| Summer Series 2002: The Journey of the Fool Story the 0th ~ The Fool By Kuzibah |
| Disclaimer: Spike is not mine, more's the pity. Spoilers: For "Grave." Archive- Please email request. Feedback- Absolutely. ******************* -Somewhere in Africa It felt different climbing out of the cave than it had climbing in. No longer heated by rage, Spike could feel the moisture from the cave condensing on his cold skin, chilling him even more. Just one more disadvantage to being dead. The green-eyed demon that had presided over his trials had conveniently vanished after bestowing its �gift,� and Spike awoke on the stone floor, alone. He thought he�d known all these years how having a soul had affected his stupid Sire, Angelus. Thought he knew exactly how it had turned that smug, insufferable prick into a smug insufferable prick with doe eyes and a martyr complex. He hadn�t known. And as he lay there, just before the enormity of the situation crashed down on him and he curled himself into a tight, fetal little ball and sobbed himself hoarse, he felt a bright, sharp stab of sympathy for the poor bastard, the first real pity he�d felt for anyone but himself since sitting down on that hay-bale 122 years before. But as much as part of him wanted to lie in that cave until the sand covered him up, or find a convenient stake and run himself on it, he knew this was only the beginning. He�d had a classical education, after all. But was he really the hero of this epic, that was the question. He managed, at last, to climb to his feet, and was surprised to find himself still covered with bruises, his one eye so swollen he couldn�t even see out of it. He�d been so preoccupied by his inner turmoil, he hadn�t noticed. I need some clothes, he thought, gingerly touching a nasty-looking burn on his bicep. His fingers came away slick, and he had a sudden flash of memory of the first burned body he�d ever seen. He had been newly turned, and Angelus had taken him to a tavern where they had drunk until the wee hours. The serving maids had been sent home, and only the landlord and his wife remained. She had been the one to come and send them on their way, but Angelus had refused to go. Then she had fetched her husband, a very large man who apparently assumed a very drunk Irishman and his skinny English friend would respond in a positive manner to being man-handled out the door. Four seconds later, he was sprawled on the sawdust-strewn floor, his head half-twisted off. His wife bellowed in fear, sounding very like a cow that had caught its tail in a pasture gate, and then Angelus really lost his temper. Spike remembered being fascinated to discover that burns also bled; he�d always assumed they were somehow sealed by the heat. He also remembered how her skin changed colors as it burned. Angelus had had to douse her with rum again and again to keep the flame alive. It had taken her a long time to die, and she had screamed long after others Spike had seen Angelus torture would have given up for the shock. Afterwards, Angelus had explained that burning was a good technique if you wished to keep the victim alive a long time. The pain was extraordinary, and yet the person could linger for months. The memory played out with singular vividness in Spike�s mind, and he felt his newly-restored soul begin to ache within him. �You did that,� a small voice said in the back of his mind, a voice that reminded him very much of a bookkeeper�s clerk who fancied himself a poet, and who had died behind a London livery stable many, many years ago. �You killed her, like the monster you are.� Not too long ago, Spike would have been cheered by the recollection, but now he felt helpless remorse, like ashes in his mouth. A woman who had been doing nothing but running her business, and they had murdered her coldly and brutally over the course of several hours. The knowledge that she would doubtless have long been in the grave by now anyway did nothing to cheer him. The internal conflict he felt, the memory of delighting in the landlady�s torment at war with the present conviction that only the most cold-hearted brute would feel anything but horror threatened to overwhelm him again, along with the feeling niggling in the back of his mind that this was all gone terribly wrong. A vampire should not be feeling these things, wasn�t equipped to deal with the emotions, soul or no soul, and something inside would have to give. He crawled through the cave�s narrow passage, trying to push down his mental anguish and physical pain by focusing on the practical. He�d sold everything he�d had of value to reach Africa in the first place (a story in itself), and now he somehow had to find a way back, not to mention providing food, clothing, and shelter from the sun for himself along the way. Another half-assed Spike plan pays off, he thought ruefully. He was approaching the surface, he realized, as he saw the cave drawing on the walls, and sure enough dim light shone in the passage beyond. He passed through the cave entrance, out under the stars, and took a deep breath of the cool, dry air. He had been remade, and like an innocent child, he entered the world reborn. Go on to the next part - The Magician Main Menu ~ Return to Summer Series 2002 Menu |