Title: Under An Incubus Moon: Interludes: Haunted
Author: JINX Buffywatcher
Feedback: Constructive
comments always welcome: [email protected]
Pairing: Spike/Drusilla and
Spike/Angel(us)
Rating: R
Spoilers: Possible incidental
references to
Warnings: Hmm nothing really,
this is just a sweetly sad story, a moment out of time
Disclaimer: Just borrowing them
for a bit of harmless fun. All characters, recognisable likenesses are retained
by their owner and accredited license holders.
Writer’s Notes: This story takes place in an AU setting. Please excuse any minor
discrepancies or artist license. As always thanks are going out to GF, Myst,
Salustra, Betsy, Sweet, Luba, and Mera my most excellent group of Beta/Editors.
Writer’s Credits: This story features a medley of songs by Blackmores
Night
Writer Websites: JINXI’s Archive At Shadows In A Mirror: FEVER DREAMS
JINXI’s
LiveJournal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/jinxwatcher
The
Crypt: http://home.att.net/~lubakmetyk/crypt.htm#buffywatcher
Distribution: If I’ve already been
given permission to archive my work please consider it yours if you want it. If
I haven’t and you would like to archive it please do, all I ask is that you
email me and tell me where it’s going so I can visit.
Summary: You need to make
peace with your past before you can reach out to your future.
Song Lyrics
*
He wonders how long he’s been in this quiet
cell of isolation that is this seeming paradise of nothing. Spike looks around
at the beautiful vistas and green rolling hills. This isn’t like any Hell he
could have imagined but perhaps it’s all the more cruel for the beautiful face
it wears on the surface. No one could have been more surprised to wake up here
than he was; from the mouth of hell itself to this deceptively
innocuous-looking pocket of serenity. No one could have been more surprised than
he was to have woken up at all.
It didn’t look like Hell but he remembers
reading a passage in a book from his Human youth that said that each man crafts
his own Hell. He fears few things more than the isolation of being alone and
his Hell is beautiful but it is still his Hell. The surprise of waking up
quickly became secondary to the reality of his situation. Whatever hand had
crafted his prison was diabolically clever, he had everything to sustain his
life with just a little work and effort. The building materials were plentiful
and a wide variety of placid animal life ranged all over the place, providing a
readably accessible food supply. Water was no problem as his location sported
both a very large fresh water river that fed a large lake and his exploring
soon led him to a cave system not too distant that sported natural
He explored as thoroughly as he could, ranging
through the hills and up into the mountains, through the fords and across the
plains and into the depths of the eldritch forests. He knew that he couldn’t be
anywhere on the plane or the planet that birthed him, not even in the remotest
forest was nature so untouched as the
Humans’ destructive potential was very far reaching indeed. There was no way to
judge by whether or not the sun would combust him as it never rose in this
strange place. The ‘day’ was the little more than twilight and the nights were
the darkest of dark shrouds and the moon seemed to be perpetually full.
For nearly two years he travelled his pretty
cage with not a single sign of civilisation or hints that any had ever existed
there at all. He was utterly alone and he knew that the isolation would soon
drive him mad unless he took steps to prevent the inevitable mental collapse.
He knew that the best way to do that was to have something to focus on and to
keep his mind off of his situation. He began to search for a place to settle
down and eventually his travels brought him back to the place that he had
started and taking it as a sign, he began to fashion an existence for himself.
He wonders how perverse it is that he actually
managed to learn a few things watching Survivor and Gilligan’s
After several months and a lot of trial and
error he taught himself how to tan and preserve the leather hides of the bovine
like herbivores that seemed to range in vast herds and the number he took was
barely a dent in their number. Using a bone needle and thin strips of scrap leather
as thread he even learned to fashion clothing and other items. The feathers
from the geese-like water birds and other avian types that he was able to catch
also came in handy. The heavier outer feathers he found made excellent
insulation when stitched together to form thickets and he was able to line the
walls and floor of his cave home with the thickly protective cushioning. The
soft down feathers he used to stuff a large leather bag which he then
cross-stitched and quilted. Set atop a natural rock shelf that was nestled
towards the back of the cave, it became a comfortable bed. He decided to
sacrifice his soft cotton t-shirt and deftly turned it into a thick fluffy down
filled pillow. He decided to carefully set his precious duster aside and he folded
it reverently and placed it on a rock shelf. After a few moments his jeans
reluctantly joined it also folded neatly. A simple pair of leather trousers and
a vest would do well enough for clothing. It wasn’t long before his heavy
clunky books also joined the neatly stored items of clothing. The soft Indian
style moccasins he was able to fashion were more suited to the terrain and
allowed him to move with almost cat-like silence, a great advantage on the
hunt.
He began to explore his new home more carefully
and he discovered that the wealth of things it boasted were greater than he
knew. He found a shortcut through the mountains to the plains that would allow
him to move easily between the valley that was his home and where the majority
of the large herbivores dwelt. He also found an animal not unlike a long legged
sheep and remembering lessons learned long ago from his Mother he soon
relearned the skill of carding wool and weaving. He even managed to construct a
simple guitar and flute from the simple materials his new home had in
abundance. Soon his life was as soft as it could be, though hardly as pretty or
polished as a Macy’s ad but it was all he needed… well almost all he needed.
The days turned to weeks, then to months and
finally years, marked only by the turning of the seasons and the tides of life.
For a while he tried to keep track but eventually all that did was depress him,
as did trying to figure out why he was where he was and not dead… well
permanently so. His favourite theory is that he’s in some sort of limbo
dimension, too good for Hell but too bad for Heaven and this perfect prison is
his karmic compromise. He soon stopped trying to figure it out, it didn’t
really matter and not much did anymore.
He’s not sure when he started singing but he
found comfort in the sound of a voice, even if it was his own. In the evening
when he’d finished his tasks for the night and the night’s sounds rose up
around him he would climb to the top of the hill that overlooked the river and
the lake beyond and raise his voice in song. The strange alien sounds soon
became as much a part of the surroundings as the growing things and the animals
came to accept them. He fancies that the quietness that seemed to fall over his
quiet valley was their ultimate complement as all stopped to listen to his
impromptu concerts. He knows it’s probably the sound of his voice so unlike
theirs that has them quiet but he’s fine with the flattering lie he chooses to
believe.
He’s strangely not surprised that she shows up
one night while he was softly strumming his simple guitar; surely he conjured
her from his memory. She’s as lovely as he remembers her to be with her
porcelain pale skin and her hair dark as a moonless night. Her pretty gown is a
confection of pale snowy white satin and pale yellow lace that isn’t something
he can remember her wearing before but she must have if he’s conjured her from
his memories wearing it.
Paint me your picture
and hang it on the wall
Color it darkly; the
lines will start to crawl
Down…down…down
Spin me around and
around…
Draw me away to the
night from the day; leave not a trace to be found…
Down…down…
Nothing is real but
the way that I feel and I feel like going -
Down, down, down, down,
down, down, down,
Down, down, down,
down, down…
His smile is tender as she dances in the
moonlight as he knew that she would, as she did every time he sang for her. As
carefree as a little girl as she swayed , bobbed and twirled until the world
was a mad whirl around and again, until all that was known was a blur of chaos
all run together. She is as she always was to him tender and tough despite the
seemingly fragile body that housed her indomitable will. Hers was the spirit of
a little girl, fearless and easily bruised but the ugly marks soon faded and
were forgotten as though they had never been. She courted pain with all the
fervour and dedication of a child chasing after its favourite ball despite the
dangers of the busy streets. She was the wisdom of madness and the anarchy of
random thoughts. She was a constant contradiction that caused her mind to float
from subject to subject like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower eager
to sample all that there was to offer. She was broken perfection and still she
danced in the moonlight to the tunes he wove for her.
I’m ready to go, pull
me down from below
Give me a place I can
lay
Hey Hey
- nothing is real but the way that I feel and I feel like going
Down, down, down, down,
down, down, down,
Down, down, down,
down, down…
Nothing is real but
the way that I feel and I feel like going -
Nothing is real but
the way that I feel and I feel like going
Down, down, down, down,
down, down, down,
Down, down, down,
down, down…
The pain and loneliness he feels is poured into
the last word of the song transforming the word down into a howling lament that
washes over the valley setting the birds to panicked flight as the small
creatures dive for the comfort of safe dens and dense thickets. He pulls the
guitar tight to his chest and wilts over the top of it drained and shaking from
the cathartic release of emotion.
It takes him several moments to realise that a
hand is stroking slowly through his riot of hair, which thanks to the comb and
the knives he’s brought with him, he’s managing to keep trimmed and somewhat
neat. He doesn’t need a mirror to see that the peroxide has long grown out of
his hair returning it to the burnished gold, tawny red, and whiskey coloured
mane of his youth.
“You are real my beautiful and wild William. A
flower that grows alone is no less beautiful for its isolation. I wanted to
come before, sweet Childe of mine but I was forbidden to interfere in the
choice at hand but your cries have reached the vaults of Heaven’s Gate. Death
cannot part us for we are death. You always sung me such pretty songs; sing me
something happy, my William? I will dance for you now as I danced for you
then.” Her voice is unchanged, curiously trapped somewhere between childhood
and womanhood and freely travelling between.
He rears back and away, shaking his head from
side to side in denial as her scent wraps around him. The pervasive scent that
is violet water, Frankincense and Myrrh mixed with the faint scent of candle
wax, sacramental wine, and despair could belong to no one else. “No, no, no,
no, you can’t be here, please don’t be here.” He chants frantically squeezing
his eyes shut tightly. Not his dark princess, not in this place, not really,
that would mean Angelus is alone and that is something he doesn’t want to face.
Angel may have denied them and convinced that he didn’t need them but he’s
always known that his Sire felt more for them than he was willing to face. He
knows that every night he rises because he knows that if it were any other way
he’d have been dust long ago, like Darla and like
She was gone when he opened his eyes.
She would come and go with no predictable
pattern and eventually he had to accept that his Dark Princess was no more of
the flesh. They spoke of many things, wonders and horrors and sometimes nothing
at all as they wrapped themselves in music and let it speak for them. Drusilla
told him of her final death and he mourned for his tortured Princess even as he
rejoiced in her salvation. While her Demon was unworthy of entrance to the
hallowed halls of the afterlife, her mortal soul was welcomed and embraced as
her Demon was cast out to return to the pits that birthed it. He had the
singular pleasure of getting to know his once-Sire as she was a human girl and
he rejoiced that some part of her was living on and thriving in whatever lied
beyond his prison.
Some part of him knew that tonight was
different. As he gathered up his guitar and his flute and ascended to his
favourite vantage point over his Valley, each step brought more surety.
Something was going to happen tonight, something was going to change and he
marched boldly to meet it and her. He knew that she would come to him tonight
as the music drifted on the breeze.
The full moon rose over the distant mountain
peaks as he settled at the edge of the hill as it dropped sharply over his
valley; if this were his kingdom than he would be sitting atop his throne. He sets
the simple six string guitar aside and lifts the simple wooden flute to his
lips and soon the night drifts with music, haunting and soft.
His eyes are closed as he sways gently but he
doesn’t need his eyes to know the second she arrives or the gentle caress of
her hand as she sweeps by him in her joyous dancing.
“You play the sweetest music, My William. It
drifts on the wind like kisses and holds me as close as your arms. Sing me to
my forever William?” Her voice is cotton candy sweet and the bitterest of
flavours as he lowers the flute, no longer having the strength to hold it
aloft.
“You’ve come to say goodbye then.” He says
flatly, his voice choked and throbbing with pain.
“You cannot live a life always saying hello,
Sweet William. There has to be goodbyes too. I don’t know what lies beyond for
me but it is time to find out and I cannot do that tethered to my past.” Her
hand is gentle as it cups his head and the bosom he is pulled against is warm
and welcoming.
“What kind of life is this that they’ve left me
to? I would almost rather be dammed.”
“Do not speak so my Childe.” There is nothing
of the madness that once ruled her left in her voice. What he hears now is only
the chorus of Angels. “You are alone but you will not always be, I have seen that it is so. What you have lost, you will
reclaim, and what has been taken will be given back. Trust in your heart my
sweet one for it has never lied to you or hidden the truth away.”
Spike clings to his creator and trembles
faintly. “When will I know what to do to escape this place?”
“You cannot escape but even now events are set
in motion that you will be released and light shall overcome the darkness of
despair that troubles you so. Things will not be as they were, hold to that
certainty and know that it is true. I will not see you again, my path leads me
to journey far from you shall be but I will never leave as long as you
remember.” The hands release him and he is free and sitting once more alone.
“Sing our song my Sweet William, sing and know that wherever I am, I shall hear
it.”
His hand goes to his guitar of its own volition
and it is soon settled across his lap as his hands steal over the tightly
strung strings of sinew and coaxing the music from its depths.
The valley green was
so serene
In the middle ran a
stream so blue…
A maiden fair, in
despair, once had met her true love there and she told him…
She would say…
He lets his voice trail off and blend into
Drusilla’s as the bell like purity of her voice rises to answer his own.
“Promise me, when you
see, a white rose you’ll think of me
I love you so,
Never let go,
I will be your ghost
of a rose…”
Their voices weave and join in unison as the
tide rises and recedes in the sea so they are moved by forces unseen but never
unfelt.
Her eyes believed in
mysteries
She would lay amongst the leaves of amber
Her spirit wild, heart
of a child, yet gentle still and quiet and mild and he loved her…
When she would say…
“Promise me, when you
see, a white rose you’ll think of me
I love you so,
Never let go,
I will be your ghost
of a rose…”
When all was done, she
turned to run
Dancing to the setting
sun as he watched her
And ever more he
thought he saw
A glimpse of her upon
the moors forever
He’d hear her say…
“Promise me, when you
see, a white rose you’ll think of me
I love you so,
Never let go,
I will be your ghost
of a rose…”
He’d hear her say…
“Promise me, when you
see, a white rose you’ll think of me
I love you so,
Never let go,
I will be your ghost
of a rose…”
A last touch against his cheek and she starts
to fade as the night before the day until all that is left are her words upon
the wind.
“Never let go Spike and I will never be lost to
you. Sing for me…”
Ghost of a rose…
He played that night until his voice fled and
his fingers ran with blood. He sang for her.
*
The full moon shines brightly upon the ivory
stone as he kneels to place the single flower down upon it. His hands turn to
search among the gaily patterned colours of white and yellow daisies, deftly
plucking the weeds that are trying to gain a foothold among the beautiful
flowers. There will be no ugliness here, only beauty. He feels more than sees
the powerful form that crouches beside him to search for the botanical invaders
in the second bed of flowers.
Their task complete their hands reach out to
entwine fingers, the tattoos that adorn the inside of both of their wrists seem
to shine faintly in the moonlight. They take a step back and survey their work.
“Why did you choose daisies? I didn’t ask
before. We could have planted roses.”
“She likes daisies but they always died, these
won’t.” He says quietly, pulling his Mate closer and turning them away from the
field of silent stones and back to the land of the living. His voice drifts
back in parting benediction.
He’d hear her say…
“Promise me , when you see, a white rose you’ll think of me
I love you so,
Never let go,
I will be your ghost
of a rose…”
Behind them an ivory Angel stands guard over
the carefully tended plot, surrounded by daisies in riots of yellow and white
until they’re almost overflowing. Despite winter’s chill winds the magic that
sustains them protects them from the harsh reality of weather. The heavy stone
Angel is a masterpiece of craftsmanship and if anyone were to look closely
enough they might be startled to recognise its stone features as very familiar
and the curious object it clutches in one hand as a railroad spike.
The heavy ivory cover-stone is bevelled and
carved deeply and angled so that the Angel towering above it partially shields
it from the weather. A lone white rose lies upon the words so deeply ingrained
into its welcoming surface.
Drusilla
Bradley-Quinlan
We’ll never let go.
If anyone had been there to see it, they may
have smiled as an uncharacteristically warm breeze blew in out of no where to
set the petals to dancing.