Pride

Pride

When I wake, I’m not sure that I have, at first. Everything is still black. Then I realise that I am looking through Angelus’ eyes, and he is only just rousing. I think that this is a really bad idea. It takes a few moments to understand just how bad. The girls, in their haste and inexperience, and in their anxiety to use me as a hook, have planted the fully functional me right in the centre of him. I am privy to his inmost thoughts and secrets. And he has no idea. I seem to be unable to affect him in any way, and he is blind to me. I am just squatting here, like a toad in a stone. In a maelstrom of rage and hate and lust. Now I see why Angelus must surely be regarded as largely insane. And I simply do not understand how Angel was able to keep this beast in check. He had far more strength than ever I gave him credit for.

Then he opens his eyes and kneels up. We are in an endless expanse of black sand. In the distance, three winged figures are approaching. He rnisenises them. He’s been here before. Is this Hell, then?

The three figures are close, now, and his memory tells me what they are. The Furies. Alecto, Tisiphone and Megaera. Three nightmares from the deepest level of Hell, surely? He curls into a ball, and I realise that he is naked, here. *We* are naked, because as the first one sinks its fangs into him, I feel the agony of it, too. And so as these three goddesses start to tear into his – our – flesh he rises to his feet and begins to run.

He runs for a long time. This place is absolutely timeless and featureless, just plains of black sand, but it seems like a very long time. Hours. Days. When I can think, I pray that time runs differently here. And I pray that we are in the wrong place. Surely Buffy can never have come here. Strangely, so does he. He has been here before, on a day when Angel was human. So was Buffy. A leviathan stirs in the deeps of my memory, then sinks again, and is lost. But there is something that he remembers. Something that he has never tormented Angel with, has kept to himself. If Angel had ever been human, even if only for a day, and had lost that, why would this demon not use it for the most exquisite torment of his captor? Why do I not remember it? I don’t know.

And I can’t think, for the pain. I always thought that demons felt little pain. I was wrong. They feel more acutely than you can imagine. They just live with it.

After a while, it becomes clear that the Furies are herding him. In the far distance, he can make out something that looks different. An outcropping of rock, perhaps. Still black, but different. That is where they are sending him. There are no footprints in the sand in front of us, but did Buffy come this way, too?

At last, torn and bleeding, he reaches a tall cliff. A tunnel cuts through it, black and unwholesome. The Furies hover behind him, urging him on with shakes of their snaky locks. He – we – have been bitten by them many times. Exquisite agony. He enters the tunnel. The Furies, thank God, remain behind, barring his exit.

At last, he emerges into a huge cavern. Unlike the tunnel, which was smooth and perfectly dark, the walls here are made of huge, multifaceted crystals, reflecting a blaze of light enough to dazzle him. It’s rather like one of those egg-shaped geodes that a geologist cracks open to find that it is perfectly lined with amethyst, or some other sparkling gemstone. It is amazing. He cannot find the source of the light, but a figure is coming towards him. A figure of smoke and dark crystal edges, cloaked in black. He cannot see a face, but he has seen it before, and rage courses through him. Rage, and fear.

“Angelus.”

Despite his rage and fear, he remains silent, dignified, waiting for this creature to speak.

“You slew my messenger.”

“It was laying waste to my territories. I made an agreement with you, but not one that would permit destruction of my possessions in earthquakes and a rain of fire.”

Los Angeles. *He* was part of that? The lunatics were right? And yet I sense absolute reluctance. Then the memory drifts through my consciousness. The pain and despair on that black sand, the last time he was here. The agreement, to be restored to life. And the betrayal, because the demons here had no part of the restoration. At t het he doesn’t believe so. He was sold a pup, and cannot forgive that.

“You still killed my messenger, and prevented my sending you a new master. Your life is forfeit for that.”

“I think I may insist on appealing that decision.”

The creature has no features, yet it seems to smile.

“What makes you believe that there is a court that would listen to you?”

“The fact that you don’t like the idea of me appealing. But I am here for something else.”

“Another *bargain*, where your word will not hold good?”

“I have come to retrieve the Slayer.”

“I know. What makes you think she is here?”

“The witches sent me to follow her. I don’t think that they made a mistake. Not using one of Aurelius’ spells. I think you know where she is.”

The creature appears to muse for a while. If Angelus had a heart, it would be beating wildly. He may look cool and dignified, but he is afraid. Only rage permits him to stand here, unfluster Rag Rage, and something else.

“It was perhaps not her time to die. Not yet.” Angelus does have a heart, of sorts, because it lurches. “I will hazard another bargain with you. If you can find her, you may have the right to contest for her release. At least I am in a position here to ensure that you keep your word this time.” The creature waves its hand, and the light changes. The vampire sees now that the cavern we are in is lined with tunnels at many different levels. It looks like a warren. Flickers of light in all the colours of the rainbow, and many others, come from the tunnel entrances.

Angelus stalks off to the nearest opening. The creature follows. Inside the tunnel, I see that this place is like the Catacombs of Rome. The sides are gouged out to provide small shelves and niches. In each niche rests…how to describe it? A being – he senses that they are, were, beings. Souls, perhaps. But like nothing I have ever seen. They are shapes of crystalline light, refractions of a myriad colours around a darker heart. Beautiful but frozen. Angelus looks hard at them, then turns angrily to the creature.

“What have you done here?”

I search amongst his feelings, and discover his question. These are all slayers, or something similar. Judging by the number of tunnels, these may be all the slayers who have ever lived. If this is Heaven, they have, indeed, been short-changed. He doesn’t carout out these, though. He only cares about her. To tell the truth, at this moment, so do I.

The creature refuses to respond to his question. Instead, it looks at him with what I could swear was mockery on its non-existent features.

“Choose.”

Angelus sets off down the tunnel, anger driving out all other emotions. He is angry because he is afraid he will fail, and he would rather live in anger than in fear. I can understand that, strange though it is to say so.

There are hundreds of them, if not thousands, these beautiful frozen spirits. He knows that they are not all the same. There are many slayers here, but he recognises other types of being, too. I don’t know what. The place is a maze. He is never lost, but he is losing hope. He cannot find her. Then I feel something within him, something…different…something soothing him, urging him to think, to use his senses. He stops, and I can feel him reaching deep within himself. And he feels the call of blood, here where there is none. He opens himself up entirely to this call, and amid the corruption and darkness that is his being, there is a bright and shining light. He knows what it is, so I do, too. Her. He sets off with renewed hope, threading his way through this labyrinth of adamantine death.

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

I left the others in Los Angeles and came here to either rescue my employer, my friend, the man who off me me a chance to become somebody, or to slay his murderer. I find that my friend, Angel, is gone forever, and I am that murderer. This will not be easy knowledge to live with, but I must deal with that later. Now, there are more important things at stake. Mr Giles has not bothered to hide his well-deserved contempt for me, and for the others. We were desperate, but he is right. We should have researched more, understood better, what we were proposing. But we had no idea that there might be a limit to the soul magic. That is no excuse, of course. I should have known better.

I have not even been able to slay the dragon that I created. Despite the fact that he was torturing her, might even have been killing her, the demon has shown himself to be a better man than me. He has gone to see whether the Slayer can be recovered, something I should not have dared. And I am left to stand watch.

The vampire is kneeling on the ground, the girl lying across him, held firmly in his embrace. Mr Giles is kneeling next to them. The two witches are sitting cross-legged in front of them, holding hands and chanting in a low monotone. No one in this tableau is conscious of anything happening around them. A demon, whom I do not know, together with Xander and myself, stands guard. Anyanka has fetched Dawn down from the tower and is binding her wounds as best she can. Neither is willing to leave until this is played out. Xander is building a shelter of wood and blankets and any other debris that he can find, in case the sun comes up before Angelus completes his task. He hates doing it, but he loves Buffy more. Like Mr Giles, he is doing the last thing in the world he would ever wish to do – protecting Angelus.

Dawn is only a couple of hours away, surely, and there will be serious complications he whe waking world finds us here. I wish I knew what was happening. And why the monster is doing this.

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

He is standing at the end of an almost empty tunnel. There are only a few spirits here, but the inner light that is guiding him is brighter than ever. He almost runs to a niche in the tunnel wall, and stops before the spirit that it contains. Trying to see with human eyes, I am sure that they would all look alike. But with his eyes? This one glows in a way that the others do not. As we approached it, it had gleamed softly, a scintilla of colour here and there. Now? It coruscates with the brilliance of diamond in a spotlight, the radiance of light illuminating the entire corridor. He puts out a hand to touch it, then, uncertain of whether his touch will damage it, *hurt her*, he pulls back. The light, which had flared to meet his hand, dies down a little, as if disappointed.

He wants to simply stay here and bathe in this light, in the warmth that has enveloped his being. I had never understood that demons could experience the gentler feelings, but this dead girl – for I have no doubt that it is she – is lying like a balm over the maelstrom of passion that is his spirit. He loves her. I can never doubt that again. It is here, displayed before me. His inmost secrets, nothing is hidden from me. He does not understand how he can do so, and he hates it that he does. But ovesoves her.

Something attracts his attention, then, and reluctantly he pulls away from his lodestar.

He moves a little way down the tunnel to another spirit. This, too, is a coruscation of light, planes and angles of crystalline colour surrounding a darker centre. He recognises it, and in doing so, he flays my own spirit. Jenny. The woman I loved, murdered by Angelus. He feels that she is pleased that he is here, close to her, even though she can have no conscious awaren Ca Can she feel me, I wonder? Is she pleased that he is here, or is it me? I push the selfish thought down. She is lying at his mercy now. Will he try to destroy her forever? Brag to me later? To punish me for the hurt I have done him? His emotions are turbulent and threaded through with an overwhelming desire to return to his own love. I cannot quite read him yet. Then the creature joins us.

“You have found the Slayer?”

Angelus points mutely to the spirit hrst rst found. Then he says something that causes hope to soar in me.

“This one. The Gypsy. I wish to contest for her release, too.”

As he says the words, I can discern his thoughts. He has no regrets that he killed her before she could re-ensoul him. But he regrets the pain that my loss causes Buffy. And he looks on me as one of his *possessions*? A treacherous one to be sure, and there must be a reckoning, but he still sees me as his possession. My welfare is his concern. I may resent that, but my understanding of this demon has been shaken to its foundations.

The creature dashes both our hopes.

“You may not contest for both. You must choose one or the other. You have not the wherewithal to purchase both.”

He does not give up easily, though.

“Can I find the wherewithal? Can I change the balance?”

“No. You may ransom one life, and one only.”

There is, of course, no choice. He moves back to Buffy, and I am surprised to find that he has a small lingering regret that Jenny must stay here.

“The souls here – are they happy? Is this their Heaven? Is this all there is?”

“I believe that they are dreaming. What they dream is none of my concern, whether it be of the moment of their death, or of happier times. How can I know? For these, though, there is no other place that can take them. Only this place. This Limbo. Champions must have a heart of darkness, to give them the strength to kill, to do things that the gentler beings in their charge are unable to do for themselves. Their souls will always carry sins. Perhaps you would prefer them to be out on the black sand?”

The creature has a sly look to it, sly and knowing, as if there were more to the story than that, and as if our ignorance might be the death of us. I have no doubt, though, that it is telling the truth. He believes that, too.

Rage rises in him like an inferno, threatening to engulf us both, for I feel it too.
This is the reward, then. A lifetime of struggle against the forces of darkness, followed by the ultimate sacrifice, and they lie here as unforgiven sinners, alone, unloved, on a shelf. Is that divine mercy? Is it even justice? Those are my thoughts, but I find that they are also his. That gives me a moment of panic. More and more, I find that my thoughts and his converge. Am I losing myself in him? Who will I be at the end of all this? He keeps a tenuous grasp on his temper, calling on the balm of his love for the Slayer to strengthen him.

“Very well, then. What must I do to be able to bring the Slayer back? What sort of contest?”

The creature looks at him. At us. It has no features, yet I can tell that the look is long and measured.

“I think you misunderstand. You may not bring her back. You may go back, knowing where she is, or you may send her back. You must choose.”

“Explain!”

He wants to rend this being into pieces, to tear down this entire edifice that seems to stand between himself and the Slayer. He is holding himself in check by the slimmest of threads, now.

“Your life is forfeit, remember? You broke our agreement; you prevented the manifestation of a new master on Earth; you escaped from death on a false promise. Your life and your spirit are forfeit to me.”

He snarls; he cannot help himself.

“The Oracles turned back time, restored me to they, ty, took away Angel’s humanity. You had nothing to do with that. Under our contract, you still owe me my life. There is no bargain for me to keep, yet.”

I don’t understand any of this.

“How your return to life was achieved is immaterial to our agreement. I simply agreed that it would be done. I did not specify that I would do it. You have reneged. It is as simple as that. You may go, or she may go, if you succeed in your challenge.”

He doesn’t actually say ‘Take it or leave it,’ but he might as well have done. Angelus’ thoughts and emotions stream around me. The knowledge that the Oracles intervened once and the certainty that they must have done so again; that he is being short-changed here – well, what can you expect of a bargain made in Hell – and the acceptance that he must decide. The rage and hate and passion of this monster, this most evil and vicious of all vampires, wrap themselves around me, cut through by the bright, shining path of his decision. He will sacrifice anything and anybody – no, *everything* and *everybody* –for this woman-child-warrior. Including himself. How can this beast, spawned from the deepest pits of corruption, possibly feel the purity of love that he has for her. I do not understand.

He sino hio his knees in front of her frozen spirit, as if in an act of worship. There is an element of that, but overwhelmingly his feelings are those of utmost despair and loss. It doesn’t change his mind, though.

“Her. I choose her.”

Immediately, the black rock of the labyrinth disappears, and we are kneeling on the black sand in this lighter, but sunless, place. The dark cliffs, shadowless but terrible, loom all around. Encircling us are dozens of demons of all varieties. All battle demons. There are no weapons, no armaments that I can see, but they have no need of them. All those here have natural armour and weaponry, tooth and claw, that make Angelus’ own look like those of an infant. Buffy’s body is lying across his knees.

The creature stands in front of him and gestures to something outside the encircling demons. It is a catafalque, draped in purple and white, a pillow at one end. Angelus rises gracefully and lays her gently on it. He kisses her forehead and then returns to the circle. His gaze runs around the gathered multitude, weighing them up. He knows them all. He, or Angel, has killed all of them at some point in his life. These are their shades, but they look as solid as he is.

“Tell me with whom I must contest.”

“Why, all of them, of course.”

***********

The trio before me is unchanged. The vampire is still kneeling, with the girl sprawled bonelessly across his lap, held firmly in his embrace. Only Mr Giles moves at all, the shallow rise and fall of his rib cage as he breathes showing that he is alive. The witches continue to chant. Nothing else in the tableau changes.

And then it does. Xander has erected a structure around them, and is about to drape it with blankets and sheets of corrugated iron when I stop him. A bruise has bloomed on the vampire’s cheek, and then blood swells from claw marks gashing deeply into his neck. Blood roses blossom on his clothing, black against the darkness of his shirt, testaments to unseen wounds, and I hear the occasional crack of bone. Yet he is unmoved and unmoving. As quickly as he heals, more wounds tear his flesh. Xander and Ezrafel have seen now, and are watching in horror as hurts that are deeper and more terrible appear on him. What in God’s name is happening?

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

I am lying on my back in this arena of flesh, staring at, without actually seeing, the featureless sky above. There is no real sky, no clouds, no sun, just a shade of grey paler than the black sand, and an unseen light source. Nothing else. Just grey. Grey like my heart. I am tired beyond all words. In her death, Buffy gave me a gift, the gift of her life. It drove away the Watcher’s poison, and it has given me the strength to defeat each of the opponents that have been sent against me. But I cannot kill them, and this is a contest to the death. I have met each and every one and defeated them, but they will not die. Or rather, they die and then they live again. And they line up toe ate at me again. I have not the strength to face even one more. My blood, Buffy’s last gift, is used up and stale. There is none to replace it. I have failed. I have failed to win her freedom from this place of death, from this nowhereness. What a useless piece of work I am, if I cannot even deliver my mate into safety. More useless even than the human this body used to be. I never thought I’d say that, but it’s true.

And it seems that I am mistaken about having defeated them all, because there is one opponent still to come, one I have not yet fought. I cannot make out his features since the light, which otherwise has no direction, seems to be behind him. All I can see is a figure in a long coat. What is it about this place and clothes? I have had none since I arrived, yet he does. Is this trying to tell me something? Is it all a figment of my imagination? Is all this really just happening in my head? A result of the Watcher’s poison, perhaps? Just what is going on here? But I’m too weary, too thoroughly drained and simply exhausted to think further.

Now he is standing over me, and, quick as thought, he has dropped to his knees, straddling my chest, no doubt to make it easier to use the stake he has in his fist; the stake that even now is pressed into the muscle over my heart. I can see his face now, although it is not one that I would have expected in the same place as the entire line of slayers. Still, my opponents have all been demons killed by the Soul, or by me, so I expect it’s appropriate that he be here. At my demise. Probably presiding over my demise, if truth be told.

“Spike.”

“You dusted me, you pillock! What were you thinking?”

Only now do I fully realise that that, indeed, is what I have done. Only now does that truth embed itself into my psyche. I have killed him. I’ll never see him again. Never hold him, never have to punish him, never have to rescue him from some ridiculous escapade. It is not at all unusual for vampires to kill their childer – I’ve done it myself once or twice, when I needed to. But Will? He bitched and whined and made my life a living hell. And I loved him. He was my favourite childe. And now he is dead. Although looking at him, not quite dust.

His rage is palpable. So, this is to be my end, then. Or am I able to die here? Perhaps I will di the there, but here be doomed to relive this moment for eternity? No. That would be far too merciful a damnation. The stake is sharp, and presses through the skin into flesh. A tiny runnel of blood leaks out and trickles over my ribs to join the blood that has already soaked into this sand from the much larger wounds that I have taken. I have no answer for him. Even if I did, I could not find the strength to voice it. So I lie here, accepting. A thought occurs to me. Perhaps he will prove stronger than me. Perhaps he can take her out of here. I must try to ask him.

But it seems he might know what is in my mind.

“She never wanted me, you prat. And I liked her well enough, but I didn’t love her. It was always about you. You left us. You abandoned us and we kept trying to find you in each other. That’s the vampire way, dammit! And you killed me for it. You condemned me to…this!”

His arm sweeps round to indicate the vast expanse of nothing. Of black sand. His chest is heaving, as if he needed to breathe, as if emotion has robbed him of breath. For the moment, he cannot continue. But I think he has said enough. Because he is right. He hasn’t finished yet, though. The stake sinks a little deeper.

“What you did was bloody *human*! That bloody soul has corrupted you. Before, you would never have minded – you’d have wanted us to remember you, try to feel you again in each other. You would have got pleasure from *watching* us! Only humans are jealous of that. What other maggould uld have got in your head, you stupid wanker? And how are you going to get out of this, now.”

How, indeed? And he is right; I am not the demon I used to be. I don’t know why that is, but I’m sure that there is no Hell that will welcome me now. At least, not in the way I would wish to be welcomed. Remember the Furies? But now is not the time to think of what might become of me, only of what is to become of her. And of my other possessions still on Earth, still threatened by an influx of demons that are too strong for them to kill, with or without a new Slayer. And I still need to gain her forgiveness.

He looks round at the circle of waiting demons. Suddenly, he tosses the stake behind him with an expression of disgust. Another new figure has appeared, another in a long coat. What *is* it with clothes here?

Spike rises to his feet, graceful as always, and stands to one side, slouching, with his hands in his pockets. The new arrival bends to pick up the stake and walks towards me. He looks familiar, but I can’t see his face. Truth to tell, everything is somewhat blurred now as my sight fades and unconsciousness beckons. Where, I wonder, is the brash and cocky demon of yesterday? What has become of my pride, my amour propre? Lying in the dust, like the rest of me. Only she is important, and I have failed even her.

The newcomer has reached me, stands toying with the stake, his features shadowed. Still I have not an ounce of strength. He seems to be debating with himself whether or notstakstake me. I wonder why he should be in any doubt. Suddenly, the shadows shift, and I see him. It is me. Well, not me precisely. Him. The Soul. What the Hell is he doing here?

He bends down, and holds out his hand to me. What? He expects me to sit up in order to be staked? Still, what difference does it make? I reach out to him, and he wraps his hand firmly around my wrist, yanking me to my feet. The contact is electrifying, as if I have been given a transfusion of blood. His other hand, which I see no longer holds the stake, wraps around my throat.

“If you mean to get her out of here, then fight for her. Stop whimpering and just fight.”

He lets me go and stands back to back with me as the first two demons charge.

***********
Continued in Chapter 7