Fic: Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth, Ch. 4: I Am Not Resigned
I've always felt cheated that at the end of Season 5 of BtVS, we didn't get a funeral for Buffy, a venue to channel all of our grief for her, an at-the-time-final chance to say goodbye. As a fan I needed the closure...however temporary. The show didn't give me a funeral, so I wrote one. :)
Also, this is the first time the Scoobies will see one another since The Jump. Xander will attempt to recite a poem.
As part of my ~S6 rewrite Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth ( previous chapters here), this is Chapter 4 "I Am Not Resigned". Title is taken from a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, quoted at the beginning of the story. It also works as a stand-alone one-shot, as it's mostly canon-compliant.
Disclaimer: BtVS is not mine. No temper tandrum has had any affect on that at all.
Distribution: Not without express permission please. Post no translations por favor.
Characters: Ensemble.
Continuity: Post Glory's tower jump in S5 "The Gift".
Betas: SlayerDaniWho and All4Spike.
Rated: PG-13.
Feedback: Would you be so kind?
The Funeral (Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth Chapter 4. I Am Not Resigned)
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,-but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,-
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
-- “Dirge Without Music”, by Edna St. Vincent Millay
In the delicate, golden light of dusk, in a tranquil grove on the outskirts of Sunnydale, a group was assembling. Meticulously attired, with men in crisp suits and women in soft flowing dresses, they came together, in singles and pairs, bearing flowers. A truck was parked nearby, sheltered by foliage that prevented it from being visible from the road. Laden with precious cargo, it had been maneuvered into position with care; but due to sheer weight, had proven powerless to prevent the parallel gouges its tires had carved deep into the soft dirt in its wake. Like tear tracks. Like wounds.
Shielded from the last ray of the sun by the surrounding trees, a dark figure, clad in a leather duster, slipped in and merged with the group. Greetings and hugs were exchanged in whispers and stifled tears.
They had come to bid a final goodbye to Buffy Summers, the Slayer.
The group shifted to gather in front of a fresh grave, and the men marched to the truck. With Giles and Xander in front and Spike in the back, they slowly shouldered the casket to the grave, their footfalls muffled by the soft, lush grass grown unbridled. The women hummed, low and soothing, and Giles listened for the tune. No, not Amazing Grace. It was not grace that brought them here, no matter how they’d grown to accept this death. Ah, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and Giles smiled despite himself. It felt right.
As the men lowered the casket into the grave, Dawn began to weep. Willow slid an arm around her waist as Tara rubbed her back and whispered in her ear. She nodded, then took the proffered tissue out of Anya’s hand and dabbed her eyes.
The heavy lifting done, the men fell away, and rejoined the group.
The sun dipped below the horizon; the air stilled. Giles prefaced his goodbye with the Slayer prophecy, the one that had been branded upon all of their hearts:
“Into every generation, there is a chosen one. One girl in all the world. She alone will wield the strength and skill to stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness; To stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their numbers. She is the Slayer.
“One girl in all the world,” he repeated, looking away, waiting for his eyes to clear. After a moment, he continued, “This is the life we’re celebrating today.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Spike stared at the coffin, mass-produced and store-purchased and unremarkable, and thought it unbefitting of the victorious Slayer, Heaven’s Chosen One, so often relegated to anonymity among the humans she gave her life to protect, yet universally respected and feared by demonkind. She alone was the bogeyman to reign over the misdeeds of those who dwell in Darkness, her name mentioned but in whispers of awe and trepidation.
Equally inadequate was it for Buffy, the woman he had loved and loved still, ordinary where she was phenomenal, a harsh shell for such a delicate form, the shelter it bestowed a poor substitute for her own power and resilience.
He would have preferred the ritual of the olden days, to see a warrior’s remains go up in flames atop a raging pyre, to see fire purified in fire. To watch the corpse that betrayed the bearer’s lively spirit reduced to the empty lie it was, to listen to the fire’s crackles and sizzles invade the silence over her unbeating heart, to close his eyes and bathe in the last of her warmth, to breathe in the burning ashes to fill his lungs deep, and keep her within.
He wanted to take her with him, immortality a terrible punishment for the cold, dark nights ahead, without her there. He wanted to hold on, to more than memories that would, in the dreaded long years of the hereafter, warm a vamp’s lukewarm body, reawaken his long dead heart, and invoke his vacant soul. In short, he wanted her, and failing that, a recipe to bring forth the surcease of sorrow, something that might soothe a shattered heart.
He stared at the back of Dawn’s head. If he’d been miserable, then Dawn… He’d sworn to protect her, yet how would he even begin to safeguard her from the worst kind of pain, from inner turmoil? He’d never again have what he craved, his golden Slayer, but something to do to dampen the guilt that’d been eating away at him wouldn’t hurt.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Giles continued his eulogy, elegant and moving, yet Dawn couldn’t register enough beyond the rise and fall of the words to grasp their meaning. How ironic, Dawn thought, that in the end, it was not the foretold forces of darkness that had brought down the Slayer. Not vampires, not demons, not troll gods or hell gods. It was love. It was her. How could she bear to say goodbye?
Willow gave Dawn a gentle nudge forward, but the teen was not ready, not nearly. Tara stepped forward instead, brought out two long tapered candles from her purse, and set them at the head of the grave. Before she could strike a match, a lit lighter was thrust before her--Spike, bending to please, offering his trusty Zippo. She nodded, and he brought the candles to life, trembling fingers aglow before trembling flames.
As silently as he had stepped up, Spike faded back. Tara began speaking, in a hushed tone, as if not to disturb a sleeping baby. Not wanting to miss a word, Dawn bit her lower lip and breathed deeply, slowly, holding back tears for the moment. Her mind, however, refused to settle, and instead of gliding on Tara’s gentle voice, floated to anything and everything else: The way the blades of grass yielded beneath Tara’s black Mary Janes but did not break. The way the casket fit into the open grave, so snug, contrasted with the thought of herself, after the witches have moved on, rattling away alone in her mom’s big house, like a dried nut in a too-big shell. The smell of eucalyptus wafting through the air, recalling a thousand childhood memories, dozens of picnics, on days much like this one, with mom and dad calling from the car, and Buffy and her pausing mid play, almost out of breath from their game of tag and from laughing, to beg for just another five minutes, pretty please with sugar on top. And being yanked back to the open grave, Earth opening up to swallow Her child, Her protector, the same way it had recently swallowed Buffy and Dawn’s mom.
Tara’s voice broke, then dropped to a whisper. Something someone had said at her mother’s funeral. Curiously, it resonated louder than before in Dawn’s ears: Your end, which is endless, is as a snowflake dissolving in the pure air. So beautiful, Dawn thought, and profound. But her grief-addled mind willfully rejected the beauty and the wisdom, because she couldn’t, no way, no how, see her sister’s death as anything but ugly and tragic and senseless. No Eastern philosophy could dissolve away the death and the associated pain. Or, Dawn amended, my sorrow, which is endless, is as a tear sinking into the freaking earth at a fresh grave. So, there.
Then Tara was done and bashfully stepping back. Willow, stepping forward at the same time, swooped up her hand and laced their fingers together, and with fortitude borrowed from Tara, she spoke, too, letting memories wash over her. Of high school friendship and courage and finding purpose and Bronzing and the good times, the last of which Dawn found hurt more than the bad.
Then Anya was suddenly there, the three of them in a huddle and Anya offering more tissues, all around, from her apparently bottomless supply, like one of those peddlers at a baseball game, carrying a ridiculous super-sized tray of popcorn and cotton candy and what else? Dawn couldn’t recall at the moment. Kudos to Anya with the preparedness and the keen eye to spot a need and the perfect timing and, oh, she was crying again, alone and--
A solid set of arms pulled her close, into a chest robust like a wall of solidarity. She looked up to a blurred vision of Spike, his face wet too. “‘Lo, Nibblet…” he murmured against her hair, “Let it out, Spike’s got you…” His body was arched to envelop hers, as if to shield her from harm. His chin dug into the top of her head when he spoke, a point of comfort. In his strength she felt herself grounded, the tension draining out of her body to be replaced by an immense sense of relief. Relief that she had someone to cry with, and even more that Spike was not mad at her after all, for having caused the death of the woman he loved.
Then she felt Giles patting her on the shoulder, his movements stilted, as if he was embarrassed to break his personal code of zero public display of affection, to betray the magnitude of his emotions. And as he seemed to deliberate on his next move, Xander strode up past them to break up the sobfest of the three women, whispering to Anya, “C’mere, babe,” and Anya poured into his arms. So did Willow, which meant he didn’t so much break up the sobfest as join it.
Finally, all Scoobies, united once more, were reduced to blubbering, sniveling puddles of incoherence, and the conquest was complete.
Ironically, Dawn was the first to recover, now that she had Spike as backup. She had so much to say, and nowhere to start. She had something prepared on a sheet of lined paper, the kind she used for school, with a thick margin at the top for the student’s name and three holes on the left for the binder. She had written and rewritten and crossed out her thoughts to the point of near illegibility, then dutifully replicated them on a mint sheet of paper. But it seemed silly now, before her sister’s fresh grave, to smooth out a sheet of neatly folded paper, and clear her throat, and enounce, loud and clear, as if reciting in front of the class for a grade. As much as it was laid out for everyone to see, grief, Dawn thought, was very much a private matter. A sudden clarity struck her: She would never be able to let go of her sister, say a real goodbye, and she saw no need to put up a charade for the benefit of her sister’s friends. They were mourning her, too.
So she saved her private thoughts for a private moment, alone with her sister, and said simply, “I love you, Buffy. I miss you so much. I remember what you said on Glory’s platform: The hardest thing in this world is to live in it. I’ll be brave, and live, for you, to be worthy of your sacrifice.”
She turned to the group around her. Softly, she fulfilled her sister’s last request, “Buffy said to give all of you her love.” Spike’s head jerked up; the unexpected message from beyond the grave not allowing him time to compose himself, to cover it up. Fortunately for him, everyone was too engrossed in their own grief to notice. “She said,” Dawn continued, “that we have to take care of one another now.”
“Were those...her last words, then?” Giles asked, clearly making a mental note. Dawn nodded. “Thank you,” said Giles. “You’ve been remarkably brave.”
She managed a meek smile, then turned to Spike. “Aren’t you going to say something to Buffy?”
Spike hesitated, “Reckon much of what I want to say isn’t fit for company.” Dawn narrowed her eyes, and he added quickly, “But I did try my hand at composing a poem for her. Thing is,” he exhaled shakily, “when you write about slayers…every poem is an epitaph, every song an elegy. Life burning so bright ‘astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.’ That last bit’s from Samuel Beckett, who wrote as depressing as they come. Can’t compete.”
“Night once more…” Dawn echoed. “Well, it’s good that you’re a creature of the night, then.”
He couldn’t help but smile at his Nibblet’s quick wit. She was going to be alright. He thought for a moment, then recited from memory, substituting “she” for “he” to fit:
When she shall die,
Take her and cut her out in little stars,
And she will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
Dawn stared at him in shock and Spike shrugged. Giles supplied helpfully, his voice strained with surprise and curiosity, “Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, except with the appropriate pronouns.”
“Hey, I also happen to know a poem or two for this occasion,” Xander’s voice rung out, a bit too loud. He cleared his throat, and solemnly, slowly--
It's the circle of life, and it moves us all,
through despair and hope,
through faith and love,
'til we find our place,
on the path unwinding.
Anya was nodding pensively, and Giles frowned, but Dawn’s eyes met Willow’s. “Wait, is that from…the Lion King?!” Dawn snorted.
“What if it is?” Xander countered. “The way I see it, Disney deserves a Nobel for the fine literature they produce.”
Dawn was doubling over with laughter. Xander reached out and ruffled her hair, “Made you laugh,” he said proudly.
“Hey, stop it!” Dawn batted his hand away. “Dork!” she retorted elegantly, but there was no sting in her rebuff. Her smile said it all. And everyone else was smiling with her. Maybe, she thought, daring to hope, just maybe, everything would be all right.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In a tranquil grove on the outskirts of Sunnydale, hushed by weeping willows and incensed with eucalyptus, outside the confines of the town’s myriad cemeteries, and where the myrtle flowers didn’t reach, lay a warrior's last resting place. A tombstone, simple but ornamented with flowers and protected by an ancient spell invoked in the tears of friendship and family bonds, proclaimed its hero laid to rest below:
Buffy Anne Summers
1981 - 2001
Beloved Sister
Devoted Friend
She Saved the World
A Lot
~ To Be Continued in Ch. 5 of Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth ~
Also, this is the first time the Scoobies will see one another since The Jump. Xander will attempt to recite a poem.
As part of my ~S6 rewrite Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth ( previous chapters here), this is Chapter 4 "I Am Not Resigned". Title is taken from a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, quoted at the beginning of the story. It also works as a stand-alone one-shot, as it's mostly canon-compliant.
Disclaimer: BtVS is not mine. No temper tandrum has had any affect on that at all.
Distribution: Not without express permission please. Post no translations por favor.
Characters: Ensemble.
Continuity: Post Glory's tower jump in S5 "The Gift".
Betas: SlayerDaniWho and All4Spike.
Rated: PG-13.
Feedback: Would you be so kind?
The Funeral (Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth Chapter 4. I Am Not Resigned)
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,-but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,-
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
-- “Dirge Without Music”, by Edna St. Vincent Millay
In the delicate, golden light of dusk, in a tranquil grove on the outskirts of Sunnydale, a group was assembling. Meticulously attired, with men in crisp suits and women in soft flowing dresses, they came together, in singles and pairs, bearing flowers. A truck was parked nearby, sheltered by foliage that prevented it from being visible from the road. Laden with precious cargo, it had been maneuvered into position with care; but due to sheer weight, had proven powerless to prevent the parallel gouges its tires had carved deep into the soft dirt in its wake. Like tear tracks. Like wounds.
Shielded from the last ray of the sun by the surrounding trees, a dark figure, clad in a leather duster, slipped in and merged with the group. Greetings and hugs were exchanged in whispers and stifled tears.
They had come to bid a final goodbye to Buffy Summers, the Slayer.
The group shifted to gather in front of a fresh grave, and the men marched to the truck. With Giles and Xander in front and Spike in the back, they slowly shouldered the casket to the grave, their footfalls muffled by the soft, lush grass grown unbridled. The women hummed, low and soothing, and Giles listened for the tune. No, not Amazing Grace. It was not grace that brought them here, no matter how they’d grown to accept this death. Ah, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and Giles smiled despite himself. It felt right.
As the men lowered the casket into the grave, Dawn began to weep. Willow slid an arm around her waist as Tara rubbed her back and whispered in her ear. She nodded, then took the proffered tissue out of Anya’s hand and dabbed her eyes.
The heavy lifting done, the men fell away, and rejoined the group.
The sun dipped below the horizon; the air stilled. Giles prefaced his goodbye with the Slayer prophecy, the one that had been branded upon all of their hearts:
“Into every generation, there is a chosen one. One girl in all the world. She alone will wield the strength and skill to stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness; To stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their numbers. She is the Slayer.
“One girl in all the world,” he repeated, looking away, waiting for his eyes to clear. After a moment, he continued, “This is the life we’re celebrating today.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Spike stared at the coffin, mass-produced and store-purchased and unremarkable, and thought it unbefitting of the victorious Slayer, Heaven’s Chosen One, so often relegated to anonymity among the humans she gave her life to protect, yet universally respected and feared by demonkind. She alone was the bogeyman to reign over the misdeeds of those who dwell in Darkness, her name mentioned but in whispers of awe and trepidation.
Equally inadequate was it for Buffy, the woman he had loved and loved still, ordinary where she was phenomenal, a harsh shell for such a delicate form, the shelter it bestowed a poor substitute for her own power and resilience.
He would have preferred the ritual of the olden days, to see a warrior’s remains go up in flames atop a raging pyre, to see fire purified in fire. To watch the corpse that betrayed the bearer’s lively spirit reduced to the empty lie it was, to listen to the fire’s crackles and sizzles invade the silence over her unbeating heart, to close his eyes and bathe in the last of her warmth, to breathe in the burning ashes to fill his lungs deep, and keep her within.
He wanted to take her with him, immortality a terrible punishment for the cold, dark nights ahead, without her there. He wanted to hold on, to more than memories that would, in the dreaded long years of the hereafter, warm a vamp’s lukewarm body, reawaken his long dead heart, and invoke his vacant soul. In short, he wanted her, and failing that, a recipe to bring forth the surcease of sorrow, something that might soothe a shattered heart.
He stared at the back of Dawn’s head. If he’d been miserable, then Dawn… He’d sworn to protect her, yet how would he even begin to safeguard her from the worst kind of pain, from inner turmoil? He’d never again have what he craved, his golden Slayer, but something to do to dampen the guilt that’d been eating away at him wouldn’t hurt.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Giles continued his eulogy, elegant and moving, yet Dawn couldn’t register enough beyond the rise and fall of the words to grasp their meaning. How ironic, Dawn thought, that in the end, it was not the foretold forces of darkness that had brought down the Slayer. Not vampires, not demons, not troll gods or hell gods. It was love. It was her. How could she bear to say goodbye?
Willow gave Dawn a gentle nudge forward, but the teen was not ready, not nearly. Tara stepped forward instead, brought out two long tapered candles from her purse, and set them at the head of the grave. Before she could strike a match, a lit lighter was thrust before her--Spike, bending to please, offering his trusty Zippo. She nodded, and he brought the candles to life, trembling fingers aglow before trembling flames.
As silently as he had stepped up, Spike faded back. Tara began speaking, in a hushed tone, as if not to disturb a sleeping baby. Not wanting to miss a word, Dawn bit her lower lip and breathed deeply, slowly, holding back tears for the moment. Her mind, however, refused to settle, and instead of gliding on Tara’s gentle voice, floated to anything and everything else: The way the blades of grass yielded beneath Tara’s black Mary Janes but did not break. The way the casket fit into the open grave, so snug, contrasted with the thought of herself, after the witches have moved on, rattling away alone in her mom’s big house, like a dried nut in a too-big shell. The smell of eucalyptus wafting through the air, recalling a thousand childhood memories, dozens of picnics, on days much like this one, with mom and dad calling from the car, and Buffy and her pausing mid play, almost out of breath from their game of tag and from laughing, to beg for just another five minutes, pretty please with sugar on top. And being yanked back to the open grave, Earth opening up to swallow Her child, Her protector, the same way it had recently swallowed Buffy and Dawn’s mom.
Tara’s voice broke, then dropped to a whisper. Something someone had said at her mother’s funeral. Curiously, it resonated louder than before in Dawn’s ears: Your end, which is endless, is as a snowflake dissolving in the pure air. So beautiful, Dawn thought, and profound. But her grief-addled mind willfully rejected the beauty and the wisdom, because she couldn’t, no way, no how, see her sister’s death as anything but ugly and tragic and senseless. No Eastern philosophy could dissolve away the death and the associated pain. Or, Dawn amended, my sorrow, which is endless, is as a tear sinking into the freaking earth at a fresh grave. So, there.
Then Tara was done and bashfully stepping back. Willow, stepping forward at the same time, swooped up her hand and laced their fingers together, and with fortitude borrowed from Tara, she spoke, too, letting memories wash over her. Of high school friendship and courage and finding purpose and Bronzing and the good times, the last of which Dawn found hurt more than the bad.
Then Anya was suddenly there, the three of them in a huddle and Anya offering more tissues, all around, from her apparently bottomless supply, like one of those peddlers at a baseball game, carrying a ridiculous super-sized tray of popcorn and cotton candy and what else? Dawn couldn’t recall at the moment. Kudos to Anya with the preparedness and the keen eye to spot a need and the perfect timing and, oh, she was crying again, alone and--
A solid set of arms pulled her close, into a chest robust like a wall of solidarity. She looked up to a blurred vision of Spike, his face wet too. “‘Lo, Nibblet…” he murmured against her hair, “Let it out, Spike’s got you…” His body was arched to envelop hers, as if to shield her from harm. His chin dug into the top of her head when he spoke, a point of comfort. In his strength she felt herself grounded, the tension draining out of her body to be replaced by an immense sense of relief. Relief that she had someone to cry with, and even more that Spike was not mad at her after all, for having caused the death of the woman he loved.
Then she felt Giles patting her on the shoulder, his movements stilted, as if he was embarrassed to break his personal code of zero public display of affection, to betray the magnitude of his emotions. And as he seemed to deliberate on his next move, Xander strode up past them to break up the sobfest of the three women, whispering to Anya, “C’mere, babe,” and Anya poured into his arms. So did Willow, which meant he didn’t so much break up the sobfest as join it.
Finally, all Scoobies, united once more, were reduced to blubbering, sniveling puddles of incoherence, and the conquest was complete.
Ironically, Dawn was the first to recover, now that she had Spike as backup. She had so much to say, and nowhere to start. She had something prepared on a sheet of lined paper, the kind she used for school, with a thick margin at the top for the student’s name and three holes on the left for the binder. She had written and rewritten and crossed out her thoughts to the point of near illegibility, then dutifully replicated them on a mint sheet of paper. But it seemed silly now, before her sister’s fresh grave, to smooth out a sheet of neatly folded paper, and clear her throat, and enounce, loud and clear, as if reciting in front of the class for a grade. As much as it was laid out for everyone to see, grief, Dawn thought, was very much a private matter. A sudden clarity struck her: She would never be able to let go of her sister, say a real goodbye, and she saw no need to put up a charade for the benefit of her sister’s friends. They were mourning her, too.
So she saved her private thoughts for a private moment, alone with her sister, and said simply, “I love you, Buffy. I miss you so much. I remember what you said on Glory’s platform: The hardest thing in this world is to live in it. I’ll be brave, and live, for you, to be worthy of your sacrifice.”
She turned to the group around her. Softly, she fulfilled her sister’s last request, “Buffy said to give all of you her love.” Spike’s head jerked up; the unexpected message from beyond the grave not allowing him time to compose himself, to cover it up. Fortunately for him, everyone was too engrossed in their own grief to notice. “She said,” Dawn continued, “that we have to take care of one another now.”
“Were those...her last words, then?” Giles asked, clearly making a mental note. Dawn nodded. “Thank you,” said Giles. “You’ve been remarkably brave.”
She managed a meek smile, then turned to Spike. “Aren’t you going to say something to Buffy?”
Spike hesitated, “Reckon much of what I want to say isn’t fit for company.” Dawn narrowed her eyes, and he added quickly, “But I did try my hand at composing a poem for her. Thing is,” he exhaled shakily, “when you write about slayers…every poem is an epitaph, every song an elegy. Life burning so bright ‘astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.’ That last bit’s from Samuel Beckett, who wrote as depressing as they come. Can’t compete.”
“Night once more…” Dawn echoed. “Well, it’s good that you’re a creature of the night, then.”
He couldn’t help but smile at his Nibblet’s quick wit. She was going to be alright. He thought for a moment, then recited from memory, substituting “she” for “he” to fit:
When she shall die,
Take her and cut her out in little stars,
And she will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
Dawn stared at him in shock and Spike shrugged. Giles supplied helpfully, his voice strained with surprise and curiosity, “Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, except with the appropriate pronouns.”
“Hey, I also happen to know a poem or two for this occasion,” Xander’s voice rung out, a bit too loud. He cleared his throat, and solemnly, slowly--
It's the circle of life, and it moves us all,
through despair and hope,
through faith and love,
'til we find our place,
on the path unwinding.
Anya was nodding pensively, and Giles frowned, but Dawn’s eyes met Willow’s. “Wait, is that from…the Lion King?!” Dawn snorted.
“What if it is?” Xander countered. “The way I see it, Disney deserves a Nobel for the fine literature they produce.”
Dawn was doubling over with laughter. Xander reached out and ruffled her hair, “Made you laugh,” he said proudly.
“Hey, stop it!” Dawn batted his hand away. “Dork!” she retorted elegantly, but there was no sting in her rebuff. Her smile said it all. And everyone else was smiling with her. Maybe, she thought, daring to hope, just maybe, everything would be all right.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In a tranquil grove on the outskirts of Sunnydale, hushed by weeping willows and incensed with eucalyptus, outside the confines of the town’s myriad cemeteries, and where the myrtle flowers didn’t reach, lay a warrior's last resting place. A tombstone, simple but ornamented with flowers and protected by an ancient spell invoked in the tears of friendship and family bonds, proclaimed its hero laid to rest below:
Buffy Anne Summers
1981 - 2001
Beloved Sister
Devoted Friend
She Saved the World
A Lot
~ To Be Continued in Ch. 5 of Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth ~