Solstice

SOLSTICE
Part 4/10

I had hoped that no one here would ever have to call on the power of the Hellmouth, but that was a fond and foolish hope. There is no time to grieve or mourn. Not yet. If we are quick, and lucky beyond belief, we may have to do neither. My charge, my Slayer, my would-be daughter, is trapped in the cycles of time, and we must hurry, must find out how to undo what an assassin has done. Aurelius is channelling unbelievable amounts of power to Willow and Tara. Willow is the one actually working the magic, and the magic is now working her. It’s lacing itself through her, black in her veins, her eyes dark with power. Her hair is spread around her like a black corona, motionless. She holds the darkness of the Hellmouth in the palm of her hand, and only Tara is keeping her human. I don’t know what is happening to the vampire, but he’s keeping up the energy flow.

There is nothing I can do here. Angelus’ household – the rest of us, since I am one of them now – will take care of everything here. Some of us set off to the Magic Shop, as fast as the limousine can go, carrying the sample of the vampire’s blood that we pray will tell us what the poison is, and what the magic is that stops Willow from fixing it. Angelus will find the assassin, and I have no doubt he will torture him without mercy to find out what he needs to know. Torturing a human: well, he’s done plenty of that in his very long life. He’s probably the most expert torturer this planet has ever known. What am I going to do about it, to demonstrate that we are different from demons?

If necessary, I’ll hold his coat and pass him his tools.

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

Riley has not been gone more than a minute or two. I can try to run him down, but my stamina is not infinite, especially wounded as I am. In the long run, a car will win. Depends how long the run is, though. His scent trail is clear, and I can follow it with ease. I concentrate hard, not because I think I might lose it – it’s much too fresh for that – but to stop me thinking about something else. Aurelius and the witches will do whatever can be done. There is no one under the sun who could do more than they. I mustn’t think about her. Not yet. I must concentrate.

He’s driving fast. I don’t need to stick to the roads, but if I’m not quick, he’ll be onto the main highway, and a long, straight run out of town. I can’t win that race. Then a small, sporty yellow car comes towards me, travelling at hspeespeed. I position myself at the side of the road. It’s a soft top. It was a soft top. Now it has no top, and I have a stranglehold on the driver. As soon as I can, I toss him out, and the car is mine by force majeur. A quick U turn, and I’m off. It only takes minutes to catch up to his anonymous SUV. I overtake him before he realises who is in the car, then a handbrake turn puts me back on a collision course. Neither of these cars will be needed, so that’s okay. At the moment of impact, I leap onto the SUV, reach through the door to pull my prey out, and we’re rolling onto the soft verge to the tune of tortured metal. I’m protecting him with my body. I don’t want him damaged. I’m going to do all the damage myself, for as long as it takes to make him tell me what I need to know. After that, we’ll just have to see.

I strangle him into unconsciousness, and lope back to the mansion. That’s where my tools are.

I don’t actually need tools to torture someone, but I want this over as quickly as possible. Who knows how long they can keep time in stasis? When I get to the mansion, it’s silent and in darkness. Everyone else is about my business, and there’s little reason for them to come back here. That’s good. The basement is pretty well soundproof, but privacy is good.

By the time he comes round, he’s chained hand and foot, spread-eagled in the middle of the very end basement, hanging from the ceiling and shackled to the floor. This is where I keep the things that could never be classed as toys, even in the most intense encounters. This is serious business, in this part of my home. I’ve changed into a pair of leather trousers I keep down here. They’ve seen better days. They’ve seen some extremely *good* days, in fact, and are a little too bloodstained to be seen anywhere else. I’m not wearing anything else, just the trousers. The blood will scrub off me easily enough.

He takes a shuddering gasp of air as he comes round, and another one when he opens his eyes and sees me lounging in a chair in front of him. The extent of his peril becomes clear to him a moment later as he realises that he is in chains. Oh yes, and he’s naked. Instant access to all areas. I’m holding a blue roll of cloth that contains the implements I’ve decided to start with. I really don’t expect to need any more.

I get up, and walk over to him. I have a table, handily placed by his side, where he can inspect whatever I put on it in exquisite detail. I unroll my tool kit onto there. I have a large number of surgical instruments – scissors, scalpels, knives, probes, saws, shears, and the rest. It’s amazing what surgeons need to do to the human body, and how lucky you are to have anaesthetics. Luckier than Riley, any way. There are other things as well. Lots of ordinary household objects can cause intense pain, agony even, if used just right. I know exactly what ‘just right’ is.

I stand back to let him admire the view. I shift into demon face, all the better to encourage him in the belief that he will get no human mercy here. There isn’t even any demonic mercy, I promise you.

I raise one claw to his eye, and stroke across the lid, gently. He tries to toss his head backwards, but he can’t get away from me.

“I’m only going to offer this to you once, Riley. You will tell me exactly what was in that bullet. You will tell me how to undo the poison and the magic that activates it. You will tell me why you tried to kill my bride, and you will tell me exactly who else was involved. You will tell me anything else that I need to know about this assassination. If you do, I promise you a quick and absolutely painless death. I promise not to turn you; you will be quite dead, and your body will be sent wherever you wish for decent burial.

“If you do not, then I promise that you *will* tell me, sooner or later. You won’t be able to imagine the agony that I will give you between now and then, and I will make quite sure that none of it kills you. You will be my prisoner for the rest of your life. If I wish, that will be an extremely long life, and you will never know anything but pain. If she dies, I shall turn you, and you will never know an end to the pain. Eternity can be a very, very long future.

“Choose.”

He’s terrified. The thick scent of his fear is rolling off him in waves. He remains silent, though. I select a fine needle from the table and dip it into a small glass bottle that stands open. It’s acid, and for this I need only the thinnest coating on the slender piece of steel.

“Speak, boy.”

He clamps his jaws together, as if I were going to put the needle there. No such luck. I reach up and slowly, tenderly, with utmost patience, ease the needle under the nail of his left hand little finger. An oldie but goodie. He whimpers, and can barely keep from screaming as I manipulate that needle, pulling it out, easing it in, moving it here and there.

“We are going to stay here until you tell me what I want to know. You have ten seconds before my offer expires. It will never be repeated.”

He spits in my face. Well, at least he’s got balls. For now. I’d hoped to do this the quick way, but I hadn’t really expected that to succeed. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way then. The hard way.

First, to get his nerves as receptive as possible, and his mind as humiliated as I can. Ah, something before even that. This was an organised assassination, I’m positive about that. He doesn’t have the brains to put something as complex as this together. Suppose he’s been given the wherewithal to commit suicide? He’s naked and chained. He can’t hide anything or reach anything, but you’ve heard, I’m sure, about secret agents and cyanide capsules in a hollow tooth? I’ve actually seen it. Had my entertainment cut short by it, twice in fact. It’s a damn silly idea. I mean, what if you were eating a chocolate Brazil, or a crunchy toffee? But Buffy can’t afford me to take any chances. I briefly consider yanking out all his teeth, but that tends to lead to a certain incoherence when it comes to the time for him to spill all the information he’s trying to hide. I know from experience that he’ll be incoherent enough as it is. In magic, words can be vitally important, and I can’t risk mishearing. We’ll leave the teeth; they can always come out later.

Besides, I’ve got no intention just now of depriving him of any appendage. Once you hurt something by removing it, you can’t go back and hurt it some more. That’s a foolish way of trying to torture someone. So, for now I content myself with that dinky little implement that dentists use to keep your mouth open so they can practice their own form of torture. He’s loath to open wide, but eventually he does. Of course, I open him up a bit wider than he’s comfortable with. Every little helps.

Fine. Back to the nerves then. A man’s nerves are never more sensitive than when he is aroused. That’s easily accomplished. It takes care of the mental humiliation, too. As he responds to me, I nuzzle around the big pulse in his inner thigh. When he’s pretty well at full size, I leave him, and allow my fangs to slide gently into that artery. I don’t take much, and what I do take, I draw gently from him. Vampires can allow their meals to feel pleasure or pain, as we choose. I intend for him to feel maximum pleasure. I feel him swell a little more, and just before he reaches an irreversible climax, I knot a quick, but effective, cock ring from the shoelace in my hand. It’s tight enough to give him both pain and pleasure, but it will keep his nerves where I want them. He’s about to discover the real relationship between sex and pain and pleasure, and how much more agony there is in the world than ever he thought possible.

I start with his right hand. I want it easier to reach, so I buckle a belt around his waist, and handcuff his wrist to it. Then I reach for a pretty little pair of surgical shears. They look like dainty up-market garden secateurs, but they are strong enough to cut through bone.

“We’re going to start with an easy question, Riley. One that it isn’t worth hurting for.”

I need him to start talking as soon as possible, while the fear is still so fresh and strong. Every answer becomes easier after the first one.

“Why did you shoot her?”

I take hold of his smallest finger and let him feel the pressure of the shears.

“Hmm?”

When he remains silent, I run the shears lightly around the finger, in that tender area just above the base of his nail. That slight pressure cuts down through nail and skin and muscle, and I twist the shears in a circle. The finger remains intact but the flesh is scored to that tiny bone. I allow the pain to swell, then I move the shears down a little way and score down to the bone once more. The whimpering starts again.

“You’ll need to let me know when you want to talk, Riley, so that I can adjust your mouth. If you aren’t ready to do that, you just let me know when this finger hurts too much, and you want it cut off. Until then, I’ll just keep shredding it, shall I?”

And I do.

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

We are working to try and analyse what is in Angelus’ blood. It would have been better to use Buffy’s, but impossible to get at with the stasis field intact. Wesley is carrying out as many tests as we have equipment for. As he finds something, I am hitting the books. Ezrafel has gone to Hylek with a sample. Faith and Oz and Nina are here, ready to run any errands or beat answers out of anyone who might have them. Everyone else is at the church, prepared to do whatever can be done to help the four trapped in time. Hank and his new wife are having hysterics, and there is no time for that, so Cordelia has actually made herself useful and taken them back to the hotel. I don’t know what they are more hysterical about – Buffy getting shot, seeing Angelus’ true face, or watching dark magic being worked.

I am trying to suppress the urge to find out where Angelus is and how he is faring. It would serve no purpose; I can be more useful to my Slayer here, researching; and finding him would only demonstrate to me just how much darkness there is in me. I can only hope that he is living up to his reputation. He has more chance of success than we do.

It has been hours now. I don’t know how long the stasis spell can be maintained, but we need a resolution soon. Apart from anything else, this is the shortest night of the year. If dawn comes, we’re all going to have some big problems.

And then the phone rings. It’s him. *Who* shot her? Good grief. Riley. It seems that Riley doesn’t know what needs to be done to break the spell. The man who cast it does, though. Rack. Damn and blast, I thought he’d left this town for good. I didn’t know he was back. He must be close, apparently, because the spell on the toxin only had a lifespan of hours before it needed to be initiated. Oh, and Angelus has an address.

He wants to go and confront Rack, but Riley has not yet told him who else was involved. Who was the prime mover in this. We need to know that almost as badly as we need the information about breaking the spell. There might be another assassin close by. I make my suggestion. We here, plus a contingent from the church, will go and tackle Rack while Angelus continues to question Riley. If we fail to get answers, we’ll bring Rack to Angelus.

He gives that the go ahead.

We need to take Rack quickly and cleanly – he’s a powerful magician. Oz researches the binding spells we will need. As soon as we are kitted up, we’re off.

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

I’m in serious need of a shower. I’m covered in blood, none of it mine. I now have all the information that Riley can give me, I’m sure of that. Wolfram and Hart are behind this. Riley doesn’t understand their motivation. He only knows what he thinks – that Buffy is a traitor to her calling, and that I will use her to make mankind suffer. The same applies to Faith. He knows that she is also part of my personal household. His intention was to kill them both, so that a new Slayer would be called. One uncontaminated by me. One who hasn’t felt my fangs.

When he was approached by a representative of Wolfram and Hart, he accepted their proposal as a matter of duty. I can believe that. He knows that the bullets were supplied by Rack, and must be used within two hours. They were targeted specifically at Buffy. They were going to deal with Faith later. He has no knowledge of the magic required to break the spell. I’m sure he’s telling the truth.

He’s a mess now. I’ve done nothing to him that a vampire wouldn’t recover from – eventually – but a human? He can mend from this, but he’ll never be pretty again, nor have full use of all his body parts. I’m thinking that maybe I can now go and take that shower, get dressed, and go to help my people with Rack. Riley will keep here just fine. Out of habit, whilst I’m reflecting, I wash up all the instruments I’ve used on him, and lay them out neatly on the blue cloth. I’ll leave them to dry completely before wrapping them back up. I move Riley from the centre of the room, and hang him in one of the sets of chains on the wall – he’ll be out of the way there – then swill down the floor to remove the worst of the bloodstains. The minions can finish the job later, when we all have time.

That’s when Faith comes down into the basement. She looks at the equipment I have here with some interest. Then she looks at me, and at Riley. I think I see her mouth make a little moue of distaste, but it’s very fleeting. Well, he’s a very distasteful sight indeed.

“I see you’ve been having a good time,” she says, in that sultry come-hither voice. Another time, maybe. Right now, I need to know something.

“Buffy?”

“Well, assuming what they all got between them is right, then she should be OK. They’re working on it now. Ezrafel got some stuff from Hylek, and Rack gave it up pretty easily. Question is, was he telling the truth? Everyone seems to think so. They’re whipping up the magic right now, big boy.”

She looks at Riley again.

“You done with him? He give it all up, you think?”

“He’s not holding anything back, I’m sure of that, but I’m done with him when I say I’m done.” He’s got a whole lot of pain coming yet.

She nods, pensively, as she walks forward to the table and inspects the instruments. She picks up a large pair of scissors. They’ve got curved ends, all the better for reaching difficult places, but they’re as sharp as a stiletto. She examines them as she walks around the walls, looking at the instruments exhibited there, tugging at the chains.

She turns with a smile.

“These hold a Slayer?”

What the hell does she have in mind? Or what does she think *I* have in mind? And I don’t have time for this.

“Yeah. They’re spelled. They’ll hold an elephant or stronger. Anything in them, their strength is simply channelled into the chains and the wall holding them. Look, Faith, I’ve gotta go see Buffy…”

She’s looking at me with a very strange expression on her face. She draws her arm back, and once again there seems to be that slow motion effect as she brings her arm forward with all her power, and lets go of the scissors. As they fly to their mark, turning end over end, she takes a leap forward and kicks me in the balls. As the scissors bury themselves to the pivot point in Riley’s heart, and I sink to my knees, agony burning through me, she takes another step and kicks me in the crotch again with all her strength. I can’t help but howl as my genitals suffer from that second assault, the ferocity of it carrying me several feet back towards the wall. And again she kicks me, and I have no chance of recovering before she has me manacled against the wall. Before I can even see straight, she has my trousers off, and shackles on my ankles. I know that struggling will do no good, but what else can I do? My only success is in drawing blood from wrists and ankles.

When I can focus, although the pain between my legs hasn’t abated one bit, I see that she is once more inspecting the instruments on the table. She’s also giving some very considering looks to Riley’s corpse. Well, what the hell did she expect it to look like?

It’s a moment or two before the power of speech returns to me, and it manifests in a torrent of invective, concentrating on what I will do to the stupid bitch if she doesn’t let me out of here *now*. She makes no response. In fact she gives no indication that she is even listening.

When she turns round, she is holding a small knife. It may be small, but it’s wickedly sharp. Riley would have known, because he felt its kiss. She’s holding something else hidden in her fist.

“You’ve had your fangs in me, you bastard.”

What? So what if I have? She’s my *bondswoman* now. She is mine, to do with as I choose. And she has enjoyed my attentions. This can’t be because of that? Or is it because I took Lindsey from her for a while? She needs to get used to deferring to me, and she’s got some serious lessons in obedience coming when I get out of these chains.

“You played with me in the hospital when I was helpless. You *drank* from me. Well, let’s see if I can play with you now. You and your whore of a bride.”

My roar of anger and fear resounds from the bare stone walls. Anger for me, but fear for Buffy. I cannot allow her to be left to the mercies of this vengeful trull. My fear gets the better of me and I scream a torrent of abuse and vivid threats. She is serenely indifferent.

“I’ll play a game with you, Angelus. Whatever I do to you, I won’t do to her. If you beg me to stop, she gets whatever I happen to be doing to you. It’s simple really, capisce? You take it all, and I’ll leave her alone? Deal?”

The only answer she gets from me is another string of invective. I cannot believe the sheer gall of this overblown strumpet. She looks pointedly at Riley.

“You want little Miss Pears to look like that when I’m finished? She won’t mend from that, vampire.”

I’m screaming in my head, now, unable to get away from the image in my mind. My love, agonised, despoiled and defiled. Never. But this bitch will suffer for whatever she does here. I will repay her a thousand-fold.

She walks towards me, still carrying the knife, and whatever she has in her fist. She puts the edge of the knife against my upper eyelid, and draws what will no doubt be a thin red line across it. There is no pain at first, and then the cut starts to sting.

“If you say nothing, I’ll assume you accept the deal.”

I remain silent. She opens her fist, so that I can see what she holds. It’s the other shoelace.

“Let’s start with sharp, shall we?”

I grit my teeth and wait.

-0-

It’s been hours now, and dawn is approaching. My fear for Buffy, and for Aurelius, is a living thing inside me, gnawing at the heart of me. If the stasis field still holds, as I think it must, what will happen to Buffy if Aurelius is burned to ash by the rising sun? And I think the stasis field holds because I cannot feel her, cannot reach her. The only other alternative is unthinkable. I haven’t felt her passing, though, and that is a comfort to me. Despite what has been done to me here, I’m sure I would have felt my mate’s death.

I can barely see Faith now. One eye is badly damaged and filled with blood, the other one swollen almost shut. Those may be the least of my injuries. She has a talent for this. She has scrutinised Riley’s corpse a number of times, and she has learned from what I have done. She lacks subtlety and finesse, but I can only be grateful for that.

She has applied a level of pain that I confess has had me screaming, although not as much as Riley did. I should never live that down. Since my body now seems to be one single point-source of pain, the individual hurts no longer distinguishable until she starts work on a chosen spot again, I cannot tell whether she has done any damage that cannot be repaired. She will suffer for this.

She has exhausted her interest in the little knife, and in half a dozen other instruments. She is now surveying what remains, deciding what should come next.

The pain has not been the worst of it, though. She has understood that pain can operate on a man – on a male of any species – as powerfully as pleasure. She has used that understanding throughout the night. Time and again she has ridden me, her legs clasped around my bloody waist, and time and again my traitorous body has responded, despite the most intimate and appalling hurts that she has inflicted, and despite my best efforts to refuse her. The shame of that will linger, long after my hurts have, I hope, healed. She will pay, and pay, and pay again for that.

She’s coming back over, and has something in her hand. Oh, she’s chosen that. May the Lords of Hell help me now.

-0-

I don’t think that there’s any part of my body that is unwounded. If I die, and she chooses to visit this upon Buffy, I can only pray that the others will be able to stop her. Even if I live, I may be unable to. It might take days, or weeks even, to heal from what she has done. If I can heal, that is. If she lets me live. I think perhaps she will. Her scent is confusing, but I don’t smell death on it. Perhaps she will try to disable me permanently. Even a vampire’s healing abilities have some limits.

I’m very weak now, not only from pain, but also from blood loss. Most of mine is on the floor, and I’m standing in a pool of blood and other bodily fluids. I can feel my hold on reality slipping, as my mind tries to leave this place of torment and take refuge in dreams. That is how demons avoid loss of consciousness from the most brutal pain. We slip into another world, another reality, leaving only the husk of a mind behind. Sometimes, we stay there for a long time. Sometimes, we never come out again.

She is giving one last thrust, one last twist, of her current instrument of choice. My cry of anguish is subdued and frail. Like me.

Then I am granted a small reprieve. Her phone is ringing. Her side of the conversation is terse.

Right.

OK.

You done?

Yes… here.

She puts down the gouge that she was holding and, without a backward glance, walks up the stairs and into the light of dawn. Strangely, I think I can smell tears. Then the call of that far-off reality becomes too strong to resist, and I leave my hapless body to its fate. As I do so, I wonder whether loving BuSummSummers will always be so damned painful.

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

We could see outside the stasis field. There was a near horizon beyond which everything that was animate was simply a blur of motion. Time did not stand completely still – Willow had left a connection, a tiny point of communication though which she could test the outside world. That was why we could see. Had she closed the field completely, it is unlikely that any one of our number could have reached us to release us when the magic was ready. A closed field would not have left us open to the sun, though.

Afterwards, I understood that those remaining at the church had, under the leadership of the Harris boy, constructed a shelter for us in case of need. That is good, because when the answer comes, so does the dawn. As soon as Willow lets the field drop, a magic user from Adras, one whom I have met before, performs an incantation, crouched down within the darkness of this makeshift tent. As she speaks, a spiralling cloud of viridian droplets rises from the wound in Buffy’s breast. At a gesture, the droplets are flung outside, to dissipate on the morning breeze.

We aren’t out of the woods yet, though, since Buffy’s wound is, by itself, mortal. The Adraste is prepared for that. Another swift incantation, and she tosses me a knife. Ah, one of those spells, then. I run the blade over the palm of my hand, as the magic user chants, and allow the blood to spill onto the grass, squeezing my fist to increase the flow, a libation and a sacrifice to the spirits of this place. She takes my bloodied hand and places it firmly over the wound as she completes her spell. Buffy will now have a few drops of my blood in her. I wonder how she will feel about that? I wonder how Angelus will feel about that? And will it be enough?

Still, it’s appropriate. She will need even more of my blood before she can be accepted into the clan.

As the magic user falls silent, Buffy’s still body – still but not quite dead – convulses, her back arching and her head thrown back. Then she gasps for air and I can feel the wound under my hand start to knit together. Between us, we have won.

Tara and Willow are still kneeling on the ground, as am I. All three of us are exhausted by the power of the magic we have been channelling, but there is too much to do to give way to fatigue. Getting out of this shelter would be a start. The magic user starts to rise, and I call out to her.

“Thank you, madame. Let me have your payment terms, and I shall settle it.”

The Adraste are strictly cash only, and sticklers for prompt payment. She inclines her head a little.

“Tell Angelus and the Slayer that they owe me a debt of service. That is my payment.”

I see her stand, and then walk forward into a small blue portal that no doubt leads back to her home dimension. A debt of service? Well, that’s a first. Speaking of Angelus, he will be anxious to know that his bride has survived.

With the help of the priest – and why he is involving himself in this, I refuse to speculate until I have more information – we make it to the cover of the church. I call for a résumé of what has happened during our time in stasis. The group have acquitted themselves well, but now there are the consequences to deal with. I issue my instructions. Amongst other things, Tara will stay with the Slayer, whose recovery is not yet over. Her wound has closed, but she is weak, and needs to heal properly. Tara is an accomplished healer. She is the natural one to watch over my adopted childe’s mate. Willow and I will find Angelus.

On the way to the mansion, I take time to assess Willow. Her mate, Tara, has been exhausted by the use of the power of the Hellmouth, but has taken no other hurt, so far as I can tell. Willow, on the other hand, will have long-term effects. The power is dark and deceitful, and seductive like none she has known before. She is still showing traces of that darkness. Before she encounters it again, she must be helped to use it, rather than let it use her. There are more casualties here than the simple shooting of a woman would suggest.

We find Angelus in the basement. Willow enters immediately behind me, and I am too late to prevent her from seeing. She is too innocent and untried for what is down here. After one glance, she is conspicuously and noisily sick. Even with all my experience, I almost wish I could join her.

There are two wrecked bodies here, and only one of them is redeemable. The corpse can wait. The minions will deal with that tonight. Angelus, my adopted childe, whom I have grown to love, is a ruin of flesh and blood and bone. The torture has, in most places, been crude and ugly, but nonetheless effective for all that. This will take a lot of healing. Willow comes forward to join me, having emptied her stomach. Her bridesmaid finery has suffered irretrievably.

“What’s wrong with him,” she whispers.

I know very well what she means. She’s looking beyond the ravaged flesh. His mind is somewhere else, and he is no more than an elemental, snarling, slavering demon.

“I will explain it to you later. He will recover.” I hope. “He has known much pain in the last few weeks, hasn’t he?”

She nods, mutely.

She is not a tall woman, so I take her by the shoulders and crouch down a little, until I can look her in the face from her own level.

“Willow, I know that you are exhausted, but we must help him. Can you do a very small magic?”

She seems to feel within herself, and then nods again.

“Will you render him unconscious? He is too dangerous to help at the moment, and I don’t want to have to hurt him further.”

“I can do that…”

She calls out a few words of incantation, and gestures to the chained wreckage of my beautiful boy. He falls limp and still in the restraints.

“Thank you, Willow.”

I stand up straight again.

“Now tell me, would a vacation seriously discommode Tara and yourself?”

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

When I rouse, I have returned to the edges of your reality, but no further. I am confused. I know that I have been unconscious and, as awareness of my body returns, with the attendant raging agony, I know that I am in fetters. My wrists are shackled, and I cannot move my arms. My nostrils are assailed by strange scents, all interlaced with the heady aroma of blood. And I am *so* hungry. As I struggle and rage the bonds around my arms tighten, and a voice whispers soft words in my ear. The words are meant to soothe, I think, but I must be free. I must. Otherwise I can never be rid of the agony. My mind draws away from the torment that marks this boundary of my current reality, but as it changes perspective, I see that the shackles are bandages, and the bonds around me are the arms of my clan master, comforting me back to sleep. I think that I dream.

I dream of a place where my mate and I are alone, and we are content. A place where we are free to make love, and to play: in the water and in the meadows, under the moon and under the sun, we can just be, without fear or danger. After a time, it becomes clear that there are other presences here, but I cannot see them. She is aware of them, too. Once, we think that we might catch a glimpse of them, a tall and graceful Lady and her two consorts, opposites in all things, but it might have been a mirage. Except, except that, as we slept in the soft grass one night, there was a woman’s voice, warm and thrilling.

“You have time enough for love, but make the best of it. Others are purchasing your time with their pain, with their lives and with their souls. Do not let their sacrifice be in vain.”

In my dream, my mate heard that voice, too.

When I wake again, the bonds have gone. I am still not quite in this reality, but I know that there is something I need. Something I must do. A faint scent reaches me. Her. She is not close by, but I must find her. I must. And I am so hungry.

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

I have brought them to my home in Cairo – Angelus, thayerayer, Willow and Tara. We have kept both Angelus and the Slayer asleep for a week, to help their healing. The witches lift the sleep, just a little, often enough for them to be fed and cared for, and they are now well on the road to recovery.

My human guests caused no little stir when we arrived. My household are well trained and resourceful, and I am well connected in other circles, but we have little to do with humans in this house – well, unless one is the main course, but even that is a rare event. There are other ways of getting blood. Still, my people have risen to the challenge, as I would expect, and are fascinated by the turn of events. Here, most of us are old enough to have learned the value of new and interesting things.

With the help of my household, the witches have cared for Buffy, and I have spent most of the week with Angelus. Even in sleep, he has been restless and… I’m not sure what word would describe it. In a human, it would be delirious, but that does not apply to a demon. It gives you a mental picture, though. Now, he is calmer, and I have business to take care of.

I have barely started to deal with matters that have waited too long for my attention when Paul, one of my senior minions, hastens in to fetch me. Angelus is awake and loose, but he is still not himself. And he will be starving, a natural consequence of the healing process. I think I know where he is going.

We hear the sound of low growling as we reach the rooms given over to the Slayer and the witches. The Slayer is still deeply asleep. The witches stand at her bedside, and a naked Angelus, trailing the rags of his bandages, in demon face and definitely not in control, is intent on passing them. Someone is going to get hurt. Willow prepares to use a spell, convinced that Angelus, in this primitive and mindless state, will do damage to her charge, or to her own mate, but I stay her hand. Let us see whether my senses are mistaken. Half a dozen of my own are here, ready to help me pull Angelus away if he offers harm to the Slayer.

He leans over the bed, sniffing at her, his fangs bared as he draws the scent in over his tongue and tastes it. He looks back over his shoulder, at the rest of us, and snarls menacingly. Then he slides into the bed and wraps himself protectively around his mate. Even out of his mind, he knows her. She will take no harm from him. She sighs, and turns to greet him, returning his embrace. He turns and snarls us away again, then lets his cheek rest against the top of her head. They can bring nothing but good to each other. I send the minions away, and prepare to stand watch with Willow and Tara. This is a perfect opportunity to talk to them about the magic of the Hellmouth.

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

We three are preparing to return to Los Angeles. We have reached no joint decision on whether we should continue to have dealings with Angelus.

Gunn has learned that there are many worse things than a set of teeth, and they aren’t all out on the street. He is prepared to contemplate working with the Slayer and with the humans he has met here. He doesn’t really understand who and what Angelus is. I haven’t shown him the extensive notes that I have, and I’m not sure I should. He takes as he finds, and he has found something that occasionally shows flashes of Angel, something that the Slayer loves, so can it be that bad? He doesn’t yet know that the answer is affirmatively yes.

Cordelia has a very simple view. Angel was Angel, and Angelus is Angelus, and never the twain shall meet. She has never understood that the two are different sides of the same coin, that Angel never saw himself excused of the deeds of Angelus, that he believed he carried the guilt. For her, Angel was a shiny new person who should simply stop the brooding and get on with life. She had feelings for Angel. I think she would have been happy to pick up what the Slayer could not have. She would never have understood how galling it might be to simply be second best; how painfully her withers would be wrung living with the knowledge that he might accept a relationship with her knowing from the start that he was doing so *because* he could never be perfectly happy with her. Now, she does not have that option, and we are left with Angelus, whom she views with nothing other than fear and contempt and loathing. She wants nothing to do with him.

That we are left with Angelus is my fault. I was the one who wanted to bring him back in what seemed a dire need; I was the one who failed to understand the simple principle of soul magic – that after the third time, no curse or magic in any of the planes would ever again have the power to cram that hapless soul back into Angel’s body. Angelus is free. I was the so-called friend who did this, and it will weigh on my conscience forever. I was the one who could not get past my early Watcher training. I was the one who never really trusted Angel as he deserved. I was the one who, in the meanest reaches of my soul, viewed him as something less than human, as something different. Not exactly a person at all. An object of study, perhaps. A creature who would benefit from my guidance. From my Watcher training. This, after Angel fed and clothed all of us, gave us a chance to make something of ourselves, without ever once thinking us beholden. I am ashamed. It is this shame that makes me wonder what Angel would wish me to do now. Would he want me to stake the vampire, or would he want me to support the Slayer? Work with her. For Giles has told me something of what Buffy intends.

The Slayer is the only one who truly ever saw Angel as he was, and loved him regardless. She accepted everything about him, without question, and I do believe that they were intended to be together; that perhaps they had a higher purpose.

Even without his soul, she loves the vampire, and he loves her as well as he is able – no one could ever doubt that – but she means to use him to create whatever space for mankind she can. He may crave the demonic equivalent of a throne, but she will be the power behind it. She hopes that, as part of this, the Powers That Be have given her the opportunity to salvage him, to bring him over to their side and wipe the slate clean.

I wonder if this may be the encompassing tragedy of heroes – that in the end, everything they are and everything they love must be only a tool to be used in the wars that they wage on our behalf. What do you think?

I wonder how heroes are chosen? Did their essences step forward at the dawn of time and volunteer? Or is it all blind chance? And I know I’m maundering.

Anywae the three are divided. I suspect that Gunn and I will try working with the vampire, if the Slayer keeps him under control. I cannot speak for Cordelia, though.

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

The witches are little more than girls, and yet they are full of power and wisdom. And curiosity. Tara wants to know why I am helping Angelus. It’s a very good question. Love, fear and guilt. A small and weak part of me wishes to unburden myself to these women; after all, a burden shared is a burden halved, is it not? No, it isn’t. In this case, it would be a burden doubled. I have borne it for five and a half thousand years, and I would love to put it down. What good would it do, though, to tell them that on the day I was made a vampire, my grandsire, the demon Seth, did it to punish me. He gave me the choice of taking all that punishment myself, being no more than a plaything for his vengeance, or passing that on to another. I chose to pass it on, and Angelus is the recipient of that poisoned chalice, that cup of perpetual torment.

How could I tell the witches this, without telling Angelus, too? What good would it do him to know that I could weep for shame and guilt at the cowardice that allowed such a choice to happen? My sins lie on Angelus’ head. They lay on Angel’s head, too. I have sold him into slavery as the plaything of a wicked, powerful, vengeful fiend. As a toy, to be tormented, an unwitting chess piece in the games that the gods seem to play with us. We all take part in the game, but from the day he first visited my coure wae was chosen for a leading role. Destined for Seth’s special attentions. The weight of a godling’s attention is a terrible thing. Mea culpa.

If he ever discovered this, he would surely slaughter me without a moment’s hesitation, and he undoubtedly has that right. But would it make him happier? Will it help him for me to unburden myself and tell him that he will always be at the whim of the fiend? That he can never look forward to a life with less pain and suffering? No cou course not.

I have put the existence of my clan at risk because the prophecies say that he and the Slayer must live in order to save us all. I have put my own life at risk because of the injury I have done him, and would undo if I could. And because I love him. Perhaps all these things are connected. Who knows? With the murder of the Seers of Hylek and Adras, we can only watch as these things play out.

And so I pass off Tara’s question with a light response, and keep my guilty secret to myself.

I have told these two as much as I know about the after-effects of using Hellmouth power. I have offered to teach them about that power, and they have accepted eagerly. I have reservations, but having once used it, they will not be able to stop themselves. They might as well learn how to handle it properly. It is the best of a bad bargain. When I have taught them all I can, I will take them to Adras, where one of the magic users can teach them what I cannot. The use of magic is related to gender. As a male, I can only help them so far. For a short time, though, when Buffy wakes properly, they can simply be three young women in a strange city. A vacation, of sorts.

************
To Chapter 5