Spikeid IX
20 March 2011 23:05![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quinaraYay! I achieved my goal of getting these three books posted before my birthday! (Heh, it seemed laughably easy back in January - apparently my rational brain knows me much better than my intuitive one...) This book doesn't end on a cliffhanger, so I hope it won't be too irritating to wander back into the abyss between updates again. I'm definitely looking forward to finishing this, never fear - just need to recover my poetry brain.
Let's get to it! Spuffy (as in actually a bit); PG-13; ~4300 words (~550 lines); warnings for the series of death and denied agency, with only brief mentions in this book, but added for this book is reasonable amount of stylised gore. Big thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
brutti_ma_buoni for the butt-kicking beta!
Illyria shares a memory and other preparations are made.
[VIII]
IX
She’s caught by light, by pain that magnifies
Light brightly, feels her body fall away,
Keep falling, rushing wind against her skin,
Until she’s fallen into dark and cold.
For minutes then Illyria can’t move,
Her muscles trembling with shock and pain,
Stone hard around her gushing acid blood;
This does not feel as her flesh feels, but then
She can’t remember who or where she is.
There’s light again, or light enough at least,
To see the hair that’s slipped across her face:
So pale, ash blonde perhaps; obscuring veil,
Which drifts then lets her see this fey new light,
A shining beacon in the distant dark.
Ungainly, she puts weight back on her feet –
Can’t stand so tall as she thinks she deserves –
And notices that she is wearing white.
Who is she to be clothed in cloth as this?
Forgetting all that just for now, she walks,
She stumbles slowly off towards the light,
Which gradually expands; she’s walking down
A corridor, this light a doorway at
The end. Illyria goes through to find
A chamber: vaulted stone, red, gold and blue
Around her, images of gods in state.
A hundred flames attend from golden stands.
“OK, so clearly I did something right…”
The words come from her mouth, reveal her awe,
Are strange and yet are all she has to say;
Illyria does not know what she should
Believe, not anymore, not seeing this.
Her steps tap out a ritual beat of drums
Across the floor. The glowing, flickering gleams
Of metal, stone, enamel, it is all
Enough to give the images a life,
An animation as they sneer at her,
Small suppliant before their holy might
(Constricted, bound in chains of golden stone).
Then round a corner, round the wall, there comes
The figure of a god who blocks her path,
Stands waiting for her with a jackal’s head.
His arms are crossed, his toothy maw set grim.
“Hey, I know you,” Illyria calls out.
“We met before –” Before she went somewhere
She can’t remember now. But she was here
(If she is her – though who else could she be?),
Walked in and then got lost somewhere, has now
Returned, it seems. “I never caught your name.”
“Anubis,” he replies. “I’m here to take
Your heart.” She’s come within six feet of him,
But now she halts, feet firm against the stone.
“Well, that’s not gonna happen…” she replies,
Hands fisting as her arms rise in defence.
“And, really, it’s not nice to greet your guests
That way, just FYI.” “Your body’s time
Is over,” says Anubis, voice like gold,
So bright, but heavy, tongue against his teeth.
“Another life awaits you after this.”
Illyria looks back at him and feels
Alive already, knows she has a life
Where once her heart still beat and she still breathed.
“I don’t know how I came here, but I don’t
Think you should try it, OK, jackal-boy?”
The god approaches her, a wicked knife
Appearing in his hand; Illyria
Is not afraid, but holds her stance. He speaks
Again: “You found your way here willingly.
Do not resist me like a screaming child.”
“I may have come here, but I didn’t come
To you.” With these last words Illyria
Kicks out to knock the jagged knife away.
The god claws at her shoulder, but she turns,
Resists his power and his strength. Punch thrown,
Her fingers come against the ravening teeth
Which fill his mouth, pound hard and shake one loose,
Draw blood and make him spit divinity
Across the ochre stone, where he, she knows,
Would have her body bleed. He snarls at her,
The knife forgotten now in favour of
His claws, curved sharp in perfect sickle shapes,
But she has brute strength of her own, knows gods
And how they fight, will not give up her heart.
The fight wears on and she is winning, holds
The knife found from the ground tight in her fist –
But then another voice comes, singing sigh:
“Anubis, what is taking you so long?
The scale is empty and our time’s not cheap –
You’re slower than before the system switched…”
Anubis growls above the crack of flesh,
Its beating, “Horus! Help me with this girl –
The bitch threw in the towel in her prime.”
The falcon-headed Horus clucks his beak,
“Oh, not again…” before he joins the fight.
“This is the problem with monopoly;
Nobody coming here knows what to do…”
But they are both distracted by their words;
Illyria breaks free and runs the way
They came, so certain she can get to where
She’s meant to be, to where she sent herself
Without their interference, runs through halls
Where still more haughty gods stare down at her,
Where some weird mixed-up monster snaps its jaws
And chases down her heels. A feather floats,
Made buoyant in her wake, then wheels and spins
In spiralled fall; she rushes past, runs fast
And finds herself where there are no more doors,
Where there’s a lonely throne set in the room
And on it sits a god, with crook and flail
Across his chest, an ostrich-feathered crown
In stately rest upon his noble head.
“You tell me where’s the exit out of here,”
She orders him, voice loud and echoing.
He tells her, mocking smile on his face,
“Corporeal, there is no way to leave.”
They will not let her go, she knows it then,
Until she has rejected claim upon
Her body, felt her life’s blood bleed away,
Abandoned it for use by some force else.
But there’s no time for this; she hurls her knife
To strike him through the neck, to pierce his throat.
His blood comes pouring out, soaks through his beard
And down his clothes to stream along the floor.
It’s dark and red –
– but shimmers in the light,
Shows visions as it pools before her feet:
The halls are there within its flood,
The vaulted yellow stone, the gold and blue,
The labyrinth her pounding footsteps traced.
It’s not reflection but a fact – and as
The blood approaches her she knows it’s true.
The room around her fades, there’s only blood,
Still pooling, but less red the more she stares,
Until the moment it laps to her feet.
It touches her, and then the vision’s real;
She’s there again within the first bright room,
Unwounded as Anubis comes to her.
She fights a dozen times, gains victory
In each, but still she finds herself brought back
To here, Osiris’ hallowed entrance hall.
The last time at the throne she calls to him,
Anubis, Horus, bleeding in her wake,
“Who are you, sitting there the judge of me?”
He looks around at all the painted gods,
Their images last remnants of their might,
Then tells her, “I’m the one who took control.”
His sons come running in behind her then;
At last she’s borne down to the golden floor.
Her blood bleeds out and soon her heart is weighed;
Osiris watches, smiling from his throne.
Collapsed in second death Illyria
Returns to where she is herself, no flesh
Inside her, rotting soft with age, no skin
But hardened shell whose form she can control.
There’s breath that’s moving through her, thick and harsh,
But she controls that too, can make it still,
As still as Buffy lying in repose
Before Illyria’s wide gaze. The god
Steps back a thousand ages from her form.
Sineya pities her; that’s clear to see
In how her features soften. “None of this
Means I am thwarted,” thus Illyria
Declares, while straightening her joints to stand
As tall as she is able. “I am more
Than any Slayer, terrible and feared.
Osiris will not live to still my hand
If I raise any blade to cut his flesh.”
There’s echoing of fear and mortal pain
Inside her now, but she has found her task.
With kingly gait she walks towards the stairs.
“Come with me, show me dreams the other sees
Who fought this god, was taken by his will.”
Sineya’s voice comes softly now behind:
“You want to see what Sadie saw?” She’s scared,
This Slayer spirit, human to the last,
Bound to her daughters, hurt in sympathy.
And there is part of her, Illyria,
Which understands, although she dictates, “Yes,”
Before she leads the way to knowledge gained,
God-King and Slayer joined in common aim.
When Sadie wakes, she can remember this,
The conversation, two gods in her mind –
The Slayer asked for welcome, was let in,
Then walked with her back through that awful night.
And yet she’s calmer when she wakes, even
OK? The day seems brighter anyway.
“Hey, wake up, Sades,” Gurpreet is telling her,
Far too awake. “We’ve got to go downstairs…”
Now Sadie turns her head, squints bleary eyes
To see Gurpreet is dressed, stood by her bunk,
Excited; who knows why. “They’re making plans
To go up in the sky again, big plans.
That Gunn guy’s gonna do diplomacy;
They wanna hear what the dragon thought
To go with what the others saw up there…
I think the idea is we do a spell
Again, like, with that witch from yesterday?
But otherwise it might be interesting…”
Breath hitches short in Sadie’s throat on ‘spell’,
But soon she’s breathing through it, thinks again
And wonders if it might not be that bad –
The spells that they did yesterday went well
(Apart from when the freezing spell went wrong;
Gurpreet, however, seems quite pleased by that)
And everybody’s said that Willow’s great
At magic, so they’ll all be supervised.
The meeting sounds quite boring, though, not least
Because they heard the dragon stuff last night.
She’s not quite sure how best to break it that
She never much enjoyed McCaffrey’s Pern,
So Sadie goes for noncommittal, says,
“I’ll be down later; go ahead and I’ll
Catch up.” She smiles and feels a flash of nerves
Gurpreet might take it badly – but it’s fine.
She shrugs – “All right!” – then bustles with the rest
As they get bobbles for their hair and laugh
And leave, so Sadie’s left to snooze again.
She gets up not long later, heads downstairs
Her hair still damp from showering. It’s strange
(Or not) how slaying’s similar to school,
Back when she boarded: lukewarm water, crowds…
Apocalypses – yeah, they’re something new.
And even situations like this one,
Where what they’re saving is the status quo.
It seems as if the way they’re going to fight
Has been decided now: when Sadie hits
The common room the general meeting’s stopped,
With people talking in small, separate groups.
And she can’t see Elise or Gurpreet
Or Willow anywhere – but Buffy’s here,
Just by the stairs, so Sadie turns to ask
If she knows where they are. She realises,
However, when she turns, that Buffy’s deep
In serious dramatic dialogue
With her boyfriend-equivalent. “…I know
You say you're fine,” she’s telling him, “But I –
Last night you nearly left yourself in hell
And now you’re heading up our alien
Campaign because they think you’re boss of us;
You matter to me, so I care if there’s
A part of you that’s panicking, all right?”
She’s trying for a rom-com, but Spike frowns,
Looks to the carpet and replies, “Don’t start
On that – we do this pre-apocalypse
Chitchatting every time and generally
It ends with one of us stone dead. I’m fine.”
He looks up then; “Besides, there’s things to do.”
A nod past Buffy’s shoulder and she’s turned
To look at Sadie – startled, blushing red.
“Oh, hey,” the Slayer says, “Are you OK?”
Spike slips away behind her; Sadie nods,
Embarrassed. “Sorry. Interrupting – I,
I didn’t mean to, erm – do you know where
I’m meant to be?” A glance into the room,
Where Buffy’s eyes don’t search so much as fall
On Spike (who’s sitting down with Gunn), she says,
“I think the others went with Willow to –
The laundry room? Hey, look, they’re coming out.”
They are as well, the three of them, with sheets
Or something bundled in their arms. “Oh, thanks,”
Then Sadie mumbles; Buffy smiles and they
Part ways. As Sadie heads across the room,
However, they all shake their heads and point
The way she’s come. “I thought we’d go upstairs,”
Now Willow says, “And use your dorm for space.
The spell we’re gonna do for everyone,
It’s not beyond your level, but some drills
Should help us work together as a group?”
She looks bizarrely eager, like they might
Say no. “Er, you know more than us, don’t you?
What are we doing anyway? I thought
It’d be the same?” They clomp back up the stairs;
Gurpreet cuts in with, “Nah, this new spell’s sick,
Like, it’s a virtual reality
Space-teleport mashup.”
“And that means what,
Exactly?” Sadie asks, confused as they
Come back into the dorm, sit down on squashed
And just-about-made covers, turquoise-blue.
“It’s very similar,” Elise says,
Explaining, next to Willow on the bed.
“But we will alter their perception, too,
So when they go above they’ll interact
Inside a virtual reality
And understand what’s going on up there.”
Now Sadie’s panicking. “And that – that’s meant
To be our skill level? To do tonight?”
Gurpreet beside her doesn’t look that fazed,
But this is not like anything they’ve done…
“Hey, chill,” the older witch remarks, too cool
When Sadie’s caught her eye. “You’ll all be fine –
The spell is really not that hard. It’s just
About your concentration, which, you know,
Is why we’re here! So how about we start
With you guys telling me about your spells.
How much d’you work together, usually?”
“Like, all the time,” Gurpreet replies. “It’s rare –
Or sort of rare-ish, that we work apart.”
Elise adds, “Yes, I’d agree. It makes
Our casting complicated, with the gods
We call on, but –”
“How come?” then Willow asks,
Confused or looking like it anyway.
“Because we all call different sources up
To make our power...?” Sadie offers her.
“Apart from me, who shops around; I’m sure
You heard about what happened recently…”
She drops her head – but then, before she has
A chance to really think back to it all,
Gurpreet is saying, “Um, with me as well,
I haven’t really done much calling up
In – well, like, it’s messed up, innit, mate?
To hassle gods and goddesses for – boons
Or, like, whatever, even though you’ve not
Had much to do with them before. I mean,
It feels well disrespectful?” Sadie turns
And looks at her, surprised by what she’s said.
She thought the other two were more than pleased
With how their magic was for them – it’s what
Made her so desperate to find a source…
“Is that OK?” She looks at Willow, asks,
“Is it OK for us to work like that?”
The woman frowns, mouth quirked to cheek in thought
Before she says, “I’ve not researched it… I –
I mean – it’s true that – Giles always knew,
Or seemed to know much more about the rules
Of magic theory, but his lessons came,
Uh, through the Watchers’ Council, which I’m sure
You’re glad you never knew… I’ve always found
That trying to make deals with gods whom you
Respect – or worship, maybe, more than that?
They don’t exactly feel as comfortable;
Which gives you less control, which makes the spell
More likely to go wrong. Consistency,
I guess, can be a very useful thing,
And doing all the bookwork on the god
Or forces you intend to use, in case
They’re known for tricksiness – but otherwise?
There’s so much we don’t know about the world,
The universe, that sometimes it feels best
To keep religion almost separate
From magic, if you can. To have what you
Believe in one part of your mind, and know
That that’s unknowable, then have your spells
As clear negotiation you agree
The terms of, cast, then terminate in full.”
Her words are all so welcome Sadie wants
To think they’re true, but even so she can’t
Forget – “But didn’t you just spend a year
Abroad and suffering because the god
You made a contract with felt like she could
Do anything she wanted to?” The blush
On Willow’s freckled face goes deep and dark.
“Um, yeah, that partly was because of me –
We didn’t have much time, so I may have
Not put in all the preparation that
I should… But, yeah, I guess you’re right that it’s
More complicated than I make it sound.
There’s lots of factors. Magic’s dangerous,
I mean, that always needs remembering –
That’s why we wanna feel we’re in control.”
“And in reply to that,” Elise adds,
“Perhaps we save the world before we do
Philosophy?” They all feel sheepish then,
But Willow soon recovers, says, “OK,
Let’s do some practical…” She nods her head
Towards the sheets in bundles on the floor.
“To save the guys some chores I thought we’d start
Our concentration work with basic stuff,
So floating, flattening and folding these.”
It takes a moment to sink in – and then
The three girls look at her, their groans as one.
Who thought that they’d get stuck with ironing?
It’s later when the details have been worked
As far as they are likely to be through
That Buffy comes upstairs to check on things.
The door squeaks open casually and she
Leans past the jamb, inside but taking care
Not to step in until she’s sure it’s safe.
“Hey, how’s it going, guys?” she asks, voice light
And totally unpressured as she smiles.
Remarkably they all smile back – the sheets,
Which she remembers creased but dry,
Aren’t bunched up anymore. So, two look worse –
One tattered and the other cindered black
Inside the trash beside the door – the rest,
However, they’re all laundered perfectly
In thick, flat, folded rectangles, which
Are being used to build a tall and strange
And gravity-defying piece of art.
It’s something like a tree, its limbs on points,
But still the sheets stay folded in the air.
“Wow! I’m impressed!” she says, spontaneous
In praise – on Willow’s nod the sheets then fall
Out of formation to a perfect pile
In something very Mary Poppins-esque.
“We’ve got it pretty good now,” Willow says,
Her eyes a little creased in tiredness,
More than they always used to be. “We’re set
To rock the spell this evening, aren’t we, gang?”
Both Sadie and Elise awkwardly
Grin back at the enthusiasm, while
Gurpreet replies, “Did you just call us ‘gang’?”
As if she misses people who are cool.
It edges on the wrath of choring teen,
So Buffy thinks that counts as checked, cuts in,
“OK! That’s great, then, just make sure to get
Some rest before tonight; we can’t be sure
How long it’s gonna take. I’ll see you then.”
They nod and Buffy thinks, at least they take
Her seriously – to her face if not
In private. Though, of course, when this spell’s done
They’re bound to have respect for Willow too.
Content, she leaves, pulls close the squeaky door;
With nimble, rhythmic clattering she heads
Downstairs again, beat only breaking when
She realises she’s run by Spike, who’s there
Just opening the weapons cabinet
(Junk closet, as she hears was its old name)
To look what’s up for grabs inside. She stops,
Remembering what’s next of her To Dos:
Make Spike explain what he said earlier
And don’t crap out like back in Sunnydale.
She hasn’t worked out nuance more than that,
But, still, she sets her left foot down a step
Then walks on casually; her pulse
Does all the running for her, takes her miles…
“Oh, hey,” she calls, as she turns from the stair
To glide her fingers down the crossbow shelf.
“Found something good in there?” She leans in through
The doorway, to the gloom, the fragile light
Not inching very far beyond her feet;
Spike’s penlight won’t reveal his face to her.
“Not likely,” he replies, disdainfully,
His shadowed features shifting with a shrug
From where he’s hunched beneath the slanting roof.
He shines the light down walls and at his feet,
So she can see the closet’s cavernous
But for the most part closeting old junk –
There’s broken bits of table, chairs and bed;
A bird of paradise lawn ornament,
With one eye fallen out; three rusty swords.
“Look, um,” she starts to say, until she hears
Two laughing guys come over to the stairs.
A nervous glance, and then she steps inside
To shut the cupboard door on her and Spike;
She figures that their eyes will soon adjust…
“So, look,” she tries, her voice not very strong.
“I know I tried this earlier and you
Weren’t interested, but – I mean, I don’t
Think we should face that weird white world again
Without at least a conversation, right?”
It’s easier, this talking in the dark –
Not easy, not at all, but not so hard.
And yet – Spike doesn’t seem all that convinced;
He draws in, sets the light up by their heads,
New leather creaking on his arms. “Buffy,”
He starts himself, voice serious and low,
“I’m fine. We’re fine. This – everything is fine.
Both you and I can feel the end of this
Is drawing in, so let’s get on with it.
What happens afterwards – that’s all for then,
Not now. Let’s go be heroes, like before.”
But Buffy can’t accept that. “Like before?”
She asks incredulously, “What, you think
That final day shook out just ‘fine’ for us?
‘Cause I would like to lay some ground rules here –
Maybe some openness and then belief?
But then I guess that things were ‘fine’ for us;
With all the miscommunication, then
The year apart – yeah, that’s what I’d call ‘fine’.”
She breathes out then, lets all her anger go.
“See, I’m amazed by what you’ve done out here,
The life you’ve made and saving everyone –
And I know you don’t care, but it is true –
So I can see why you would stay and fight…
But if we’re separated this time round
Could you not let me think you’re dead – like, please?
And then – I mean, with all these last few days,
I feel like I still love you, but I’m sure
You’ve changed, so I would like to get to know
This you some more; then maybe we could try
The tearful revelation thing again?”
The silence comes and she can only blush,
More red as she begins to see Spike’s face –
His cheeks, in ashy grey, his clenching jaw –
Her eyes adjusting slowly to the gloom
That fills the space around the thin-beamed light.
He tells her, “We both know,” his voice restrained,
As if he’s trying very hard to talk
The way he told himself he’d talk to her,
“There’s no point making plans for afterwards,
No way of knowing where or how we’ll be…”
“But why not?” Buffy interrupts. “You can’t –
Nobody stops from having plans, or thoughts –
They try to keep themselves from hoping, don’t
Articulate specifics, but they can’t
Stop thinking what might happen afterwards.
And keeping that inside, sometimes it’s wrong,
And people, some of them, realise too late…”
Spike’s looking down and staring at the floor;
She doesn’t think he’s listening anymore.
But then he mutters, brittle words through dark,
“Don’t make me guess what you are trying to say;
I’ve had too many plans thrown in my face.”
There’s nothing else to do, she’s pretty sure,
Except breathe in and make the words.
“OK, you wanna hear it, what I see
Before I go to sleep at night, with you?”
His head jerks up, but her eyes shift away;
The sight of him’s so clear now that she’s scared.
And yet she makes herself continue on,
“My plan is that we’ll fix this, set it right,
And then Rondell will move back into charge –
With his supply maps, observation logs,
He’s in the best position to decide
Which areas could get cleaned up and then
Inhabited the easiest – I mean,
There’s no point bringing in the government
Before we’ve got the demons cleared away.
And he’ll need help with that, so my plan is
We’ll stay a little while, until the fall?
A cell of Slayers, they’ll stay here as well,
And Dawn can visit, if she wants. And then –
Well, then I guess we work it out from there,
Because I think I’m due at least a year’s
Sabbatical from teaching in the school,
If you want us to stay, or else we could
Go back, or take vacation (yes, OK,
Will had it right that I was envious).”
Now she can see, despite the dark, that Spike’s
Not blinking, hard face fixed to stare at hers.
She feels uncertain what she’s saying’s right.
“I know this stuff’s all practical, but I’m
Not sure what else to say, what else is there?
We’re us right now, aren’t we? I mean, without –
The privacy, and things, but we’ll get there –
I mean, I don’t know how it is for you,
But me, my radar doesn’t ping so much
Since we, since way back in the bad old days.
Unfinished business; is that what they say?
And I’m not sure my timing is the best,
But I’m not sure there’s time to time, you know?
You can’t put off these things until you’ve dealt,
Because, that time, it doesn’t ever come,
So I…”
He listens, thinks then shuffles, sly
Somehow, despite the crap that hogs their space,
Head cutting through the light then blocking it
Away, so she can’t see him well. She feels
His arm brush past her shoulder to the door,
His daring whisper ghost along her cheek:
“Don’t want to do this in the dark, all right?”
She nods; the light comes in on her left side.
Now she can see – his hair, the strands up close,
That slightly ugly shade of yellow-white;
Her fingers clutching shoulder, pink on black.
Then eyelids blink and she is kissing him,
As warm as anything that’s not in rain.
And this, she thinks, is how this fight should start.
[X]
Let's get to it! Spuffy (as in actually a bit); PG-13; ~4300 words (~550 lines); warnings for the series of death and denied agency, with only brief mentions in this book, but added for this book is reasonable amount of stylised gore. Big thanks to
brutti_ma_buoni for the butt-kicking beta!Illyria shares a memory and other preparations are made.
[VIII]
IX
She’s caught by light, by pain that magnifies
Light brightly, feels her body fall away,
Keep falling, rushing wind against her skin,
Until she’s fallen into dark and cold.
For minutes then Illyria can’t move,
Her muscles trembling with shock and pain,
Stone hard around her gushing acid blood;
This does not feel as her flesh feels, but then
She can’t remember who or where she is.
There’s light again, or light enough at least,
To see the hair that’s slipped across her face:
So pale, ash blonde perhaps; obscuring veil,
Which drifts then lets her see this fey new light,
A shining beacon in the distant dark.
Ungainly, she puts weight back on her feet –
Can’t stand so tall as she thinks she deserves –
And notices that she is wearing white.
Who is she to be clothed in cloth as this?
Forgetting all that just for now, she walks,
She stumbles slowly off towards the light,
Which gradually expands; she’s walking down
A corridor, this light a doorway at
The end. Illyria goes through to find
A chamber: vaulted stone, red, gold and blue
Around her, images of gods in state.
A hundred flames attend from golden stands.
“OK, so clearly I did something right…”
The words come from her mouth, reveal her awe,
Are strange and yet are all she has to say;
Illyria does not know what she should
Believe, not anymore, not seeing this.
Her steps tap out a ritual beat of drums
Across the floor. The glowing, flickering gleams
Of metal, stone, enamel, it is all
Enough to give the images a life,
An animation as they sneer at her,
Small suppliant before their holy might
(Constricted, bound in chains of golden stone).
Then round a corner, round the wall, there comes
The figure of a god who blocks her path,
Stands waiting for her with a jackal’s head.
His arms are crossed, his toothy maw set grim.
“Hey, I know you,” Illyria calls out.
“We met before –” Before she went somewhere
She can’t remember now. But she was here
(If she is her – though who else could she be?),
Walked in and then got lost somewhere, has now
Returned, it seems. “I never caught your name.”
“Anubis,” he replies. “I’m here to take
Your heart.” She’s come within six feet of him,
But now she halts, feet firm against the stone.
“Well, that’s not gonna happen…” she replies,
Hands fisting as her arms rise in defence.
“And, really, it’s not nice to greet your guests
That way, just FYI.” “Your body’s time
Is over,” says Anubis, voice like gold,
So bright, but heavy, tongue against his teeth.
“Another life awaits you after this.”
Illyria looks back at him and feels
Alive already, knows she has a life
Where once her heart still beat and she still breathed.
“I don’t know how I came here, but I don’t
Think you should try it, OK, jackal-boy?”
The god approaches her, a wicked knife
Appearing in his hand; Illyria
Is not afraid, but holds her stance. He speaks
Again: “You found your way here willingly.
Do not resist me like a screaming child.”
“I may have come here, but I didn’t come
To you.” With these last words Illyria
Kicks out to knock the jagged knife away.
The god claws at her shoulder, but she turns,
Resists his power and his strength. Punch thrown,
Her fingers come against the ravening teeth
Which fill his mouth, pound hard and shake one loose,
Draw blood and make him spit divinity
Across the ochre stone, where he, she knows,
Would have her body bleed. He snarls at her,
The knife forgotten now in favour of
His claws, curved sharp in perfect sickle shapes,
But she has brute strength of her own, knows gods
And how they fight, will not give up her heart.
The fight wears on and she is winning, holds
The knife found from the ground tight in her fist –
But then another voice comes, singing sigh:
“Anubis, what is taking you so long?
The scale is empty and our time’s not cheap –
You’re slower than before the system switched…”
Anubis growls above the crack of flesh,
Its beating, “Horus! Help me with this girl –
The bitch threw in the towel in her prime.”
The falcon-headed Horus clucks his beak,
“Oh, not again…” before he joins the fight.
“This is the problem with monopoly;
Nobody coming here knows what to do…”
But they are both distracted by their words;
Illyria breaks free and runs the way
They came, so certain she can get to where
She’s meant to be, to where she sent herself
Without their interference, runs through halls
Where still more haughty gods stare down at her,
Where some weird mixed-up monster snaps its jaws
And chases down her heels. A feather floats,
Made buoyant in her wake, then wheels and spins
In spiralled fall; she rushes past, runs fast
And finds herself where there are no more doors,
Where there’s a lonely throne set in the room
And on it sits a god, with crook and flail
Across his chest, an ostrich-feathered crown
In stately rest upon his noble head.
“You tell me where’s the exit out of here,”
She orders him, voice loud and echoing.
He tells her, mocking smile on his face,
“Corporeal, there is no way to leave.”
They will not let her go, she knows it then,
Until she has rejected claim upon
Her body, felt her life’s blood bleed away,
Abandoned it for use by some force else.
But there’s no time for this; she hurls her knife
To strike him through the neck, to pierce his throat.
His blood comes pouring out, soaks through his beard
And down his clothes to stream along the floor.
It’s dark and red –
– but shimmers in the light,
Shows visions as it pools before her feet:
The halls are there within its flood,
The vaulted yellow stone, the gold and blue,
The labyrinth her pounding footsteps traced.
It’s not reflection but a fact – and as
The blood approaches her she knows it’s true.
The room around her fades, there’s only blood,
Still pooling, but less red the more she stares,
Until the moment it laps to her feet.
It touches her, and then the vision’s real;
She’s there again within the first bright room,
Unwounded as Anubis comes to her.
She fights a dozen times, gains victory
In each, but still she finds herself brought back
To here, Osiris’ hallowed entrance hall.
The last time at the throne she calls to him,
Anubis, Horus, bleeding in her wake,
“Who are you, sitting there the judge of me?”
He looks around at all the painted gods,
Their images last remnants of their might,
Then tells her, “I’m the one who took control.”
His sons come running in behind her then;
At last she’s borne down to the golden floor.
Her blood bleeds out and soon her heart is weighed;
Osiris watches, smiling from his throne.
Collapsed in second death Illyria
Returns to where she is herself, no flesh
Inside her, rotting soft with age, no skin
But hardened shell whose form she can control.
There’s breath that’s moving through her, thick and harsh,
But she controls that too, can make it still,
As still as Buffy lying in repose
Before Illyria’s wide gaze. The god
Steps back a thousand ages from her form.
Sineya pities her; that’s clear to see
In how her features soften. “None of this
Means I am thwarted,” thus Illyria
Declares, while straightening her joints to stand
As tall as she is able. “I am more
Than any Slayer, terrible and feared.
Osiris will not live to still my hand
If I raise any blade to cut his flesh.”
There’s echoing of fear and mortal pain
Inside her now, but she has found her task.
With kingly gait she walks towards the stairs.
“Come with me, show me dreams the other sees
Who fought this god, was taken by his will.”
Sineya’s voice comes softly now behind:
“You want to see what Sadie saw?” She’s scared,
This Slayer spirit, human to the last,
Bound to her daughters, hurt in sympathy.
And there is part of her, Illyria,
Which understands, although she dictates, “Yes,”
Before she leads the way to knowledge gained,
God-King and Slayer joined in common aim.
When Sadie wakes, she can remember this,
The conversation, two gods in her mind –
The Slayer asked for welcome, was let in,
Then walked with her back through that awful night.
And yet she’s calmer when she wakes, even
OK? The day seems brighter anyway.
“Hey, wake up, Sades,” Gurpreet is telling her,
Far too awake. “We’ve got to go downstairs…”
Now Sadie turns her head, squints bleary eyes
To see Gurpreet is dressed, stood by her bunk,
Excited; who knows why. “They’re making plans
To go up in the sky again, big plans.
That Gunn guy’s gonna do diplomacy;
They wanna hear what the dragon thought
To go with what the others saw up there…
I think the idea is we do a spell
Again, like, with that witch from yesterday?
But otherwise it might be interesting…”
Breath hitches short in Sadie’s throat on ‘spell’,
But soon she’s breathing through it, thinks again
And wonders if it might not be that bad –
The spells that they did yesterday went well
(Apart from when the freezing spell went wrong;
Gurpreet, however, seems quite pleased by that)
And everybody’s said that Willow’s great
At magic, so they’ll all be supervised.
The meeting sounds quite boring, though, not least
Because they heard the dragon stuff last night.
She’s not quite sure how best to break it that
She never much enjoyed McCaffrey’s Pern,
So Sadie goes for noncommittal, says,
“I’ll be down later; go ahead and I’ll
Catch up.” She smiles and feels a flash of nerves
Gurpreet might take it badly – but it’s fine.
She shrugs – “All right!” – then bustles with the rest
As they get bobbles for their hair and laugh
And leave, so Sadie’s left to snooze again.
She gets up not long later, heads downstairs
Her hair still damp from showering. It’s strange
(Or not) how slaying’s similar to school,
Back when she boarded: lukewarm water, crowds…
Apocalypses – yeah, they’re something new.
And even situations like this one,
Where what they’re saving is the status quo.
It seems as if the way they’re going to fight
Has been decided now: when Sadie hits
The common room the general meeting’s stopped,
With people talking in small, separate groups.
And she can’t see Elise or Gurpreet
Or Willow anywhere – but Buffy’s here,
Just by the stairs, so Sadie turns to ask
If she knows where they are. She realises,
However, when she turns, that Buffy’s deep
In serious dramatic dialogue
With her boyfriend-equivalent. “…I know
You say you're fine,” she’s telling him, “But I –
Last night you nearly left yourself in hell
And now you’re heading up our alien
Campaign because they think you’re boss of us;
You matter to me, so I care if there’s
A part of you that’s panicking, all right?”
She’s trying for a rom-com, but Spike frowns,
Looks to the carpet and replies, “Don’t start
On that – we do this pre-apocalypse
Chitchatting every time and generally
It ends with one of us stone dead. I’m fine.”
He looks up then; “Besides, there’s things to do.”
A nod past Buffy’s shoulder and she’s turned
To look at Sadie – startled, blushing red.
“Oh, hey,” the Slayer says, “Are you OK?”
Spike slips away behind her; Sadie nods,
Embarrassed. “Sorry. Interrupting – I,
I didn’t mean to, erm – do you know where
I’m meant to be?” A glance into the room,
Where Buffy’s eyes don’t search so much as fall
On Spike (who’s sitting down with Gunn), she says,
“I think the others went with Willow to –
The laundry room? Hey, look, they’re coming out.”
They are as well, the three of them, with sheets
Or something bundled in their arms. “Oh, thanks,”
Then Sadie mumbles; Buffy smiles and they
Part ways. As Sadie heads across the room,
However, they all shake their heads and point
The way she’s come. “I thought we’d go upstairs,”
Now Willow says, “And use your dorm for space.
The spell we’re gonna do for everyone,
It’s not beyond your level, but some drills
Should help us work together as a group?”
She looks bizarrely eager, like they might
Say no. “Er, you know more than us, don’t you?
What are we doing anyway? I thought
It’d be the same?” They clomp back up the stairs;
Gurpreet cuts in with, “Nah, this new spell’s sick,
Like, it’s a virtual reality
Space-teleport mashup.”
“And that means what,
Exactly?” Sadie asks, confused as they
Come back into the dorm, sit down on squashed
And just-about-made covers, turquoise-blue.
“It’s very similar,” Elise says,
Explaining, next to Willow on the bed.
“But we will alter their perception, too,
So when they go above they’ll interact
Inside a virtual reality
And understand what’s going on up there.”
Now Sadie’s panicking. “And that – that’s meant
To be our skill level? To do tonight?”
Gurpreet beside her doesn’t look that fazed,
But this is not like anything they’ve done…
“Hey, chill,” the older witch remarks, too cool
When Sadie’s caught her eye. “You’ll all be fine –
The spell is really not that hard. It’s just
About your concentration, which, you know,
Is why we’re here! So how about we start
With you guys telling me about your spells.
How much d’you work together, usually?”
“Like, all the time,” Gurpreet replies. “It’s rare –
Or sort of rare-ish, that we work apart.”
Elise adds, “Yes, I’d agree. It makes
Our casting complicated, with the gods
We call on, but –”
“How come?” then Willow asks,
Confused or looking like it anyway.
“Because we all call different sources up
To make our power...?” Sadie offers her.
“Apart from me, who shops around; I’m sure
You heard about what happened recently…”
She drops her head – but then, before she has
A chance to really think back to it all,
Gurpreet is saying, “Um, with me as well,
I haven’t really done much calling up
In – well, like, it’s messed up, innit, mate?
To hassle gods and goddesses for – boons
Or, like, whatever, even though you’ve not
Had much to do with them before. I mean,
It feels well disrespectful?” Sadie turns
And looks at her, surprised by what she’s said.
She thought the other two were more than pleased
With how their magic was for them – it’s what
Made her so desperate to find a source…
“Is that OK?” She looks at Willow, asks,
“Is it OK for us to work like that?”
The woman frowns, mouth quirked to cheek in thought
Before she says, “I’ve not researched it… I –
I mean – it’s true that – Giles always knew,
Or seemed to know much more about the rules
Of magic theory, but his lessons came,
Uh, through the Watchers’ Council, which I’m sure
You’re glad you never knew… I’ve always found
That trying to make deals with gods whom you
Respect – or worship, maybe, more than that?
They don’t exactly feel as comfortable;
Which gives you less control, which makes the spell
More likely to go wrong. Consistency,
I guess, can be a very useful thing,
And doing all the bookwork on the god
Or forces you intend to use, in case
They’re known for tricksiness – but otherwise?
There’s so much we don’t know about the world,
The universe, that sometimes it feels best
To keep religion almost separate
From magic, if you can. To have what you
Believe in one part of your mind, and know
That that’s unknowable, then have your spells
As clear negotiation you agree
The terms of, cast, then terminate in full.”
Her words are all so welcome Sadie wants
To think they’re true, but even so she can’t
Forget – “But didn’t you just spend a year
Abroad and suffering because the god
You made a contract with felt like she could
Do anything she wanted to?” The blush
On Willow’s freckled face goes deep and dark.
“Um, yeah, that partly was because of me –
We didn’t have much time, so I may have
Not put in all the preparation that
I should… But, yeah, I guess you’re right that it’s
More complicated than I make it sound.
There’s lots of factors. Magic’s dangerous,
I mean, that always needs remembering –
That’s why we wanna feel we’re in control.”
“And in reply to that,” Elise adds,
“Perhaps we save the world before we do
Philosophy?” They all feel sheepish then,
But Willow soon recovers, says, “OK,
Let’s do some practical…” She nods her head
Towards the sheets in bundles on the floor.
“To save the guys some chores I thought we’d start
Our concentration work with basic stuff,
So floating, flattening and folding these.”
It takes a moment to sink in – and then
The three girls look at her, their groans as one.
Who thought that they’d get stuck with ironing?
It’s later when the details have been worked
As far as they are likely to be through
That Buffy comes upstairs to check on things.
The door squeaks open casually and she
Leans past the jamb, inside but taking care
Not to step in until she’s sure it’s safe.
“Hey, how’s it going, guys?” she asks, voice light
And totally unpressured as she smiles.
Remarkably they all smile back – the sheets,
Which she remembers creased but dry,
Aren’t bunched up anymore. So, two look worse –
One tattered and the other cindered black
Inside the trash beside the door – the rest,
However, they’re all laundered perfectly
In thick, flat, folded rectangles, which
Are being used to build a tall and strange
And gravity-defying piece of art.
It’s something like a tree, its limbs on points,
But still the sheets stay folded in the air.
“Wow! I’m impressed!” she says, spontaneous
In praise – on Willow’s nod the sheets then fall
Out of formation to a perfect pile
In something very Mary Poppins-esque.
“We’ve got it pretty good now,” Willow says,
Her eyes a little creased in tiredness,
More than they always used to be. “We’re set
To rock the spell this evening, aren’t we, gang?”
Both Sadie and Elise awkwardly
Grin back at the enthusiasm, while
Gurpreet replies, “Did you just call us ‘gang’?”
As if she misses people who are cool.
It edges on the wrath of choring teen,
So Buffy thinks that counts as checked, cuts in,
“OK! That’s great, then, just make sure to get
Some rest before tonight; we can’t be sure
How long it’s gonna take. I’ll see you then.”
They nod and Buffy thinks, at least they take
Her seriously – to her face if not
In private. Though, of course, when this spell’s done
They’re bound to have respect for Willow too.
Content, she leaves, pulls close the squeaky door;
With nimble, rhythmic clattering she heads
Downstairs again, beat only breaking when
She realises she’s run by Spike, who’s there
Just opening the weapons cabinet
(Junk closet, as she hears was its old name)
To look what’s up for grabs inside. She stops,
Remembering what’s next of her To Dos:
Make Spike explain what he said earlier
And don’t crap out like back in Sunnydale.
She hasn’t worked out nuance more than that,
But, still, she sets her left foot down a step
Then walks on casually; her pulse
Does all the running for her, takes her miles…
“Oh, hey,” she calls, as she turns from the stair
To glide her fingers down the crossbow shelf.
“Found something good in there?” She leans in through
The doorway, to the gloom, the fragile light
Not inching very far beyond her feet;
Spike’s penlight won’t reveal his face to her.
“Not likely,” he replies, disdainfully,
His shadowed features shifting with a shrug
From where he’s hunched beneath the slanting roof.
He shines the light down walls and at his feet,
So she can see the closet’s cavernous
But for the most part closeting old junk –
There’s broken bits of table, chairs and bed;
A bird of paradise lawn ornament,
With one eye fallen out; three rusty swords.
“Look, um,” she starts to say, until she hears
Two laughing guys come over to the stairs.
A nervous glance, and then she steps inside
To shut the cupboard door on her and Spike;
She figures that their eyes will soon adjust…
“So, look,” she tries, her voice not very strong.
“I know I tried this earlier and you
Weren’t interested, but – I mean, I don’t
Think we should face that weird white world again
Without at least a conversation, right?”
It’s easier, this talking in the dark –
Not easy, not at all, but not so hard.
And yet – Spike doesn’t seem all that convinced;
He draws in, sets the light up by their heads,
New leather creaking on his arms. “Buffy,”
He starts himself, voice serious and low,
“I’m fine. We’re fine. This – everything is fine.
Both you and I can feel the end of this
Is drawing in, so let’s get on with it.
What happens afterwards – that’s all for then,
Not now. Let’s go be heroes, like before.”
But Buffy can’t accept that. “Like before?”
She asks incredulously, “What, you think
That final day shook out just ‘fine’ for us?
‘Cause I would like to lay some ground rules here –
Maybe some openness and then belief?
But then I guess that things were ‘fine’ for us;
With all the miscommunication, then
The year apart – yeah, that’s what I’d call ‘fine’.”
She breathes out then, lets all her anger go.
“See, I’m amazed by what you’ve done out here,
The life you’ve made and saving everyone –
And I know you don’t care, but it is true –
So I can see why you would stay and fight…
But if we’re separated this time round
Could you not let me think you’re dead – like, please?
And then – I mean, with all these last few days,
I feel like I still love you, but I’m sure
You’ve changed, so I would like to get to know
This you some more; then maybe we could try
The tearful revelation thing again?”
The silence comes and she can only blush,
More red as she begins to see Spike’s face –
His cheeks, in ashy grey, his clenching jaw –
Her eyes adjusting slowly to the gloom
That fills the space around the thin-beamed light.
He tells her, “We both know,” his voice restrained,
As if he’s trying very hard to talk
The way he told himself he’d talk to her,
“There’s no point making plans for afterwards,
No way of knowing where or how we’ll be…”
“But why not?” Buffy interrupts. “You can’t –
Nobody stops from having plans, or thoughts –
They try to keep themselves from hoping, don’t
Articulate specifics, but they can’t
Stop thinking what might happen afterwards.
And keeping that inside, sometimes it’s wrong,
And people, some of them, realise too late…”
Spike’s looking down and staring at the floor;
She doesn’t think he’s listening anymore.
But then he mutters, brittle words through dark,
“Don’t make me guess what you are trying to say;
I’ve had too many plans thrown in my face.”
There’s nothing else to do, she’s pretty sure,
Except breathe in and make the words.
“OK, you wanna hear it, what I see
Before I go to sleep at night, with you?”
His head jerks up, but her eyes shift away;
The sight of him’s so clear now that she’s scared.
And yet she makes herself continue on,
“My plan is that we’ll fix this, set it right,
And then Rondell will move back into charge –
With his supply maps, observation logs,
He’s in the best position to decide
Which areas could get cleaned up and then
Inhabited the easiest – I mean,
There’s no point bringing in the government
Before we’ve got the demons cleared away.
And he’ll need help with that, so my plan is
We’ll stay a little while, until the fall?
A cell of Slayers, they’ll stay here as well,
And Dawn can visit, if she wants. And then –
Well, then I guess we work it out from there,
Because I think I’m due at least a year’s
Sabbatical from teaching in the school,
If you want us to stay, or else we could
Go back, or take vacation (yes, OK,
Will had it right that I was envious).”
Now she can see, despite the dark, that Spike’s
Not blinking, hard face fixed to stare at hers.
She feels uncertain what she’s saying’s right.
“I know this stuff’s all practical, but I’m
Not sure what else to say, what else is there?
We’re us right now, aren’t we? I mean, without –
The privacy, and things, but we’ll get there –
I mean, I don’t know how it is for you,
But me, my radar doesn’t ping so much
Since we, since way back in the bad old days.
Unfinished business; is that what they say?
And I’m not sure my timing is the best,
But I’m not sure there’s time to time, you know?
You can’t put off these things until you’ve dealt,
Because, that time, it doesn’t ever come,
So I…”
He listens, thinks then shuffles, sly
Somehow, despite the crap that hogs their space,
Head cutting through the light then blocking it
Away, so she can’t see him well. She feels
His arm brush past her shoulder to the door,
His daring whisper ghost along her cheek:
“Don’t want to do this in the dark, all right?”
She nods; the light comes in on her left side.
Now she can see – his hair, the strands up close,
That slightly ugly shade of yellow-white;
Her fingers clutching shoulder, pink on black.
Then eyelids blink and she is kissing him,
As warm as anything that’s not in rain.
And this, she thinks, is how this fight should start.
[X]
(no subject)
Date: 22/03/2011 00:35 (UTC)This feels to me like a filler book, laying out threads to be woven together shortly, but there's still some neat stuff here.
That line about fighting to preserve the status quo resonates. Hm. Wonder where that'll go.
(no subject)
Date: 22/03/2011 09:04 (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 05/01/2012 03:03 (UTC)And oh, bless you, bless you for this!
"it’s messed up, innit, mate?
To hassle gods and goddesses for – boons
Or, like, whatever, even though you’ve not
Had much to do with them before. I mean,
It feels well disrespectful?"
That's one of the things which always bothered me about BtVS canon (and a lot of other stories, for that matter). Doesn't it stand to reason that if a being is real enough and powerful enough for one to ask it for help, that it might not appreciate being summoned, demanded of and then dismissed? Seems to me the best one could hope for would be a tolerant, "very well," and that only if one didn't demand more than once. Far more likely that a being strong enough to actually grant the things Buffyverse practitioners asked for would swat the petitioner in annoyance, assuming it didn't see humans as food or playtoys.
And even though Willow's response is at least a thought-out approach...
"sometimes it feels best
To keep religion almost separate
From magic, if you can. To have what you
Believe in one part of your mind, and know
That that’s unknowable, then have your spells
As clear negotiation you agree
The terms of, cast, then terminate in full."
...I'm glad that Sadie kept challenging Willow. Because those dangers, that sort of risk-taking, ought to be thoroughly thought out. And in canon it never was.
And oh, the Spuffy. All the sweeter for being so hard-won.
"And this, she thinks, is how this fight should start."
Yes, precisely. These two spend so much of their time worrying about endings. I love that their coming-together here is about beginning. The beginning of a relationship or of a battle, either one -- they should always begin together.
(no subject)
Date: 05/01/2012 19:14 (UTC)I completely agree that you'd expect a lot more swatting in the BtVS magical set-up! Though there does seem to be some sort of understanding that you can expect help from the higher powers as a witch calling on them; I've had the personal canon for a long time that some sort of exchange goes on there, the with gods getting a little piece of their spellcaster (which massively informs this fic), though I'm not sure that's enough to cover it.
And hooray for Spuffy! :D I couldn't let them get away with not sorting themselves out.