All Goes Onward and Outward (7/7)
Title: All Goes Onward and Outward
Chapter: 7. Joy and Woe are Woven Fine
Author: whichclothes
Fandom: BtVS/AtS
Pairing (if any): Spike/Angel
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: This was based on the following prompt from maharet83, a lyric from Leonard Cohen's song, The Law:
Now the deal has been dirty
Since dirty began
I'm not asking for mercy
Not from the man
You just don't ask for mercy
While you're still on the stand
There's a Law, there's an Arm, there's a Hand
I don't claim to be guilty
Guilty's too grand
Thank you to faketoysoldierfor the wonderful banners! Previous chapters here.
I always really appreciate feedback. :-)
I hope you've been enjoying the poetry and angst! Now for the final chapter, complete with bonus banner by faketoysoldier!
Chapter Seven
Joy and Woe Are Woven Fine
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
--William Blake, Auguries of Innocence
He awoke and made a sound, and he wasn’t certain if it was a laugh or a sob.
He was back in his cell. The first one, with the invisible barrier and nothing in it but bare walls and floor and the eternal flame of the light bulb and him. Bare, too, naturally.
The same as before. Exactly the same as before, only he was minus one soul-slightly used-and plus a new scar that ran deeply across his belly, and another that he could feel, bisecting the left side of his face. And even the memories that had sustained him before seemed so fragile and brittle with age that he was hesitant to bring them out, hoping they’d stay intact somewhere in the recesses of his brain.
The soldiers were, of course, exactly like the soldiers always were. This lot, though, was quiet, gravely and silently leading him out of his cell and down the cold corridors, this time without even giving him the thin grey trousers. Somehow, his bare footsteps echoed more loudly than did their booted ones.
It was the same courtroom, or one so similar as to be indistinguishable. It was empty, though, when they brought him in, and there was no cage. Instead they took him to a spot in the center of the room, directly in front of the judge’s bench but about ten feet back, and ordered him to stay there. They unfastened his shackles. Then they left.
Fleetingly, he considered disobeying. Escape was out of the question; he was sure that the doors were heavily guarded. But he could, say, sprawl on one of the uncomfortable-looking benches in the audience, or lie down on one of the attorneys’ tables, or stand in the corner with his back to the room. He could prove his defiance. Only he was so tired, and he hadn’t the energy to prove anything anymore, so he stayed put, patiently, waiting.
When the judge entered, unpreceded by bailiffs or other minions, Spike startled violently and let out an oath of surprise. It was the Watcher, Dylan Hartley, looking precisely the same as he had at their last meeting, but now clad in a black robe. Unlike Judge Delgadillo, Hartley actually looked at Spike, and he inclined his head once, magisterially, before taking his seat.
As Spike stood gaping at him, trying to formulate a question that would make sense, another door opened, and a line of people began to file in. Every one of them was stony-faced, and none of them made a sound. They came in one by one and filled the benches in orderly rows, and something about them tugged at the corners of Spike’s mind.
Then his eye fell on one of them and he gasped again, because he knew her. She was tall and lean and pretty, with milk chocolate skin and her hair haloed in an afro. She wore a cream sweater and bell-bottomed jeans, and a leather duster as familiar to him as his own skin.
He spun towards the bench, demands and accusations on the tip of his tongue, when he spied another familiar person: tiny, her hair done in long black queues. And then another: a teenaged boy with a spotty face and rumpled zoot suit. More: a middle-aged man in suit and tie. A young gypsy girl in a flowing skirt. A small, pale boy in short pants. And more, and more. He stood transfixed in horror and shock as they came noiselessly inside, and it must have taken hours, because there were thousands of them, much more than the room could possibly hold, but it did, and still they came.
At last, the final one entered. A girl who reminded him of Dawn, with long straight hair and an attitude she wore like a formal gown. He remembered vividly the way this one had screamed and cried and pleaded with him to stop, please stop.
The door shut behind her, and every one of the people looked ahead at Dylan Hartley.
Spike stood there, naked before every person whom he had ever harmed-no, no, not every one, there were a few conspicuous absences, weren’t there?-and turned to face the Watcher. He did the only thing he could. He straightened his back and summoned the last of his bravado and sneered, “What’s this, then? Everyone’s come to see me hang?”
“No,” replied Hartley softly. “They’ve come to decide your fate. They are the jury.”
“But…I’ve already been tried. Double jeopardy, innit?”
“No, Spike. You were tried by an American court. This court represents another jurisdiction altogether.”
Spike swallowed. “You can’t-I mean-I have no soul. The decision’s already made. The verdict’s fixed, even more than that last trial.”
Hartley shook his head and smiled slightly. “You overestimate the value of a soul. The presence nor absence of a soul does not determine the outcome in this court. You shall be judged solely on your intentions and your actions.”
“Well, then. We all know-they all know-my actions very well.” He gestured toward the courtroom at large, at the expressionless faces staring at him. “So you can skip that bit, can’t you? Send the prosecutor on home early for the day.”
“There is no prosecutor in this court, nor a defense attorney. And there shall be no evidence, because you are quite correct. The jury is aware of what you have done.”
“Then why bother with this little show, then? I don’t see any cameras to entertain the multitudes.”
Hartley laughed as if he were genuinely amused. “No, no cameras, I can assure you. But we’re here so that you may have your say. Plead your own defense, if you will. Explain what you have done.”
Spike looked at the man in silence for some time, and then shrugged. All right. Might as well play this one out.
He turned his back to the bench and looked out at the endless rows of people, feeling the weight of those thousands of eyes upon him. He looked down at his bare feet, gathering his thoughts as best as he could, and then, almost without realizing it, traced his gaze over every scar on his body. He inhaled once, deeply, and wished once again for just a single cigarette.
“I won’t explain anything,” he said, and his voice was steady and clear. “And I won’t say I’m sorry, because I wasn’t when I hurt you. I reckon you know that. I’ve never been one for big, evil schemes. Never tried to destroy the world. I liked my bad one at a time, one brawl, one bite, one fuck at a time. I liked it when you screamed and begged and bled. I did. But I was never anything all that special, and if wasn’t for Angelus and the others, I wouldn’t have made it past being a fledge.”
He thought about Drusilla for a moment, the heady taste of power those first weeks in London, and he bit back a grin.
“I wasn’t much as a human. Was good to my mum. Wrote crap poetry. Never hurt anyone. Died a virgin, you know?” He’d never admitted that to anyone, not even Dru, though he suspected she’d known.
“But I did a few things as a demon, a few things I’m proud of. Things I chose to do, instead of just being led by my…inclinations. Wasn’t always as successful as I’d have liked-never was very patient at following through with a scheme-but I did try.
“I don’t deserve mercy and I won’t ask for it.”
He took another deep breath. “Only…only one thing I ask of you, even though none of you owes me a kindness. Remember me as a man. A bad man, fine. A flawed one. But a man, and some people…some people cared for me, once.”
His voice broke and he couldn’t go on, but he hadn’t anything more to say anyway. He shut his eyes to hold back tears and turned again to face the judge.
“Thank you, Spike,” Hartley said. “Is there anything else you’d like to say?”
Spike shook his head.
“Very well.” He looked out at the room. “Have you reached a decision?”
Again, Spike was startled. Wouldn’t they even pretend to deliberate? But in unison, his victims nodded.
“May I have the verdict, please?”
A boy in the front row stood. He was wiry and tanned, a fisherman, Spike recalled, and Spike had murdered him and his younger brother as they set out for their boat one morning before dawn. The brother was here, too, just next to the empty spot his brother had left on the bench, and his hair still looked as sleep-tossed as it had under the waning moon over two centuries ago.
The fisherman walked within a few feet of Spike without looking at him and approached the bench. He handed a slip of paper to Hartley, who thanked him. Then the boy sat back down.
Hartley unfolded the paper and read it, his expression carefully blank. He looked over at Spike. “Spike, the jury has decided to give you what you deserve.”
Spike blinked at him and then nodded. His throat was dry, but his eyes were, too.
Hartley looked out at the courtroom. “Thank you for your service. You may go.”
Spike stood there for another eternity, watching them leave. None of them looked back at him. When the room was empty save for him and the judge, Hartley stood as well.
“They’ll be here for you shortly,” he said. He smiled once again, and then he left, closing the door softly behind him.
Spike wrapped his arms around himself and looked up at the high ceiling. He tried to memorize every small pleasure he felt right now: the comfortable temperature of the room, the smoothness of the stone floor under his feet, the slight fullness in his stomach, the intactness of his body. He liked the way the overhead lights shone off the polished wood, the tiny rasp of his own lungs, the lemon scent of cleaning fluids. He hoped he’d be permitted to recall these trivial comforts later.
The door through which the jurors had exited opened slowly. He straightened his shoulders, waiting for the soldiers.
But it wasn’t a soldier who appeared.
It was….
Good Lord.
His legs buckled and he fell to his knees.
“Mum?” he whispered.
But before she could answer, someone else was crowding in behind her, someone slim and blonde, her hair in a ponytail and a broad smile on her face. And then, behind her, was a man. Tall and muscular, his brown hair gelled in careful spikes, his lips quirked in a crooked grin.
Of course. He’d hurt these most of all, hadn’t he?
The trio approached him and stood looking down at him. He steeled himself for the condemnation that would finally destroy him, but then he saw their eyes. Bloody hell. Their eyes shone not with hate and anger, but with love and joy.
Angel and Buffy put out their hands and hauled him to his feet.
“Come, William,” his mother said. “Let’s go home.”
~~~fin~~~
