Chapter 10 of Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth (Ensemble, R)
Title: Chapter 10. Folly Is An Endless Maze
Author: feliciacraft
Chapter Rating: Hard R (for language and graphic violence)
Characters: The Ensemble (Spike, Xander, Anya, Willow, Tara)
Summary: AU S6, the resurrection spell of Buffy is cast, while Spike is away on an errand.
Betas: The absolutely brilliant EffulgentlyDani and All4Spike.
Length: 4500 words
Feedback: Yes, please!!
Chapter notes: I can't stop revising it (even post Beta-reading and feedback), rewriting a large chunk just yesterday. All mistakes mine.
Chapter 10. Folly Is An Endless Maze
[Read previous chapters on LiveJournal, at AO3, and at Elysian Fields (EF requires login)]
Title is taken from: "The Voice of the Ancient Bard" by William Blake
Folly is an endless maze,
Tangled roots perplex her ways.
How many have fallen there!
They stumble all night over bones of the dead
And feel they know not what but care;
And wish to lead others when they should be led
Spike’s DeSoto roared up to the bay of gas pumps flanking the deserted 24-hour convenience store. The sun had just set, and the broken neon sign proudly blinking “24-ho” gave this out-of-the-way stretch of the back roads that forlorn feeling. Never a vamp to play by the rules, he’d left right after Anya’s phone call that afternoon, in pointed defiance of the death orb in the sky. One vamp’s fatalistic inconvenience was another’s exhilarating challenge. And he didn’t make a hell of a name for himself by unliving in caution.
Spike patted down his pockets for money, glad to be in the middle of nowhere so that nobody would witness William the Bloody stoop to a personal new low. Road trips used to be a hell of a lot more fun when fellow drivers at rest stops served as happy meals on wheels, and affording to keep the DeSoto’s petrol tank full was nary a concern when money was just a flash of fangs away.
Traveling according to the rules of the sodding white hats, on the other hand, was at best inconvenient. Filling up his black beauty at the advertised petrol price like an honest vamp was going to be bloody highway robbery, for fuck’s sake. And not the fun kind. And at worst...well. All these dark, out of the way places through quaint little towns that made prime locations for committing premeditated murders, and he had to restrict his diet to the contents of the cooler currently melting unapologetically in his backseat. It was a bloody waste.
In search of an adequate sum, he came up with a crumpled take-out menu from his back pocket. He vamped out to better read the address he’d scribbled down in a hurry on the back. Paradise, Nevada. A blink-and-you-missed-it area that had the nerve to be unincorporated next to Sin City. A good five and a half hours from Sunnydale if you drove at the speed limit, but why would he do that? He could probably pull off four and a half, each way. Then it was just the simple matter of marching up to the front door of the tosser who’d had the misfortune of getting the wrong merchandise shipped to him from the Magic Box, and offering a full refund in exchange for the safe return of the dark magic ingredient arachnocampa luminosa, whatever the bleeding hell that was. It could probably be done in a single night, unless he ran into trouble and had to duck for cover while the sun was high. Even then, he’d be back before Monday.
Fact was, he was cranky. The job itself he didn’t mind; he’d been a hired demon a time or two when he’d been bored or needed the cash. Granted, the lack of potential for violence made this particular assignment a lot less attractive, but he could always make his own fun. Plenty of demons in Sin City, after all. Bound to be a fight or ten in it for him.
He didn’t mind doing Anya a favor either. As Scoobies went, she was all right. And half a grand for a simple retrieval job that didn’t involve risking his neck or straying from the straight and narrow? Not too shabby, either. Bagged blood didn’t exactly grow on trees, and he couldn’t risk overtaxing his poker buddies or they might turn extra motivated in figuring out that he’d been palming cards. Showing a little financial responsibility and contributing to a household fund for Dawn’s well-being, on the other hand, could help demonstrate that he was a changed vamp, or so Anya had self-servingly persuaded him on the phone. Besides, the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Dawn was away on a sleepover, so he’d been in search of a diversion to occupy himself for the night anyway.
And with that thought, Spike finally figured out what had been bothering him. It was all too bloody perfect. Any other old night, he’d be refusing straight-away on account of needing to mind Dawn. Anyone but a Scooby begging a favor or trying to overpay for his services, and he’d immediately surmise a devious plot of dubious intent and decline, citing a conflict of interest or of schedule. And appealing to his shaky moral grounds? Never would’ve flown if not for the utterance of Dawn’s name, his one Achilles heel.
To service the Magic Box’s customers, Anya had access to a network of suppliers, handlers, and couriers, of both human and demon persuasions. Granted, the standard protocol would’ve taken a couple of days to arrange, but there was no need to tap into the unproven wild card that was Spike. Anya always stepped cautiously where her money was concerned. This was an unnecessary and uncharacteristic risk on her part.
Sod that. Spike smelled a rat. Throwing the handful of crumpled bills to the back seat, careless where they might land, he started up his DeSoto and pointed it back in the direction of Sunnydale. There was enough petrol left to get him home yet. He let out an amused laugh and cracked his knuckles in anticipation of action. His night had just upgraded from a dull chore to an exhilarating mystery, and he’d be damned if that didn’t get his blood flowing.
Someone had tried really hard to get him out of the way, and he intended to find out why. Anya had some ‘splaining to do.
Anya had a point. Sparing a little blood in exchange for a living, breathing Buffy should seem like the bargain of the century. But try as he might, Xander could not let it go. By his experience, only the baddies ever wanted to shed human blood. The Scoobies were definitely on the side of the Light. This was good magic they were about to do here, rooted in Wiccan flower power, not some freaky back-alley voodoo devil-worship. They were still dedicated to the mission of helping people and saving lives. So why was his spine a-tingling and his left eye all twitchy?
Xander was still absentmindedly rubbing his band-aided finger when Tara came over and called for the formation of the spell circle. “Time to rescue Buffy!” Her tone was so...light and casual, as if she was announcing some routine boring event, like dinner or the arrival of mail.
Xander cut short his conflicted pondering to heed the call to action. He was no philosopher. He had no interest in a profound and prolonged moral discourse. Nor was he Hamlet, who was wishy-washy personified, prince or no prince. (Not to mention, yammering on and on to a skull was surely a sign of having a loose screw. Even if-Xander recalled fondly-“borrowing” the skull from Biology class for their Drama class project had been kind of fun.)
No. Xander Harris was all action man. Thinking too much was bad, for thinking in his case led to fear, and fear...well, as Yoda wisely stated, fear was the path to the dark side. He’d known Willow since his toolbox was still made of plastic and the hammer would squeak when he hit it. When it came to magic, a subject he knew diddly squat about, a little trust in his best friend the Super Witch seemed like a sensible thing.
His conviction renewed, he marched over to the circle where four burning black candles guarded Willow, and plopped himself down next to her.
“Whoa, black sand!” He observed with interest, dipping a couple of fingers in the circle, and letting a pinch of the black sand sprinkle down. It sparkled, as silicon should. “Fancy. Black candles. Black sand. Don’t tell me there’s a dress code.” He winked at Willow.
“Uhm…” Willow grimaced with unease, as if deliberating what to say.
From behind him Anya scoffed and said, “Which is really ground up dried scarabs?” She leapt into the circle with an elongated step, giving the dried bug dust a wide berth.
“Correct!” chirped Willow, with forced cheer. “A hundred dollars to Anya. You even remembered to answer in the form of a question.”
Xander rubbed his tainted hand on his cargo shorts, suddenly lightheaded and queasy. Good thing he was already sitting down. First horseshoe crab blood, now scarab dust. Magic clearly had it in for all God’s creatures great and small.
Oblivious to his discomfort, Anya stared at Willow through narrowed eyes. “Don’t jest about money. It’s not funny. Wait until you have to work to earn a living, and you’ll see.” She dropped to her knees and sat back.
When Xander found his voice again, he asked, “Will, do I even want to know?”
As Willow hesitated, Tara chimed in, “To ancient Egyptians, the scarab symbolizes creation and rebirth in the cycle of life. It’s also associated with Khepri, god of the morning sun. We’ll be drawing on the power of creation for the resurrection spell tonight, and calling for the protection of the newly risen sun against forces of Darkness.”
“Can we maybe hold off on the Q&A until after I do the spell?” Willow’s voice was tinged with more than a hint of annoyance as it lingered over the word I. “Buffy’s only getting deader while time’s a-wastin’.” She shot a warning glance at Tara, of all people.
Someone was touchy. A case of too many witches spoiling a spell?
The question that’d just popped in Xander’s head was too urgent to ignore. He blurted out without thinking, “Why are we doing the spell here, in the Magic Box, anyway? Shouldn’t we be candlelighting the cemetery where Buffy’s not resting in peace and sprinkling the bag o’ magical bug dust on her tomb? You know, since she’s over there?”
Willow sighed in exasperation. “Now you want to talk about it? Before, you were all like”-her voice dropped an octave, apparently in a Xander impression-“‘You’re the boss, Willow. Spare me the details.’”
“Yeah, well, that was before you called for a not-so-voluntary donation of blood, and dumped dead bugs all over the floor of Anya’s shop. Who do you think will get the super fun joy of vacuuming this up after all’s said and done?” Xander gestured wildly around them, not entirely sure about the source of his anger yet unable to hold back any longer.
With the tone of an adult at her wit’s end responding to an ornery child’s incessant questions, Willow pleaded, “Just trust me, okay? I’m going to be teleporting Buffy’s soul from another dimension. Do you think I’m going to sweat the last couple of miles between the cemetery and the Magic Box?”
“Uhm, no, probably not.”
“There’s no better place. The mystical signature of the Magic Box acts as a focal point for drawing in energy. The supply room offers an encyclopedia of magical ingredients, plus the actual encyclopedia. Anything we might need in a pinch. There’s already a protection spell in place to guard against dark spirits. Besides, we wouldn’t want to get interrupted by rising fledgelings attracted by the scent of fresh blood, would we?” At Xander’s silence, she tilted her head and cast a sideways glance at him. “Sheesh. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re chickening out.”
Tara and Anya exchanged a meaningful look. Apparently Xander the Chicken was a popular idea.
“Me? Chickening out?” Xander laughed. It sounded ridiculously high to him. “No chickening. I don’t even like chicken. I’m more of a steak and potatoes guy.” He wasn’t sure what he was saying anymore, but his mouth was like a runaway train, skipping all scheduled stops, including his brain. “Chicken breast-too dry. I’ve never been known to be a breast man myself. Well, actually, that last part-”
“Uh, Xander?” Tara interrupted.
“And you wonder why you don’t have more friends…” Anya stage-whispered.
“Sorry,” muttered Xander. “I...got spooked by the blood. I don’t deal well with things that I don’t understand and magic is large with the not-understanding for me.”
He took a moment to collect himself and considered the alternative. Except there was no alternative. This was the only way. Resigned, he threw his hands up in the air. “It’s all details compared to bringing Buffy back. Let’s do it.”
At that, they all joined hands.
Willow took a slow breath and exhaled. “Ready to bless the circle, Tara?”
“I’m with you,” came the even-toned reply.
As one, the two witches began chanting, their combined voice calm and steady. Over the unfamiliar cadence of Latin, Xander felt a surge course through their linked hands. He flinched, then nodded decisively as Willow gave his hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go.
“This is it, people,” Willow warned as she trained her gaze on each of them in turn. “From this point on, no interruptions. If you break the circle, you break the spell, and nobody breaks the spell except for me. Understood?”
Everyone nodded and murmured agreement. Willow cleared her throat and began to chant, alone this time, her words steadily rising in tempo and in volume. After a moment she dipped two fingers into the shallow bowl of blood before her, and traced a crimson circle onto a small mirror. The surface of the mirror rippled, which, judging by Willow’s unflinching expression, was all hunky-dory. Xander’s band-aided finger throbbed in pain at the sight of the blood.
He was just beginning to zone out when he noticed the blood disappearing from the mirror, like mist clearing in sunlight. Whoa, trippy.
Willow tipped the entire bowl of their commingled blood over the mirror, a string of Latin words on her lips. The surface of the mirror dipped slightly, draining the blood into its invisible reservoir.
The candles’ flames elongated and began to flicker wildly, straight out of a cheesy horror movie, throwing everyone and everything into sharp relief. Meanwhile the air around them stilled, condensed, and congealed, pressing down on Xander’s body with all of the comfort of wet cement beginning to set. A dark halo developed around each of the flame and spread, absorbing instead of emitting light, until all four halos met in mid air and cast their merged gloom over the entire room.
The creep factor was simply too high for an immature joke of, “Who turned out the lights?” A child of the Hellmouth after all, Xander had never been afraid of the dark per se, but this unnatural darkness that’d descended over them made his hair stand on end. It oozed and contracted, pulsating to the flickering of the candles as if sentient. Xander had the distinct sensation of being watched by it, a shadow of something sinister and powerful.
Wasn’t Willow supposed to be calling up a sun god? This felt as far from sunshine and rainbows as, well, night from day.
With scant light from the back window for illumination, he was just able to make out Willow tipping an unmarked bottle over the mirror, its content a liquid dark and thick and foul-smelling. That was wrong on so many levels, Xander thought. Where this magic beeswax was concerned, ignorance really was bliss.
He stole a glance at Tara, who maintained a look of quiet intensity as she observed Willow, her body leaning forward, poised for action. Anya, on the other hand, had her head tilted at an angle that was half way between curiosity and concern.
Finally Willow ceased her preparations. There was an edge to her voice now, an effort, with the desperation of an appeal and the authority of a command. Xander imagined a battle of wills, with Willow’s body being ground zero. A terrifying thought.
In time Xander became aware of words, English words, that emerged in his mind without first going through his ears. It took him a moment to realize they constituted Willow’s spell:
Atum, god of creation,
Spirit of the setting sun,
We beseech you
At your day’s journey’s end.
May you grant us passage,
To lead to one of our own.
Let us follow in your footsteps
Through the Underworld.
Your light be our guide
Our blood be your price.
Their blood as payment? And here he thought the currency of the Underworld was kittens. Or was that just among Undead Boy and other unsavory characters in his circle? And why was he thinking about Spike anyway? He yanked his focus back to the magic translation in his head. But the words did not reveal their secret to him, and he followed without comprehension.
At long last, the incantation came to a halt. There was a slight hesitation on Willow’s part as she made eye contact with Tara, but no words were exchanged. Xander watched the byplay, positive whatever had transpired was important. But what did it all mean? He held his breath in anticipation.
With her eyes still fixed on Tara, Willow gave up a mere whisper, like the dying breath of a defeated warrior. But the words that burst into Xander’s mind in tandem screamed of pure agony, drowning out every other sound and sensation. As in a badly dubbed foreign film, the message came out distorted and syncopated, and it was only with effort that Xander realized what Willow had uttered:
Atum, our guide, name your price!
Sheer terror invaded Tara’s face, and judging by the shape of her lips, she had to be shouting, “Willow, no!” but all Xander could hear was an indiscernible shriek tearing through the air.
Flashes of light slashed through the darkness, sharp as a knife, freezing images of chaos and horror like a camera on a repeated timer. When Xander remembered to breathe again, he gulped down oxygen with greed. For a moment his own violent inhales and the drumming of his racing heart threatened to drown out every other sound.
Out of the darkness a pair of hands reached for him, hands that bore fresh injuries. And as he watched in horror, more cuts, shallow and long and precise, with the skill of a practiced surgeon, and outlined in blood, appeared on Anya’s hands, traveling up her bare arms and disappearing under her shirtsleeves. Stunned, he watched without seeing, hurt without understanding. Anya’s shirt darkened under his gaze, in patches of dark red, and eventually it dawned on him that she must’ve been bleeding from wounds concealed by her shirt.
They grasped each other in mirrored shock in the dim room, until both of them blurted out, “You’re hurt!” And it occurred to Xander that some of the pain he felt was physical. Checking his own body for damage, he found the same type of slashes covering his exposed skin: hands and arms and legs too; here and there and everywhere, repetition without pattern.
Definitely a bad day for cargo shorts.
“Willow, you have to stop!” Tara’s sobbing plea went unanswered.
That was when they noticed Willow, on her knees, torso rigid, back arched, arms extended, head thrown back, and her body a dense crisscross network of gashes. The wounds were less than an inch apart, over skin and clothes alike, indiscriminately, leaving her in tatters. Her eyes were wide open and unblinking, fixed on an unseen spot on the ceiling. Stretched out like a puppet on strings unseen, still she chanted on, without breaking for air.
Merciful Zeus! Xander blinked several times, each time willing the image before him to dissolve into, well, not necessarily a basket of puppies, but even a nest of vampires could be considered an improvement at this point. It remained unchanged.
The only part of Willow showing any sign of life was her moving lips, a rhythmic chant emerging from them that brought to mind the marching steps of an army of doom.
“Willow!” Xander shook one of her extended arms. Willow gave no indication she felt or heard anything; and that scared the bejesus out of Xander.
“She’s not answering!” Shrieked Anya, her eyes wide with mortal panic. She turned to Xander, full of fear and accusation. “Why isn’t she answering?”
Words continued to pour out of Willow, and after a couple of repetitions Xander recognized the first line as the translated poem from Willow’s notebook:
The one I seek I do not fear
A friend, a sister, we hold dear
A soul transported against her will
Untimely death to end blood spill
The action wrong be mine to right
Surrender her stolen life t’night
Sacrifice unto sacrifice
Flesh and blood to revive, to rise
Rewind time’s current now
Sacred revenge I avow
Passage safe and sound I direct
Return to us here, resurrect!
Buffy Anne Summers
Return to us!
A soul to collect
Body resurrect!
Xander waited for another iteration of the incantation to complete, just to see if Willow would come to her senses, or if her senses would be restored to her. No such luck. Up close, he took in her extensive injuries. Freakishly unstained by blood, her wounds exposed all too vividly the pink puckered slashes carved into her skin. A random image popped into Xander’s head, of how a layer of badly mixed paint would crack and curl and chip in the sun, exposing the naked wood underneath. He swallowed hard to battle rising bile at the thought of the same thing happening to his best friend.
“Oh. My. God!” Anya was staring and hyperventilating, and for once, Xander thought that was the most natural, most human response given the situation. “The- the price!” She gasped, her voice high-pitched and tight, “Willow’s paying the price of the spell with her own blood!”
And by God she was right. Willow was so pale she was almost glowing in the dark. How… How was she still performing the ritual? Where did she get the strength to keep going like that? He blinked rapidly, willing away the moisture that had no business accumulating in his manly eyes.
Tara had begun to chant something low and lyrical, her eyes unreadable in the darkness and half shielded by strands of hair. In one hand extended over the candle closest to Willow, she held a tidy bunch of herbs secured with twine tied in a simple dead knot. It looked like...green onion? No, lemongrass, whose pungent, citrusy scent soon filled the small room. The other hand was clasping one of Willow’s.
Tara set the lemongrass before Willow to rummage through a silk purse, and came up with a bright yellow crystal to lay on top of the herbs. At one point she paused her incantation to extend a hand to Anya and Xander. “Help me!”
“How?” Xander asked, shaking Willow once more. Zero response.
“What do I do?” Anya crawled over. Her hands hovered over Willow, as if afraid that her touch would set Willow to crumble to pieces.
“Hold her other hand. There. We need to channel more energy to her to give her a fighting chance.”
There was no hesitation as the four of them formed a circle of linked hands once again, a united front against enemy unseen. Tara had resumed chanting, her voice hard and urgent, though she’d had to pause several times to collect herself. Tears and blood streamed down her face, for she, too, was covered in shallow cuts.
It occurred to Xander that as the spellcaster, Willow must’ve borne the brunt of the assault. The rest of them were simply caught in the crossfire, so to speak. The crossfire of out-of-control homicidal lawn mowers, judging by their combined damage. But their injuries, however marked with gore, were superficial comparing to what Willow must’ve endured. Was still enduring.
After what felt like an eternity, with Willow as immobile as a statue and her hand growing colder in his grasp, Xander decided that enough was enough. He jumped to his feet. “No offense, Tara, but this isn’t working.”
Tara continued to chant. Louder. Insistent. Damn it!
“Anya!” he barked, then hearing the anger in his own voice, toned it down. “First aid kit. Please. Where do you keep your first aid kit?” He tried to raise Willow to her feet, but she was seemingly glued to the spot. He tried again, this time attempting to pick her up, fireman style, but Tara’s hand stayed his arm.
“We can’t break the circle!” she shouted through her tears.
“Screw the circle!” Xander shouted back. “She’s hurt badly, Tara. She’s white as a ghost! We lost Buffy, all right? Buffy’s gone. I’m not going to...” The rest of the sentence died in his throat. He would not give voice to his fear. It would be too real.
Tara hesitated, while Anya said, “I’ll get the first aid kit, but I don’t think I have enough band-aids. Given how fragile humans are, we should-”
Xander never got to hear what Anya thought they should do, because the instant she tried to leave the sand circle, she was thrown back by an invisible force. Willow’s head snapped in Anya’s direction, and sunlight, golden and piercing and unforgiving, streamed from her wide eyes.
Temporarily blinded, Xander stumbled.
“Mortal children who dared summon a god!” boomed an unfamiliar voice from Willow’s lips, dripping with contempt. Her pose relaxed, and she emitted a low rumbling laugh that shook the ground. And damned if that wasn’t a scary sound!
Willow’s lips curled up into a cruel imitation of a smile. Not-her-voice continued, pausing between each word, “So insignificant. Asking so much, with so little to give in return. Shall I grant your request and name my price?”
With robotic movements, as if operating her arm for the first time, Not-Willow drew a ceremonial dagger from Willow’s pocket. It was the same dagger they’d used earlier to extract their own blood for the ritual. The blade glistened, cool and bright and sharp and lethal.
Oh, crap.
Everyone sprung into action at once. Xander threw himself onto Willow’s arm and tried to wrestle the dagger away. It was like trying to pry open fingers made of stone. Anya tried to snuff the ritual candles, but the yelps of pain that erupted from her were anything but encouraging. Tara smashed the mirror along with the blood bowl with a shout. Her words came out in a rush:
Thy invitation rescinded,
Thy spirit be expelled.
From out of the Underworld thou rose,
And unto the Underworld shalt thou return.
But the amused laughter from Willow roared louder. “Am I to be disposed of so soon? Oh, but this one tastes of power...juuust enough to be interesting. Shall I stay to-”
“You shall not! Nobody hurts my Willow!” Tara screamed, her eyes burning with intent. Not in the sense that one’s eyes might burn with passion. They actually burned, glowing red in the darkness. In fact, her entire torso was engulfed in a red glow of energy. She sprinkled more herbs over possessed Willow and commanded:
From out of the Underworld thou rose,
And unto the Underworld shalt thou return!
Heed my word. Be gone, Atum, be gone!
The laughter turned into a hiss, and Xander was barely able to make out the god’s last words: “Suffered I your empty words. Reap what you sow in time! That shall be your punishment enough.”
Then everything went slack and the world turned blank.
~ To be continued ~
[Read previous chapters on LiveJournal, at AO3, and at Elysian Fields (EF requires login)]