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| To Be or Not To Be, cont'd |
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There's the respect that makes calamity of so long life For who would bear the whips and scorns of time During her waking hours she could forget, for whole minutes at a stretch, that the life she had known before that day was gone beyond recall. No friendly bedroom in which to seek refuge. No familiar streets to patrol -- or just stroll, depending. No mother's grave to visit. No landmarks, so intrinsically woven into the few joys and many tragedies of her young life. No touchstones or momentos at all from out of that gaping hole in the landscape. She would forget, and think that she must remember to stop in at a store that no longer existed. Or that she could wear an article of clothing that lay under many metric tons of rock. Or make a mental note to tell Spike about something that had happened to her. And then it would come rushing back. And she would still, while her insides absorbed the shock like a physical blow, and her face would freeze into a posture of defensive impassivity. All gone. And she would have to remember to breath. And she would slowly resume whatever task she had been undertaking, reminding herself to accept this new reality that was her existence. Other times, she would purposely dredge up memories, taking them out like old letters, re-read so many times that the folds and edges had become tattered. Sometimes they were happy memories, but more often she would force herself to face her failures and transgressions. She would enumerate her shortcomings, and regret that time and circumstance had made them impossible to remedy. And remind herself that she could not, in his absence, sugar-coat all that had passed between them. It was penance, of a sort; a private rosary of disgrace whose beads she would force herself to count and meditate over. It was the only amends that she could make now that it was all over. ~ / ~ There were times when images came to him as if unbidden. He did not entirely understand this, but also did not question it. He let the scenes unfold before him, curious as to the cause or meaning of their appearance. They were memories of events that he'd shared with her, many of them reflecting the darkest days that had passed between them. The oppressor's wrong His plots to kill her and her friends, thwarted in the end by the greater threat of Angelus. Her fists pummeling him in the alley by the police station. The proud man's contumely The pangs of despised love When he chained her to a wall, and offered to stake Drusilla at her word as proof of his devotion. Her contempt for and mockery of his feelings for her, halting and imperfect as they were. The law's delay The insolence of office Telling her that she didn't belong with the friends who loved her; that she was made for the darkness, just like him. Telling him that he was useless to her, and that she needed the Big Bad back. And the spurns that patient merit of th' unworthy takes His willingness to accept whatever attention she would give him, no matter how base or perverse its source. Her shame at their liaison, and her fear of her friends' condemnation, that had driven her to lash out at him with such unbridled physical and emotional violence. When he, himself, might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? Perhaps this was the best ending that either of them could have hoped for? Who would fardels bear To grunt and sweat under a weary life But what was this ending? At some point he began to wonder in earnest about this passive limbo in which he existed. In the end, was this death? An aware oblivion? Bloody peculiar if all the philosophers and theologians through time had missed the mark by so much. But that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns Yet, he'd heard firsthand one account of death. He'd been sitting beside her when she told him, tonelessly, "I was happy." Had he not been so utterly shocked, he'd have cursed himself for the worst kind of idiot. Despite his warning regarding the consequences of the kind of magic necessary to raise her, he'd never thought to question the Scoobies' conviction that they were rescuing her from some dreadful fate. Her words had continued to wash over him, all in that same tight, resigned voice. "Wherever I... was... I was happy. At peace. "I knew that everyone I cared about was all right. I knew it. Time... didn't mean anything... nothing had form... but I was still me, you know? And I was warm... and I was loved... and I was finished. Complete. I don't understand about theology or dimensions, or... any of it, really... but I think I was in Heaven." Puzzles the will And he realized that this was the source of his confusion. Clearly, he wasn't in some sort of hell -- notable absence of torment being a clue. Yet he wasn't in the "complete" place either. He'd felt safe and at peace, but now he felt stirrings of other emotions. Maybe this was just a resting place...a way-station of some sort. But then, what next? The answer that came into his consciousness was to search out and understand his own feelings. His will struggled to conceive something more tangible, less "use the Force, Luke." But it was the only certainty that he could ascertain. So, he let the events of his life swirl about him, not guiding their progression, but attempting to know them individually, and as they fit together, finding patterns and connections between moments far separated in time and geography. Judging the full panorama of his actions, and of events to which he'd been a party, he began to feel sure that they had all walked the paths appointed to them, falling down and picking themselves up as necessary. All leading to the moment of transcendence and sacrifice at the Hellmouth. He knew what that acceptance of his fate had meant for his journey, and did not wish it undone. He was now proud of how far he had come. Not that he'd had much of an opportunity to atone for the countless specific acts of evil that he had committed. But he could still be proud that, when it came down to it, he had given himself to save the world. She had been integral to his redemption but, in the end, he hadn't died for her, but for what she represented. He'd done it for the billions of Buffys the world over who would now have a chance at a normal life because he had walked the earth, and fallen in love, and wrestled with his nature, and risen above it to give himself over to the abyss. And still, it felt like it wasn't enough. And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than to fly to others that we know not of He was sorry that the journey was over. His soul had been regained just a year before that final showdown, his sanity some months after, and his free will most recently of all. He'd barely had time to use them; to experience the world as a souled being again, with all of his past actions to animate the experience. His spirit began to feel restless. He was satisfied with how he'd met the challenges that had come on that road to the cavern beneath Sunnydale High. But he began to question what else he might have done had he not been asked to make that sacrifice so soon. Thus, conscience does make cowards of us all And, thus, the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with a pale cast of thought And then, he became very still again. An overwhelming impression came to him, that he asked himself these things for a reason. That it was within his power to decide whether his journey continued or not. |
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