Rapunzel

Disclaimer: Spike and the other characters and situations associated with "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" are the property of numerous people who aren't me. No infringement of copyright is intended or implied.

Note: Anything in italics is flashback.

Archive- Please email request.

Feedback: Oh please, oh please, oh please. Sheesh. You reduced me to begging, people.

*******************

Spike knocked at the front door of the yellow house. The yellow house stood on the outskirts of Sunnydale, and would most likely have been featured in architectural reviews of Southern California on a regular basis if it hadn't been under a glamour which caused most people to simply pass by without noticing it one way or another. Those who did notice usually hurried home and lit every light in their own houses, shuddering until the sun came up.

Spike himself hadn't had reason to visit since Drusilla had recovered completely from the injuries she'd received in Prague, and he really didn't want to be here now, but he didn't know where else he could go.

The slayer? Sorry. He needed magical assistance, and Buffy would insist on turning those duties over to the teenage witch. Thank you, no, he preferred not to risk unlife and limb riding with a learner's permit mage.

He pounded on the door again, a little louder this time, though it caused pain to shoot up all the nerves of his arm. "Dammit," he muttered. "Where the hell is she?"

A minute later, the vampire had switched to kicking the door, the pain in his hands and head almost unbearable. "For pity's sake, woman," he shouted. "Help me."

With the next kick, the door unlatched and swung slowly open. Spike started to go through but was stopped by the mystical barrier that barred all vampires until invited. He was about to scream abuse at the witch within, a woman he'd paid obscene amounts of money to in the past to keep Dru from sinking too quickly, but the sight of the darkened stairway within and the gloomy kitchen beyond filled with the mystical herbs she used stayed his tongue.

He was coming begging, this time around, and the last thing he needed was for her to get angry.

"Hello?" he called softly.

"No vampires," came the witch's voice, and it was just as Spike remembered it. Stern and no nonsense.

"It's me. Spike. Remember?"

"No vampires," the witch repeated.

Spike licked his lips. He would offer money, but he had nothing. He decided to appeal to her sense of pity, and hoped she had one. "I've been hurt," he said. "Wood splinters. I can't get them out. They're going to fester if I don't get help." Spike licked his lips again. "You know me," he said. "I've never done harm to you, and if you have any abilities at all you know I can't hurt you now."

There was a long silence, and Spike was beginning to despair, when the witch spoke again from the darkness. "Go to the back. Wait for me."

"Thank you," Spike whispered to himself, and he nearly ran around the house and through the backyard gate.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Spike stalked around the Bronze's pool table, back and forth, barely breaking stride long enough to line up each shot before moving onto his next. He was restless, as he was most of the time. He desperately needed to kill something, but of course that was no longer an option, and the tedium was slowly driving him insane.

Well, some days the trip moved faster than others. Today, for instance.

Three in the side. Shoot. Click. Thump. Four in the corner. Shoot. Click. Thump. Five in the corner. Shoot. Click. Thump. Seven in the side...

"You gonna be hogging that table all night, or can somebody else get a chance?"

Spike looked up to see a group of three Frat boys from the college watching him with shit-eating grins. He considered telling the lot of them to sod off, but they looked liked they'd had several beers by now, and discretion was the better part of valor these days, he thought wryly.

"Just let me finish this frame," he said. "Then it's all yours."

Seven in the side... Shoot...

"Don't miss, blondie!"

Spike's English on the cue-ball spun too far left, and the seven-ball went right, ruining the shot at the nine he was setting up. Spike cursed under his breath.

The Frat boys were coming to the table now, and the chatty one put his fist around Spike's cue-stick and his other hand on the vampire's shoulder. "Why don't you let the big boys play," he said.

Spike pursed his lips in barely suppressed rage. "Why don't you lot..." he began, then choked off his profane suggestion as the three men closed in on him.

"Never mind," he said, feeling the bile rise in his throat. "I was just leaving." He shoved the cue-stick at the boy and ducked from under his hand. He could hear the boys laughing behind him as he stalked away.

"Little faggot," one of them said, and they laughed. A red haze descended over Spike's vision.

Don't do it, he told himself, even as he turned around to face the trio. "Well, I don't know," he said. "What would you call a bunch of boys who all live together and get off on spanking each other."

He had their undivided attention now.

Shut up, shut up, his brain was telling him. "Wait a minute. That's you lot, not me. Fraternity. Gay commune. Easy misunderstanding."

The three men charged, and Spike stood his ground, his face assuming its true form. His fist connected with the first one's throat, and both snarled in pain, the boy gagging and clutching his neck, Spike bent over and clutching his head.

The vampire felt the other two brothers grab him under his arms and half-drag, half-carry him out of the Bronze and into the alley. He struggled against them, but every time a fist or claw connected with one of them, Spike was forced to flinch away as the pain from the Initiative's chip seared through his brain.

When they shoved him against the wall and started punching, he was at their mercy.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

The witch held Spike's hand open as her magical fairy-lights floated around the vampire's head, casting a bright bluish glow over them both. In the light, he could see the dark bruises that mottled his skin, and the more vivid ones that marked where bones were broken. He knew it was probably worse in the places he couldn't see.

The witch was using a fine-tipped tweezers to careful remove the dozens of tiny splinters that had embedded themselves in Spike's palms when the boys had finally tossed him on a pile of rubbish, and he'd tried to catch himself on a slatted crate to break his fall. In retrospect, he supposed he was lucky one of the slats hadn't pierced his heart and killed him.

"Who did this to you?" the witch asked at last. "Rabid pack of Fyarl demons I should know about?"

"No."

"Another vampire turf war?"

"No." Spike sighed. She'd keep asking, he knew. "Couple of college boys."

The witch looked up at him, disbelieving. "Humans did this?"

"Yes."

She shook her head and returned to her task. "How many did you take out?"

"None."

She looked up again, staring now. "What happened?"

Spike turned his eyes away. "Didn't hear about my chip, I guess."

"No."

"Keep plucking. I'll tell you all about it."

The witch beckoned her lights to settle closer to Spike's hand, giving her illumination to work, and Spike began. "You heard about the government boys that were in town?"

The witch nodded. "Part of the reason I've been keeping to myself lately."

"More than usual, you mean," Spike said with a wry smile.

The witch returned it. "Yes. Cancelled my annual trip around the block. Anyway, what about them?"

"They were capturing as many supernatural uglies as they could. Had some sort of plan. Was never clear on that bit. Anyway, they bagged me. I wake up, I'm locked in this cage like some giant guinea pig, and I can't bite anything. I can't hurt any living thing in any way. Well, except demons."

"Intriguing."

"Glad you think so. Seems they implanted some kind of chip or what-all in my brain. I try to hurt or bite anything, it zaps me.� Spike shrugged. �Right bastards,� he muttered.

�When did this happen?�

Spike shrugged again. �Fifteen months ago. Give or take.�

The witch turned his hands over, examining them. �I thought you looked thinner. Flex your fingers for me.�

The vampire balled his hands into fists twice.

�How do they feel?� the witch asked.

�Like they�re on fire. But the splinters are out.� He nodded respectfully. �Thank you.�

The witch turned to a basketful of dried herbs and tools she had set on the garden bench beside her. �I need to make a poultice,� she said. �How have you been feeding?�

Spike blinked, thrown for a moment by the non-sequitur. �Um, went to the Slayer and her chums, at first. Did a little petty theft. Odd jobs these days, mostly.�

The witch removed a stone mortar and pestle into her lap and was adding various leaves and flowers from the basket into it. �The Slayer believed you?�

�Well� yeah. She was shagging one of the soldier-gits at the time.� Spike shooed one of the glittering lights from in front of his face. �It�s so bloody unfair.�

�What is?� the witch asked, not looking up from the herbs she was pulverizing.

�Me,� Spike nearly shouted. �This fucking chip in my brain. I�m not some weakling like Angel, where it wouldn�t make any difference, or some psycho like Dru without any self-control. I�m a Goddamned master vampire. Or I was.�

The witch didn�t reply, but glanced up at him when he didn�t go on.

�Sorry,� Spike said softly. �You don�t care about any of this.�

�No,� she said, adding a milky salve to her herb mixture. �I do. Why do you think I live this way, why I�ve dedicated myself to being a healer. My father�s heritage, to sense other�s pain.�

�Vampires don�t reflect,� Spike told her. �I could be neck-deep in holy water and you wouldn�t sense a thing.�

�True,� she conceded, �but a lifetime of honing my gift has honed my compassion, as well. Even when my better judgment says it is misplaced. Hands.�

Spike dutifully held out his hands, and the witch began to apply the balm she had just mixed. �I hate living like this,� he said softly. �Begging for meals. Getting beaten up by children. And the loneliness. I feel like I�m losing my bleeding mind sometimes.�

�Tell me.�

�Why? Do you have a potion for that?�

�No.� The witch took up a roll of white bandages and began to wind them around Spike�s hands. �But I can ease it for a short time. And ease my own loneliness, as well.�

Spike narrowed his eyes. �Are you asking me to stay with you?�

�If you like.�

�You�re half-demon. How do you know I won�t bite you?�

�I�m half-Shidah,� she said, a small smile creeping over her face. �If I recall correctly you once told me Shidah blood tasted like burnt cat hair.�

Spike chuckled. �Yeah. Learned that one the hard way. Your father�s people look awfully human in the dark.�

They sat in silence as the witch finished the work of binding Spike�s hands. She let them go and replaced her tools in the basket. Then she touched Spike�s cheek, raising his eyes to meet hers. �Stay with me,� she said. �Just for one day. Come to my tower.�

And in spite of himself, in spite of his selfishness, her words touched him. Touched the part of him that despised what he had become, the part that longed for tenderness.

He nodded.

He followed her up the staircase that climbed and wound through four rooms to the tower�s top. Saw the rooms full of exotic plants, strange minerals and gems, esoteric ingredients from the ends of the earth.

The two witch-girls would have a holiday in this place, Spike thought idly.

At the tower�s top was a round bedroom, a large window thrown open to the moonlight and night air. The bed had tall posts and a canopy frame draped with a sheer veil, as light as milkweed. The witch began to move about, lighting the tapers which stood on the night-tables and vanity.

�What is your name, vampire?� she said, and Spike knew she meant his real name, his human name.

�William. What�s yours?�

She lit the last candle and blew out the match. �Sibella,� she said, and turned to him.

In the light from the flames, harsh and yellow compared to the moon- and fairy-light, the witch looked older than Spike would have guessed in the garden. Her fox-red hair was shot with strands of white, and her skin was such a pale brown as to be almost colorless, like a grocery bag, or dust.

She breathed in a soft sigh as she looked at him. �You were just a boy when they made you,� she said, and at Spike�s indignant look she added, �you are very beautiful, William. You were plucked when you were ripest.�

Spike turned his head away. �This� this may not be such a good idea.�

The witch gave a nod of understanding. �It doesn�t have to be this way,� she said. �Allow me in, and I can be what you want. A memory��

And Spike thought of his most recent lover: Harmony, with her debutante looks and empty head and compulsive need for chatter. He had taken her to his bed, but there had been no comfort in it, merely distraction. She was like candy, sweet for the briefest moment, but sickening in too great a quantity.

Then Drusilla, his black princess. For a lifetime she had been his everything, a century-long banquet for which he continuously hungered, never satisfied, never sated. Now she tasted of stale bread and soot.

Cecily. They said the oldest wounds were the deepest.

�A fantasy, then,� the witch prompted from outside his thoughts.

Yes, Cecily had been a fantasy, a Victorian boy-virgin�s dream of beauty and devotion. He had never really known the true Cecily. Even her blood had been bittersweet.

The witch stood beside him now, one small, work-worn hand raised to his smooth cheek, and with a soft-breathed sigh of his own he opened his mind.

In his imagination he conjured her, his obsession, his Venus-idol, his latest unattainable object of worship who would never, ever love him. An exquisite, precious lash to beat himself with.

�What we once were informs all that we have become,� Darla had once been fond of saying, and so it had been with him. Always the one begging for crumbs, never the beloved.

Spike opened his eyes and looked at the witch. The glamour she had crafted from his unnamed desire had covered her; her skin was translucent, porcelain, her mahogany hair falling in waves over her shoulders. She wasn�t Buffy, but some of the Slayer was there in her. Drusilla, too, and bits of Harmony, and Willow, and Cecily, and a thousand random victims. But she was herself, too, an idealized witch-goddess version of herself: Diana, Astarte, Aphrodite. Sibella.

Her hand was still on his cheek, and she drew the delicate fingers down over the bone, over his lips and chin, down his throat. Her robes dropped to a puddle of silk and linen around her feet, and she cupped his face in her hands.

�I love you,� she told him, her voice a husky whisper. �I was born to love you. You are all I need, my beautiful William.�

Spike trembled, taking her in his arms, and though he knew this wasn�t real, it was only a dream made real for this moment by the witch�s magic, he didn�t care. He wanted this, he�d always wanted this.

He shed his own clothes in a frantic tangle of cloth and embraced her, kissing her, and she was his, fully and completely, as no woman had ever been.

�You�re so warm,� he murmured against her throat as he nestled his face there. �I�ve never� I didn�t know�� He inhaled her scent and pulled her closer. �So warm,� he repeated.

�William,� Sibella whispered, and that one word was like a promise that would be broken come sunrise, but in the darkness he believed it with all his heart.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Shortly before dawn, she rose from the bed beside him, and he watched through slitted eyes as she crossed to the window and stared out at the fading night. The candles in the room had long since been extinguished, and the last bit of moonlight fell on her, making her skin glow white and her hair shine like spilt blood.

She gave a soft, contented sigh, and closed the drapes. In darkness she returned to him.

�I wish I could heal you,� she murmured. �But some injuries are beyond any magic.� He knew she wasn�t talking about his hands.

He didn�t answer her. He couldn�t. But he allowed her to take him in her arms, and rock him like a child, and stroke his hair. And in her tower, he let himself rage and weep and laugh bitterly at himself, knowing his name was safe on her lips, if only for a little while.

At sunset, she rose again and opened the drapes. In the rosy twilight she was again the simple provincial witch, plain, ordinary, brown skin and graying hair and foul-tasting blood. But she was still Sibella, and he saw that now.

She retrieved her robes from the floor and put them on, then came to Spike�s side and took his hands. �These should be fine now,� she said, unwinding the bandages to reveal the new, flawless skin. �The rest of your wounds, from the fight, I mean. They should be mostly mended now, too.�

Spike caught her hand in his as she started to rise. �Let me stay,� he said. �Or come with me. I need you.�

The witch smiled sadly. �And you have taken what you need,� she said. �The spell is broken. But you will remember, and you will know it when it comes to you again, and you won�t settle for anything less, William. Be a man who is worthy of it.�

She pulled her hand from his grasp and went to the bedroom door. �Thank you,� she said, and he heard her light footsteps descending the stairs.

He didn�t see her as he found his way out, not in the tower and not in the garden.

As he made his way home to his crypt, he saw Buffy patrolling along the cemetery wall, and he pondered Sibella�s words. He had been a man, once. A good man. Could he be again to be worthy of such love?

It would take sacrifice. He would have to become something he had never been, not in his whole long life. But it was worth it, the briefest taste had shown him that.

In the shadows, a vampire moved towards the Slayer. Spike squared his shoulders and started running to join the fray.

Main Menu ~ Return to "Faerie Tales" Menu