| Summer Series 2002: The Journey of the Fool Story the 13th ~ Death By Kuzibah |
| Disclaimer: Spike is not mine, more's the pity. Spoilers: For "Grave." Also, this is a bit intense in places (evil flashback) so if you�re sensitive to that, read with caution. And did any of the London Hoot-goers visit Highgate Cemetery? I�m just curious. Also, I�d like to wish a happy birthday to Mr. James Marsters[posted originally on August 20th, James Marsters's birthday.], and thank him for his part in the wonderful creation of Spike. It�s his performance that inspires me. Archive- Please email request. Feedback- Absolutely. ******************* ~London, England It was midnight when Spike exited the Archway stop of the Northern line and ascended the hill to Highgate. He waited in the shadows a few moments until the foot patrol had passed, then darted across the street and scaled the fence, dropping lightly on the other side. He inhaled deeply, taking in the cool night air scented with rotting flowers and wet earth, the distinct perfume of graveyards, and he felt as though he might have stepped out of a time machine. He remembered exactly where he had been buried, and headed towards it, moving slowly through the stones and trees, wanting to go, and yet not wanting to go. But the memories were coming now, and running wouldn�t stop them. He barely remembered waking in his coffin, deep in the ground. He remembered fragments only: fear, followed by the instinct to push upwards, to climb through the soil. He remembered flopping like a stranded fish when he broke through the surface at last, and then white hands, tiny but oh-so-strong, lifting him onto his feet and brushing the soil out of his hair. And the night was like daylight after the darkness of the grave, and with his new eyes. He could hear the footsteps of a moth on a flower petal, and he could smell the woman who held him, all jasmine and lavender and something else, something darker. And she was laughing and patting him, and calling him her �little bird,� and he was filled with confusion, sure this was madness. They left the cemetery together, and a woman by the gate dressed in cheap finery saw him covered with dirt, fresh from the grave, and had tried to scream. But the other girl, the one who smelled like lavender, bent the whore�s head back, and she didn�t scream. Then he had been pulled to them, and his face pressed to the whore�s throat, and then his mouth was full of heat, sweet and thick, like drinking sunlight, and his need awaked. He was hunger, he was thirst, he was desire, and he would never by filled. Spike shivered at the memory. It was like remembering twice: first the memory he had carried for 120 years, of ecstasy at his first taste of blood, and now a second memory, the event seen through the soul�s eyes, and instead of ecstasy there was loathing and disgust. The memory of lust for his dark princess was supplanted by pity for her. He found the grave, drawn to it without consciously looking, but then, he had always known where it was. His mother must have been put into desperate straits by his death, he thought, feeling another stab of guilt as he looked at the stone marker. It was merely a square, too small even for his name, with only his initials and the date, 1880. It was surrounded by similar stones, like a fairy ring, a few larger, with full names. There was his father�s marker, the date of death two months before William was born, along with a brass medallion, now black with age, indicating he had perished in service to the Queen. His mother�s far more modest stone was alongside, and Spike recognized a few of the others from when he and his mother visited, when he was a child: grandparents and aunts and uncles. The family plot was shaded by a black walnut, and almost no grass grew underneath. He thought this was somehow appropriate. He wondered idly if Drusilla�s grave were somewhere nearby, or even if she had been buried at all. Now that he thought about it, he rather doubted she had been. Angelus had put so much thought and care into her creation, it just would not have done for him not to be there when she opened her eyes for the first time. How he had crafted her madness, like a violin-maker crafting an exquisite instrument, turning her and turning her until vision and delusion became one extravagant dementia, and then he had made her into a vampire so that shattered mind was frozen in place, each fracture crystallizing to remain perfectly broken forever. Spike shakily lowered himself to his knees and covered his face with one hand. Poor mad Drusilla. The demons in darkest hell could not have created greater torment. And poor Angel, too, Spike thought suddenly, to have done such a thing and yet be aware. At least those they had killed were beyond pain and misery. Drusilla�s suffering would go on and on. Spike steadied himself on one of the grave markers, slowly drawing air into his lungs and letting it out again. When his hands stopped shaking he reached into his pocket and pulled out a black crayon. He had intended, originally, to maybe do a rubbing of his stone as a memento, but he left the paper folded in his back pocket. He brushed the moss and dirt away and began to write directly on the stone. A few minutes later he stood and brushed his hands, shoved the crayon back in his pocket, turned and went. In the darkness under the tree, only a vampire could have read what he had written, but it didn�t matter. �William,� it said, �also called the Bloody also called Spike. Born 1855. Died 1880. Raised 1880. Reborn 2002.� At the gate, Spike easily scaled the bars again, dropped to the sidewalk outside, and headed back to the station. He needed to get back to his car and get on the road. Would you like to learn more about the history of Highgate Cemetery? Click here. Go on to the next part - Temperance Main Menu ~ Return to Summer Series 2002 Menu |