destiny, humming with magic. It was almost time.

"'S alright, Nibblet. Spike's here."

From his vantage point atop Glory's tower, Spike could barely make out the Scoobies below, pressed into a gradual retreat by the line of minions and crazies. Even this far away, the scent of human blood mingled with demon blood stung his nose. By the sound of Glory's wailing pleas, Buffy was winning. A good sign. This, here, was to be his fight.

He deliberately evened out his breathing. He needed to be calm and steady, focused and decisive. There was no margin for error here; he had too sodding much riding on it. Various strategies and fighting sequences flashed through his mind. An escape involving getting Dawn out of her restraint was unlikely. He could play out the delay tactic, as Doc was the only one on a deadline, but… Nah, that was never gonna fly. And not his style, truth be told. He was going to have to take out Doc, without spilling a drop of Dawn's blood. With hand-to-hand combat, his favorite dance.

Doc's head swiveled like an insect's, but it was Spike who felt pinned. "I was just keeping this lovely Key here company. And you've made it a crowd."

Spike growled, shifting to game face to call forth all of his powers. "You don't come near the girl, Doc."

"We'll see about that."

The demon charged, surprisingly spry, knife hand stealing forward to aim at Spike's abdomen. With vampire speed, Spike dodged the attack, taking advantage of the opening to wedge himself between Doc and Dawn, and pressed forward. A little more room for maneuvering.

Normally he wouldn't have bothered to watch such an insignificant weapon so intently, considering battle wounds more than a point of pride for a warrior, like badges of honor. Not tonight. He couldn't afford to be distracted or slowed down by a flesh wound. Not to mention, ritualistically, even a single drop of Dawn's blood could do the trick. He would've paid equal attention to a nail clipper.

Doc flexed his fighting hand, a sinister smile spreading to his bug-like eyes. "I don't smell a soul anywhere on you... Why do you even care?"

Spike's eyes flicked briefly to Dawn's. "I made a promise to a lady."

They rushed each other then, Spike landing a high kick on Doc's wrist that sent the knife flying in a wide arc. Recovering quickly, Doc swept out Spike's standing leg, and the vampire landed sprawling on the platform.

"Well, I'll send the lady your regrets," he taunted.

As Doc bent down and pulled back his arm to strike, Spike sat up and headbutted him, hard. Doc let out an involuntary cry, face contorted with pain. Springing up, Spike slammed his fist repeatedly into Doc's face and torso, earning groans and with the last blow, a sickening crunch.

"Oh, yeah?" Spike roared. He flexed his fingers, then redoubled his effort. "But you're already dressed for your own funeral."

He was going for the winning strike when Doc opened his mouth wide and his purple tongue shot out, fierce like a viper and agile like a frog's, to twine tightly around Spike's neck. He found himself spun around, raised in the air with his feet kicking uselessly, finding no purchase. Doc was chuckling behind him with a sickening gurgle, fighting to dust him now, not just to wound, and his heart sank when the punches he threw proved futile against the appendage cutting into his neck. High above the whistle of wind whipping past his ears was a scream, a girl's scream, his name. For one moment frozen in time, his eyes found Dawn's, fear met with fear, and wordlessly he beseeched her forgiveness, undeserving though he was.

In his despair Spike suddenly remembered the extra axe—Buffy's axe—stashed in his coat pocket—a nimble little number he had intended for one of the Scoobies, not a poleaxe, which he preferred. He swung it backward, edge first, with all his might, until it met with a satisfying resistance. The slick snake-like muscle wound around his neck loosened instantly, then went lax. He turned around just in time to watch Doc's axe-embedded body lose its balance over the edge of the platform.

Savoring the view one last moment before rushing to free Dawn, Spike said to nobody in particular, "Not this time, you bloody reptile! I keep my word."


Giles felt a headache taking shape after leaving the Magic Box. He could use a drink. Sadly it was too early in the morning for propriety, and then there were those last minute details of the funeral to take care of. Hiding the death of the Slayer, which they had all deemed prudent, meant foregoing official channels for her burial. Giles had to do everything piecemeal, leaving no paper trail behind. It was a tiresome process, even armed with Council training on such matters and Council referrals to relevant merchants practiced in discretion.

Oh, such were the extent of his knowledge. Giles permitted a moment of self-pity to take hold. Demon physiology, magical spells and properties, and funeral arrangements on the down-low. He would be burying a hero, yet had to resort to tactics of the criminal. It left a very bad taste in his mouth. Bugger, he needed a drink. To hasten his journey, he considered cutting through the demon part of town, which was usually safe to do during the day, after all.

"Ptsss—"

It was remarkable to him that the human citizens of Sunnydale never questioned the supernatural elements and events in their town, never paid them any attention. Sunnydale-itis, Willow had called it, this wilful ignorance that had most definitely contributed to the population of the dead outnumbering the population of the living in Sunnydale. That a demon could operate a florist business in broad daylight without so much as a double-take from her customers was evidence enough.

"Ptsss—"

Giles paused a moment to determine the best route. Right. Straight ahead then turn at the light and—

"Hey, Watcher!"

He spun on his feet, fist automatically raised high to strike. Willy cowered, palms up, "Don't-kill-me-I-come-in-peace!" he rushed out, hands shaking, eyes shut.

Giles allowed himself to relax at the recognition. "Willy. What possible business could you and I have in common?"

"Zero, none, absolutely nothing! I'm sorry! Don't kill me, please!"

"I'm not going to hurt you, you berk! Speak!"

Willy tentatively opened one eye, noted the lack of fists or weapons aimed for his head, and straightened himself. "I would never bother you, never think of it. Slayer would have my life! Just at my wit's end, that's all. What's a guy to do… But you passing by my humble door is surely a sign, and—"

"Willy—" Giles pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Willy looked left and right, eyes darting from shadow to shadow as if to make out imaginary spies concealed within—signs of paranoia. The streets were as empty as ever in the bright sun. Giles dug deep down into his reserves of patience and with effort, evened out his voice. "I'm going to ask you again: what do you want?"

Willy shook his head rapidly, like a scared child. "Wouldn't dream of asking you favors. Don't want trouble. Please don't kill me! A simple lost-and-found, that's all," he inclined his head toward his bar, then gestured for Giles to follow.

Giles hesitated. Given a large enough reward as motivation, the scoundrel would sell his own mother.

Willy huffed, "Oh, come on, man! Who you take me for? What kind of putz would dare go up against a Watcher, in broad daylight no less! I'm insulted that you'd even suggest— As God is my witness, no harm would come to you in my bar. Just—just spare my life, all right? It's not my fault is all I'm saying. I see trouble and I fold. And what does trouble do? Doubles down on me..."

He continued to prattle as he retreated into the bar, mouth going a mile a minute, spewing streams of mumble jumble which, as much as Giles could decipher, alternated between denials of wrongdoing and pleas for his life. Giles followed cautiously.

In the musty darkness of Willy's bar, Giles blinked and waited for his eyes and nose to adjust, his trusty dagger held fast and steady in his hand. He heard a groan from the very back, where Willy was currently shifting uncertainly from one foot to another.

He crossed the bar in a few confident strides to see a mess of a dark form curled in on itself on the filthy floor. A pair of bloodied hands, ivory bones poking out of the knuckles, clutched a tattered blanket to its head. A drunk demon, asleep. No, passed out. He looked up at Willy. "What's the meaning of—"

Willy lifted the blanket in a swift reveal, and Giles took an indrawn breath. "What happened?"

Willy swallowed nervously. "It wasn't me! I swear it wasn't me! Ducked out for an hour. Came back to find the bar about destroyed! Liquor ransacked, cash register raided, furniture nothing but broken heaps of wood—" he gestured at a three-legged table nearby for corroboration, and Giles noted, for the first time, that the bar was completely wrecked and in utter disarray.

"Ain't nobody left to pick up the tab. I started cleaning, and was about to close shop near sunrise when I found this loser in the alley out back, snoozing the snooze next to the dumpster and cradling a bottle of my Macallan Fine Oak 25." Willy looked as if he was about to weep at the thought of his good whisky wasted on the unworthy. "Dragged him in before his sorry ass could dust in the sun. I'm a businessman. I ain't taking sides. Know he runs with your crowd these days, and I'm not about to invite the Slayer and her many pointy weapons upon my neck!"

It was difficult to follow Willy's stream-of-consciousness rambling, but Giles thought he caught the gist of it.

He shook the form covered by remnants of a t-shirt and jeans. "Wake up! Come on, wake up!" It felt wet. Giles rubbed his fingers and held them up for a better look; they were coated in blood.

The vampire stirred, wiped his eyes, and looked straight at Giles. "I saved her, Watcher, you hear me? Saved her good…" His voice was thick and nasal, but there was no mistaking what he said. Letting out a dejected laugh, he closed his eyes again.

Willy nudged Giles and said in a conspiratorial tone, "Who'd he save? That's all I could get outta him. He's all choked up about it."

Lips pressed into a thin line, Giles pulled a couple of twenties out of his wallet and held them out to Willy. "For your discretion," he said, holding onto the bills for just a second longer so that Willy understood the unspoken consequences of retelling this particular story.

"Discretion, yeah yeah, sure. Slayer business, I get it..." Willy seemed emboldened by the money in his hands, as if it were a protection charm. His voice no longer trembled. "He's all yours," he indicated the unmoving form on the floor with his chin, before snickering, "William the Bloody...well, he's real bloody now."

Giles took a long look at Spike and thought, regrettably and just this once, that he would have to agree with Willy the Snitch.


Having deposited Spike back in his crypt for the second time in as many weeks, Giles was furious. He had planned on asking Spike to stay in Sunnydale to lend a hand in his absence, but that notion seemed absurd now. Spike, broken, drunk, and muttering under his breath like a bloody madman, was in no shape to be of use to anyone, not even to himself. And this time, Giles couldn't even ring Xander to help shoulder the vampire's weight, quite literally, after the way he'd left things in the Magic Box.

"I saved her, Watcher...Don't tell me I din't… Ev'ry night I...save her..." From the armchair, the barely conscious vampire waved his hand in an exaggerated flourish, and upon completing his Victorian bow, crashed to the floor. That sent him into a fit of giggles.

It had twisted Giles' inside to make sense of the vampire's ramblings the first time around, at Willy's. Buffy. Of course, Spike would be mourning Buffy. This time, however, with his head pounding and his back throbbing with pain from having to carry Spike's dead weight in a mad dash from Willy's car to the safety of his crypt, Giles found his sympathy waning. In fact, it seemed downright self-indulgent. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He pulled Spike up by what could pass for his collar, and slapped him hard.

Spike's head whipped as far back as it could go from the impact. "Oi! Whazzat for?" He opened one eye and growled at Giles. It might've been menacing if he weren't drooling on himself.

"Take a hard look at yourself, you candy-assed sissy! Buffy died so that this world wouldn't end, and you will not tarnish her memory by behaving as if it did!"

Giles chose his uncharacteristic diction for the sole purpose of getting a rise out of Spike, but the latter was apparently too busy wallowing in misery to notice. Giving no indication that he'd registered a single word, Spike pushed off the ground just high enough to flop back into his chair, then threw an arm across his eyes to return to chanting his mantra undisturbed. "Save her...every night I save her...every night—"

"You're not saving anyone in this wretched condition! For Heaven's sake, Spike! Have you forgotten your promise to Buffy already? Dawn lives!"

There was a terrible sound, more animal than human, of a choked-back sob. As Giles watched for further reaction, the limp hand draped over Spike's face twitched, tightened into a fist, then slowly, as if with effort, trembled open. Dawn's name was apparently the magic word. "Nibblet…" Spike's voice wavered, then burst into open weeping. "Oh God, I've been a right wanker!"

Giles resisted the urge to comfort the heart-broken vampire. Spike needed to snap out of it. Quietly but with unmistakable heat, he pressed on, "Not long ago, you were ready to lay down your unlife for her. Buffy claimed that you swore to protect her. Was that all just a ploy to get Buffy into bed with you?"

Spike's whole body jolted, as if Giles' words delivered a shot of torment that pierced to the bone. Giles had a flashback of witnessing writhing demon bodies held in unforgiving currents from the Initiative's tasers. In a blink, Spike lurched up and got in Giles' face, almost managing to cover up his stagger, "'M a vamp of my word. Lost my head for a while there, but far as Nibblet's concerned, you can count on me." He held his head high, uncaring that his face was grief-stricken and tear-stained.

Having achieved the desired result, Giles hid a smile. "Very well. Here's something for which I'm counting on you: Funeral's tomorrow at sundown. You know where. I trust you'll be presentable, if only for Dawn's sake."

With that he departed the crypt, leaving an anguished but reawakening vampire to nurse his injuries in private. Recalling Willow's heart-breaking report on Dawn, Giles sincerely hoped he had knocked enough senses into Spike. God willing, Spike and Dawn might just save each other. And about bloody time, too.

~ To be Continued ~

Author's Note: The Glory's tower dream scene adapts bits of dialogue from S5 "The Gift" by Joss Whedon, for continuity and context.