She smelled all wrong. This had to be the replacement slayer Whistler was talking about. It couldn't be his Buffy. His Buffy was... smaller, younger… blonder. But whoever this was knew him, and she looked almost like Buffy, just different. He squinted. In the torchlight her profile and manner of speaking was pretty similar too. He'd never really met any Slayers before Whistler directed him to the one in LA, so for all he knew they were all of a size and relatively blonde.

Watching his grandchilde fight her even after he'd managed to extricate himself from the draining effect of the ritual made him uncomfortable. His soul raked his urges over coals of guilt as he thought about just leaving. After all, she wasn't his destiny, did it matter if she won or not? *But what would Buffy say if she found out you just left?* He couldn't do it. Even though he was pretty sure she'd forgive him, eventually. *I could just say that she wasn't there yet when I left… No, that'll only work if Spike wins* He had to make sure she was ok, and to do that he'd have to save her.

Deciding his course of action was easier than implementing it. He watched them fighting back and forth, neither gaining the upper hand. If he didn't know for certain that Spike was totally evil and loved to kill Slayers, he'd almost think they were playing at fighting, each merely testing their skills against a decent opponent. He shook his head and dismissed the notion. She was a Slayer, mandated by Heaven to end the miserable existence of whatever nosferatu crossed her path. No way would she refrain from killing one if she had the chance. Buffy had been… different. She was more willing to look into a man's soul and see the potential for redemption. They were destined to be soulmates, after all. Whistler had as much as told him so.

He swayed on his feet, a wave of weakness washing over him. The ritual to restore Drusilla had taken most of his strength. Angel watched as Spike grabbed one of the slayer's arms and tried to lock it up behind her, only to be flipped over her head and kicked solidly in ribs. And then… then, instead of staking him while he was down she retreated. She actually allowed him to stand up. He couldn't understand it. Why wasn't she killing him? They came together again, trading blows and dodging strikes, until the girl misjudged a kick and was sent crashing into a wall, dislodging the torch there. It fell into a pile of discarded dust covers and sparked a real flame. The two didn't appear to notice it, but Angel took it as his cue.

Leaping into the fray he pushed the slayer out of the way of Spikes on-coming fist. Blocking it with difficulty, he backed off a little.

'Rather be fightin' you anyway, you overblown poofter!'

'Mutual.'

'Ok. Wow. Rude much, Angel?' she muttered. 'That was my evil undead.'

Buffy was annoyed. Hadn't it been obvious that she didn't need any help with the Billy Idol wannabe? But Angel had always treated her like this, now that she thought about it. Like she was some delicate flower incapable of fulfilling her destiny as the Chosen One. It didn't seem to register that she was significantly stronger than he was, or that she was capable of taking care of herself.

It was weird. She never used to feel this way about his- well it was interfering, at the end of the day. She supposed it was some awkward notion of his that this misguided attempt at chivalry was what you did for your girlfriend. Come to think of it, Buffy wasn't sure that she had been. His girlfriend that is. They seemed to meet a lot in dark corners of Sunnydale when the apocalypse was headed to town, and he was big with the cryptic warnings. But not really there for much else. And they never really talked about what she'd sort of expected her boyfriend to talk with her about.

There'd been no long conversations about what they wanted to do with their lives, he'd never even taken her on a proper date. He was too serious to tease, and he didn't really dance. Angel liked to brood, but that was kind of a loner's sport. And she knew almost nothing about him that she hadn't read. Weren't you supposed to get to know your prospective love interest by talking with them? But he was vague, and cryptic, and the few times she had pressed the issue, he had looked so much like a kicked puppy with his guilty eyes and hunched shoulders, that she'd soon given up. Heck, she didn't even know his favourite colour, or whether he watched tv, or took long walks at night.

He wasn't exactly the sort of man you could bring home to mom either. There was something so… old about him. Having the gap of a year between her emotions and his presence had given her perspective. And what she saw wasn't all that attractive, necessarily. There were girls who'd love their boyfriends to do everything for them, defend them, give them jackets, be the brooding hero-type. But as she had been learning, that wasn't her. She'd tried that glass slipper on, and it hadn't fit. It was pretty, but that sort of thing was awkward to wear when you were Action Girl.

Something niggled at her, as she watched the two vampires squaring off. A heavy smokey smell, a crackling in the background… Fire. It was a fire. Well, there went the evening's entertainment. She turned back to the combatants, but they seemed too preoccupied to notice their imminent toastiness. She looked around for some way to grab their attention. Aside from all the wood around, there was Spike's gothy ho-bag girlfriend… and nothing much else. Buffy shrugged. *Works for me* And started over to her, palming a stake as she did.

It'd been a while since Spike had gone up against his grandsire; almost 80 years, actually. Spike'd been a fledge, still semi-cowed by the Forehead's dominance, and it hadn't gone well for him. Two weeks of semi-starvation while he healed from the broken bones, and nearly a year of derision from Dru, until they'd headed to China during the Boxer Rebellions and he'd caught his lucky break with that first Slayer.

He caught Angel's fist with his chin for the split-second he'd daydreamed. Growling, he shook it off, and his fangs out. He smiled toothily at the ponce opposite. 'That all you got, old man? Time was you'd put me on my arse in the first minute.'

'It hasn't been a minute yet, boy. Don't count me out.'

Angel went for his throat, intending to drain the younger vampire and put him down quickly. It was an effective method of controlling a childe, and one he had used often while they were still nesting together. Spike skipped back, grinning manically. 'Gotta get up earlier than that, mate. Brekky's over!' The taunting served to piss Angel off to no end, just as it always had. Only this time, Spike did it deliberately, knowing its effect. And enjoying it immensely. He'd not had the skill to back his mouthiness up before, when it was all he had to defend himself with. Oddly enough, dying had only improved his grasp of the language, and how to effectively use it.

He continued to evade and bait his larger opponent, landing rapid, stinging blows whenever he could dart in fast enough. He knew it couldn't last, the ponce had the reach on him, and weight besides. But he could wear him down a bit, maybe get a lucky strike or two in. But he'd have to close in for that. *Sod it anyway,* he thought. *Too much of a pain in the arse to whittle at 'im like a bloody horsefly.* Closing in he grabbed the older vampire and headbutted him, enjoying the spray of red as Angel's nose broke.

They grappled, neither gaining the upper hand. Snarling viciously in each other's' faces they tried to wrestle the other down. Angel bore down with his superior height, but at the last second Spike twisted out from under the weight and sent him stumbling. While he was off balance, the smaller vampire grabbed a handful of his hair and the waistband of his trousers. With a roar, he swung Angel around in a half-circle and threw him head first across the room.

With a satisfying crash, he went through the main body of the decrepit organ. The pipes gave way with a groan and an atonal clatter as they collapsed on the still figure below them. Most of the supporting wall came with them, completely covering Angel, and raising a cloud of dust. He started over towards the rubble, intent on making sure his grandsire never rose from the mess.

'Spike!'

He turned, his eyes widening as he took in the tableau. Slayer had his dark princess in a painful arm-bar, and was menacing her with a rather pointy stake. He took a half-step forward, stopping dead still when she flinched as if to drive the wood home.

'Look around, Spike. This place is toast, literally. I'm willing to let you and your girlfriend run. But only if you take her and leave without going near that organ. Now. If you don't, she fits in an ashtray, and you're down a lover.'

His nostrils flared as the tic in his jaw began twitching. 'An' what, I'm supposed to believe you'll jus' let us walk? No harm, no foul? Thought you Slayer types were all about the vamp dust.'

'Spike?' Dru's voice was pained as Buffy wrenched her arm higher.

'I believe that's what I said.' She smirked. 'And your free pass is burning up as we speak, so move it or lose it, pal.'

'It'll be alright, baby,' he reassured Dru. Taking a last wistful glance back at the organ, and a more wary one at the encroaching flames, he hurried over. The slayer shoved Drusilla at him, and ran past as he caught and steadied his sire. They fled before the advancing blaze, not stopping til they'd reached safety on the other side of the road. He looked back for a few moments before herding Dru on. Silhouetted in the orange glow was an oddly shaped figure. It looked like the slayer had gained a large hump on her back. *Sod all. Bastard din't have the decency to dust, even.*

Fog curls over the ground, muffling the world in cotton wool. The spark searches for… something. There was a connection, a belonging. What was, and will be, full of is not and not like that. The grey permeates everything, distorting reality and dampening sound. The spark moves on. The thick mist is torn into shreds as a lonely breeze sweeps it away with invisible fingers. 'Not here, not here,' it moans. There is urgency now, a sense of time as it slips by. The spark bobbed, slowly resolving itself into a shape. The shape stumbled forward as visibility returned. It looked down. A cord was un-spooled from the centre of its being, stretching into eternity whichever way it faced.

'Never again,' the freshening wind sobbed, as it strengthened. Clouds rolled in, ominous and black, and the shape that was began to hurry. If it wasn't in time… bad things. Death and loss and broken paths, torn hearts. It tripped, stumbling over a discarded pile. It looked down. Two dolls entwined, one black, one white. He (for it was masculine, this shape) picked up the white, and the black came with it, connected where the heart was located on a man. Placing them gently in his pocket he moved on.

Time passed. He came upon a chess board in the grey field, as tall as he was, set with alternating flagstones of white and black marble. Some of the pieces in white were familiar, and so were the dark. But they were set up all mixed together, the black king was behind the white queen, hands oppressing her slender shoulders. The black queen tangled with a curiously stained knight. It was hard to see if it was black or white in the half-light of this neverwhere. The game had not even begun and already it was muddled almost beyond hope. There was a tall figure in all-concealing robes juxtaposed on the far side of the board. It gestured at him.

'But I chose the dark. White always moves first. That's the rules.' He spoke for the first time since waking here. The concealed figure slowly shook its head and gestured again. The pieces had moved while he wasn't watching. The black king was broken in two on the flagstones, and the white queen had moved towards the knight and his paramour, the dark queen. They had sprung apart, and she was leaning towards her black consort, hand flung back to deny the knight.

'We watch. That is the game. Life is the rule.' echoed through the space. He looked up from the board again. The figure was gone. He looked back down and the board had vanished. In its place there was a large blue marble. He picked it up. There were silvery swirls through the blue, and his eye was drawn inexorably closer, until leaning in, his perspective winged down through the silver and blue. Hurtling faster he passed through storms and sea, flickering past land and under sun, then dove below the earth. In the darkness there was a pulse. It was tiny and weak, but as he listened it gained strength. The man reached out, and touched a leathery firm surface. It was warm, and in horror he watched his hand fading. He pulled back sharply. He remembered what the cord in his chest was now. This was an astral body. And whatever he'd touched was enough to damage one. His fingers didn't reform. Taliesin woke up with a groan.

This was really, really bad. He hadn't traveled involuntarily in centuries. And to be damaged? Unheard of. He stared in numb disbelief at the deadened arm before him. He couldn't feel or move it at all. The null sensation only went to about the middle of his forearm, so even in the worst case scenario he wasn't going to lose it entirely. At least he had options.

The only problem was that it looked like he'd have to move to California for a time. He'd hoped to stay in Wales and merely consult with Giles and Buffy, but even the disjointed, unclear visions he'd been given had told him otherwise. Destiny was always able to be overcome by simple free will, but to do so here would be foolish and potentially catastrophic.

He scrubbed his face with his one good hand as he tried to sort out what he'd seen. The travelling had been done while he was sleeping, so the symbols were skewed and he wasn't prepared properly to interpret them. He'd have to meditate on it. First thing, though, was getting the dead flesh removed. The bard hurried from his spartan bedchambers towards the infirmary.

Airmed was up before first light. She'd felt the call go out sometime in the small hours of the morning and had spent the interval preparing the infirmary for surgery. There were bowls, and towels, and a large cauldron just approaching a seething boil, linens swirling inside. She laid aside herbs for the poultice that'd keep a wound from hemorrhaging. It was a paste of feverfew, comfrey, alum and birch leaves, and would stop the bleeding and keep the wound clean.

She sent a runner to bring her one of the weapons instructors, and set a long dagger and a bonesaw over the coals to heat. There was little to do now except wait. She'd just set a kettle on to brew tea when the door swung open and Taliesin strode through, one of the younger teachers on his heels. Her heart leapt to her throat when she saw him cradling his left arm to his chest protectively. Looking closer, it appeared fine, there were no visible wounds or breaks.

'What is going on, mo chara? Are you injured?'

'My injury is in spirit, Airmed. I have lost my hand through a foolish travelling I undertook when I was dreaming last night.'

'Dear gods. Brighid is going to have some words to say to you later. You will go to her for help after this, won't you? Ceridwen knows where she is this time of year.'

'I don't like to put Mother on the spot like that. She is under geas still to kill me if she looks upon my face.' He grimaced. Free will was like that. He'd effectively been an orphan all his life, for though she loved him and smoothed his path where she could, he'd never seen her, and never would while she was honour-bound to end his existence over a foolish vow spoken in the heat of the moment.

The operation went swiftly. She used her small powers to ease his pain, and he was sunk far enough into a trance that he barely felt the red-hot blades severing his limb just below the elbow. Two hours later, poulticed and bandaged, he surfaced from the meditation. Immediately lines of pain creased his brow, but he didn't speak about it except to thank her and direct that the dead flesh be utterly destroyed.

'A stór, you've done me a great service. Do you know where I can get in touch with Brighid right now?'

Airmed thought for a moment. 'She is roaming Ireland in her aspect of the Healer. She was headed North, to Mourne River, when we last communed.'

'Airmed you are a treasure.' He grinned, throwing his good arm around her in an effusive hug.

She flapped a hand at him, blushing. 'You won't still think that once Brighid gets through with you. For a goddess of healing her bedside manner rivals that of the Morrigan.'

Taliesin barked a laugh. 'Not every healer is so kind as you little sister. I must be off now, though whilst I'm down there do you need anything? I have to come back through Ynys Sci before I can travel on.'

She smiled and declined, and he left with promises to visit before the new year.