All the Things That Are Lost - Ch. 10
Title: All the Things That Are Lost
Chapter: 10
Pairing: S/B
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Post-NFA. When Buffy discovers that Spike survived the destruction of Sunnydale, she heads to L.A. looking for answers; however, her search eventually leads her to a strange place that is more than a world away.
Previous chapters here
Author's Note: Much thanks to my sis doctor-dorothy for betaing for me, even though she has a busy life of her own. Love ya, DoDo! :-P
Disclaimer: The characters of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and “Angel” belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The original characters are my fault. No copyright infringement intended, and as this is posted for free, and read for free, nobody is losing any money. Suing me won’t make you any money either (wah! see my puny bank account!), so let’s just not.
All the Things That Are Lost
Chapter 10 : Passing Sanctuary
“What the bloody hell’s going on, Illyria?” The barely-leashed turmoil in Spike’s voice gave it the sound of accusation, and it was only Buffy’s nearness that kept it from rising into a shout. He was all too aware that Buffy had given way only because she was too worn down to press the issue - and not only did she need the rest right now, but he also needed some answers. “How did she get here?”
In counterpoint, Illyria was a study in composure - nothing, it seemed, ever fazed her. “It is evident enough to me: A portal opened. She came through.”
“I know that! I figured that part out myself!” he snapped back at her, and then tried to rein himself in. He was more than a bit too tightly wound at the moment, and he’d long ago figured out that sometimes Illyria liked to jerk his chain just to see him jump. “It’s the ‘how’ that’s posing the big question. As in how the hell that’s possible?” All this time, and the way back home had always been hid behind an impassable barrier, and nothing and no one had crossed through the portal that had brought them here, nor through any other. Not for lack of trying, either. Full stop and dead end. “I thought that they were closed - that all of them were closed. That’s what you said, wasn’t it? You said that there was no way here and no way back.”
Something bordering on annoyance flared in her eyes. “That passage is closed to us. But she is a lowly being,” Illyria replied with seeming disinterest. “Insignificant. It may be that only such a baseborn creature can slip beyond the edges of the portal. The snares were not set for the likes of her.”
No, the gaping maw that had opened up beneath them had been summoned especially to swallow up monsters, vampires and god-kings - anything and everyone taking part in the battle. And while some random, luckless demons from their world had been near enough to the portal’s epicenter that they’d been dragged down with them, so far as he knew, not a single other creature had been pulled through. It was a trap for his kind alone.
“She can’t stay here.”
“I have no interest in keeping her,” Illyria stated by way of agreement. “She is burdensome, and will impede our progress.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Bluebell; that’s not what I meant,” he countered quickly. “We’re not abandoning her here. I’m talking about finding a way to send her back.”
Illyria’s cool eyes narrowed, very intently fixed upon him. “The way back into your world?” she intoned archly. “What has changed to make you believe that such a feat is now possible?” It wasn't a question; there was no uncertainty in her austere expression.
“She can’t stay here,” he repeated doggedly, as if his insistence would make a whit of difference to Illyria. Or, for that matter, Buffy, if she chose to set herself against it. “She doesn’t belong here.”
“None of us belong here,” Illyria reminded him placidly, shifting her eyes away and staring past him in her damnably annoying way of dismissing him from her presence.
Not that it ever worked particularly well. A step sideways and he’d planted himself right back in her line of sight. “So then find a way to send her back.” Aware that he was asking the impossible. Demanding, even. Which sometimes worked with her, and sometimes backfired spectacularly. “Illyria...”
“What do you suggest?”
Spike hesitated, thrown by Illyria’s unexpected deference to his opinion. It felt out of place at the moment, considering that she was the one with the ability and lore to comprehend the mystical currents in this strange half-world, and she was the one who was always prying at dimensional doorways and listening to the sound of the earth and sky. His own contributions - hunting and tracking, partnering her in combat, and using what leverage he could to smooth over her sometimes heavy-handed excesses with the locals - none of those were likely to be of any material help in getting Buffy home again.
He had the distinct sense that something else was going on here, but he also knew without asking that Illyria wasn’t going to fess up as to what it was until she was damn well good and ready, which meant he’d just have to watch and wait and see.
“If Buffy,” he said, “- an insignificant little human - can get through here, then obviously the locks on the doors aren’t wound up nearly as tight as we figured. So, you - being the great big God-King of everything - ought to be able to find a way to send her back home. Right?”
Illyria did not immediately respond to his prodding, but simply regarded him in an unmoving, stony hush, which - once upon a time - would have been more than a little intimidating. But he’d been with Illyria long enough now that he’d learned to read most of her inscrutable silences. This one did not have the feel of displeasure in it - just an odd watchfulness.
“Her intrusion onto this plane was unforeseen,” Illyria stated obliquely, and Spike wasn’t sure whether that was meant to be agreement, disagreement, or a brand new conversational topic altogether. “She has marred the perfection of this world.”
Spike eyed her skeptically. “Hate to be the one to break it to you, Blue, but this hellhole wasn’t ever what I’d call perfect. And besides,” he went on, feeling compelled to offer some defense on Buffy’s behalf, “once you get to know her, she’s really not-”
“There was symmetry,” Illyria said, brushing off his digression. “An all-encompassing equilibrium in the power and pulse and breadth of this world. It was that intricate balance that sustained our coexistence here. Now, there is-” she paused, her countenance growing even more remote as if she were measuring the state of the entire cosmos all around her. “-a flaw.”
“All right, then. What kind of flaw?”
Her eyes slid away dismissively. “It is beyond your ken.”
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. She was in quite the mood today. “So give me the abridged version: are we talking about a nasty little scratch on the paint job, or the whole wide world knocked off its axis kind of problem?”
“That remains to be seen,” she replied dourly.
“Have it your way,” he sighed. “Just do me a favour and give me a heads-up once you’ve figured out what new brand of doom and disaster is headed our way. In the meantime, let’s get the hell out of here before things get any worse-”
“No. We cannot leave now. It is as I said: we have lingered overlong.” Illyria’s moodiness seemed to have taken on a more pointed edge. “A shadow has drawn near to us.” Not a physical shadow; he knew that Illyria was referring to something more imperceptible. Danger. The nearness of enemies. Portents of power that she seemed able to sense in the air around them. “Too near, now, for me to mask our movements. Discovery and pursuit would be inevitable. We must wait.”
“Wait,” he echoed disbelievingly. Her, the self-styled queen of bashing and smiting, wanting to sit out a potential fight? If she was resorting to that, either things were a lot worse than he thought, or there was something more at stake that she was choosing not to risk. This place? He glanced at the ruins around them, all dust and rubble. “For how long?”
She merely stared at him, long and unblinking, plainly prepared to wait until hell froze over if it served her purposes.
Though Spike had long ago learned to trust her instincts, he was reluctant to do so at the moment. “If they’re sniffing around all that closely, then maybe we ought to be on the move right now. We’ve outrun them before.”
Her eyes flicked away from his, disdainful. “If you had not needlessly chosen to wound yourself in ill-advised combat, that course might be open to us - but now you are weak. And she is less than useless.”
“Okay, first of all, I’m taking issue with the ‘chosen’ part of your little lecture. It’s not like I bloody well shot myself in the foot to get out on medical leave! I was a bit outnumbered back there, remember?”
“Hence, ‘ill-advised.’”
“Secondly,” he continued, ignoring her input, “Buffy isn’t useless - she’s strong and tough and determined as hell. She just got mowed down by several Grushnalks - give her a chance to find her feet, and the girl will surprise you. And third: Weak?!” he scoffed. “I’m not weak. I’m fine.”
Illyria reached out toward him, and before he could step away, she took hold of his side. Though it was only a moderately firm grip, in his current state, it seemed an excessively punishing one. Torn muscles and mottled skin not yet healed, and her prodding fingers felt like steel.
“Aargh-!” Spike leapt away from her, an arm wrapped protectively around his wounded flank. He scowled ferociously. “That’s a bloody rude way to prove your point.”
She raised an eyebrow, silently daring him to dispute it, and Spike noticed the way the corners of her lips quirked upward in a barely perceptible smug little smile.
“All right,” he conceded tightly, unhappy with the outcome, but temporarily resigned to it. “You win: We’ll wait for a bit.” He frowned. “And wipe that grin off your face. Gloating’s not nice.”
Turning away, he finally dared cast a glance over his shoulder, and was immensely relieved to see that Buffy had slumped over sideways into a restive sleep.
For the moment, then, he’d dodged that awkward conversation with her. Because, god, he didn’t think he’d ever quite managed to resolve any of it in his own mind. But now Buffy was here - and he had to settle it all right now, didn’t he? Clear his head but quickly, set it on straight before she started spinning it around again.
“Where are you going?”
Until Illyria asked the question, Spike hadn’t realized he’d been moving, but found himself shambling unevenly towards the stairs. “Up. I need to... stretch my legs. Move around a bit.” He wasn’t fooling her, but mouthed the excuses anyway. Couldn’t straight-out admit to running away. Not to the belligerent God-King who scorned any and all weaknesses. “I won’t go far.” He paused again. “Look after Buffy.”
“Must I?”
Haughty, powerful and petulant, all at once. He laughed, even though nothing about this felt remotely funny, even though the sound of it was flat and humourless. “Yes, you must, Illyria,” and he made sure she knew he meant it with every fiber of his being. “I’ll be back soon.”
<><><><><><><>
Spike climbed the thin and crumbling staircase, hewn roughly out of stone - as Illyria said, anyway - by lesser beings. The implication being that her kind built things to last, apparently, which was ironic since Spike distinctly recalled Wesley reporting that Illyria’s long-ago kingdom had fallen to ruins in her absence.
A few times he had to lift a hand and press it against the side of the wall for balance, but the persistent ache of injury lingering in his side was not yet enough to make him ease up, and he climbed until he reached the top, moving towards the narrow, inconspicuous doorway, little more than a cleft in the rock of the mountainside. How Illyria had ever happened upon these ruins in the first place was beyond him, but, heeding her warnings of danger, he stopped just short of the entrance, staring out at the dark night sky beyond.
The high chill air off the mountaintop hit him in the face. He leaned into the draft. Needed air. Needed to breathe it. Needed to pretend that he was still human. “Bloody buggering hell,” he muttered, watching his words fog into the cold air. Right now, he’d just about kill for a cigarette. And some hard liquor to wash it down, maybe loosen up some of his nervous tension just a bit.
God. The sight of Buffy - such a strange, unnerving feeling. He still couldn’t make sense of it. Couldn’t even use a word like bittersweet. It was all just... unsettled. Like the way even now the weather was gathering and fomenting on the horizon, and though he could see the signs of it in the sky, he still didn’t know which way it would turn, or if the storm would ever come.
Why her? Why here? Why now? Seeing her again - it was a never-spoken wish come true and a brutal kick in the gut at the same time, and the only thing he was sure of at the moment was the turmoil churning inside him. Look after her; get her out of here; get her to safety. He couldn’t do it all - couldn’t do any of it - not here, not in this godforsaken place - and what the bloody hell had she been thinking, anyway, to come here willingly?
But that answer came easily enough: Angel. She’d come looking for Angel. Just like everyone else. Angel was the reason that he was here, that Illyria was here, and now the reason that Buffy was here. Needed to be clear on that. Needed to not get sidetracked...
Yeah, right. Cause he had such a good track record on that front.
The thing was... he’d been there, and done that. Loved Buffy, wanted Buffy, bundled it all together in twenty different kinds of hope and need and audacity and burning, and always never quite reaching, never quite found.
Wasn’t so sure he wanted to go through it again - and for what? Yeah, so she was here now, but nothing between them had changed, had it? She was still Buffy, and he was still Spike, and no matter how many different ways he’d tried to work it out, that equation had never added up. Maybe if his name had been Angel-
But, no, better to leave that spiteful speculation alone. Bitterness wouldn’t change anything.
And anyway, the whole sodding mess between them had been painful enough the first go-round, and he’d like to think that he’d eventually learned his lessons.
So that was that, wasn’t it?
Still, it didn’t feel like closure. Didn’t even feel like resolve. Whatever label he tried to slap on it did nothing to change the hard core of anxiety knotted up in his gut.
Or, hell, maybe that was really just his damaged side still chewing on his nerves. Probably a bad reaction to all the melodrama.
Pained, he pressed a hand against his abdomen. Even before Illyria’s helpful prodding, he’d been acutely aware that he wasn’t anywhere near healed yet. Illyria’s blood was still churning through him at high-voltage intensity, still binding and biting and mending. Potent healing stuff - with a sharp edge that completely lacked the comforting numbness of anesthetics. God-Kings, it seemed, were fuelled by fire and burning, not by peace.
Couldn’t complain too much, though. She was what kept him going.
And didn’t she damn well know it, too.
Another flare of pain in his side, but this time he welcomed the distraction. Focus on that instead. Concentrate on the hurts that could be healed, the wounds that could be put right again. And learn, somehow, to let go of lost causes.
The clicking tic-tic-tic sound of needletips bouncing over stone announced Puffin’s arrival as readily as any footstep. “Sent you to check in on me, did she? Bloody hell, she’s in an overbearing mood tonight.”
Puffin ruffled his quills and chattered.
“Oh, sod off. What the hell would you know about any of it anyway?”
<><><><><><><>
Her eyes opened - which was weird, because she didn’t remember having closed them - and the way her vision briefly dipped and whirled was enough to make her nauseous.
Buffy closed her eyes for a moment and willed the world to stop spinning. Taking a deep breath - which wasn’t all that deep, really, and still it hitched uncertainly in her throat - she steadied herself and opened her eyes again. Still a bit of spin going on, but she tried to convince herself it was better. Better. Even though her vision was damped down in shades of black and grey, like peering through a dark cloth.
Memories spun in an equally sickening blur. Spike, silent, and blue Illyria, the blast of desert heat, like a furnace burning, so bright and hot-
And now cold sweat beaded on her brow, started trickling down the sides of her face like a trail of tears.
God, she was really getting sick, wasn’t she? Not just exhaustion, not just injuries. Fumbling at the bulky bandage about her leg, she peeled back the edges to find a purulent smear bubbling beneath. Buffy tried not to retch at the sight, and bitterly considered that lately, it seemed like the only flavour her luck came in was ‘bad.’
But she’d bounced back from worse than this, hadn’t she? It was just that she usually had a soft bed, and food and drink to help speed the process. Here, at the hole-in-the-ground Roach Motel on the wrong side of the universe, there weren’t so many amenities. So, of course, it made sense that it was taking her a little longer to recover.
Slowly pulling herself upright, Buffy looked around.
It was harder to see now. The small pile of stones that had provided light before seemed much dimmer now, and the stones themselves were spread out and fading into grey, slowly letting the natural darkness of the underground room reassert itself. Buffy felt a chill that wasn’t entirely due to the coolness of her surroundings.
Once her eyes adjusted, Buffy could see Illyria standing with her back turned to her, seeming deeply engrossed in a staring contest with one of the massive stone pillars.
Buffy could only barely make out the mottled patterns carved into the stone. Maybe Illyria was reading those scrawls - hadn’t she said something about it last night? - yesterday? - whatever the last time it was that Buffy had been awake. Something about a temple and signs. Did it matter? Probably not.
Peering into the surrounding darkness, Buffy also caught sight of the scraggly little thistle-creature, but nothing else.
“Where’s Spike?”
The small creature looked towards her, dark eyes blinking, and gibbered like some kind of rabid squirrel. Illyria did not move, and did not answer.
Buffy raised her voice: “I said, where’s Spike?”
Slowly, then, the blue-haired woman swiveled her head ever so slightly, sparing Buffy no more than a glance from the very edge of her peripheral vision, and then very deliberately, she turned back to her meditation.
“Hey! Did you hear me?!” The long echoes in the room amplified her strained unease into something that sounded like a challenge. It went unanswered, rolling back towards her through the cavernous darkness.
As silence fell again, Buffy felt abruptly small and inconsequential, her hands tightening into fists as if she’d be able to protect herself that way. If only she knew better where she was, or what was going on. If only she had her usual strength - or maybe even half of it- But she didn’t. At the moment, she didn’t have anything to go on, and all she could do was sit here and wait until she did.
Stay calm and wait, then. Don’t let this place remind her of the caves beneath Sunnydale where she’d briefly died of drowning when she was sixteen - or the deep caverns where Spike had been trapped when Sunnydale fell apart. Don’t think of the dark places.
There was movement from the corner of her eye, a shadow coming at her from the darkness, and her head snapped around. “Spike,” she blurted, both startled and relieved. Thank god, something familiar.
For an instant, he seemed thrown off his stride, and then he continued towards her as if he hadn’t faltered. He was carrying an armful of fabric. “Oh, good - you’re awake,” he said mildly. “Feeling any better?” Solicitous, and yet definitely detached, his face cut like stone, impossible to read.
“Y-yes,” Buffy very nearly stuttered, taken aback, “a little better.” And then lapsed into an awkward silence as his gaze dropped to her hands. Belatedly, she noticed how much they were shaking, and realized that he was taking it for weakness. Part of it was. “I don’t know why it’s taking me so long to heal,” she admitted cautiously. “I’m usually not this weak-”
“It’s the swords,” he said. “Have a bite to them. I figure the Grushnalks must tip them with poison.”
“She has not your strength,” Illyria said, suddenly deigning to speak, her stern disparagement ringing through the room.
Buffy noticed that the look Spike gave Illyria was not unreadable stone - it was closer to amusement. He didn’t argue with her, didn’t say anything, and Buffy found herself miffed when she realized he wasn’t even going to attempt to defend her. Not that she needed his support, but - but still...
She glowered at Illyria, glowered at him, but Spike’s attention seemed to be elsewhere and he didn’t notice. He handed Buffy the fabric he’d been carrying.
Puzzled, Buffy accepted the ragged rolls of cloth from him. “What are these for?”
“It’s cold outside - and you’re not dressed for it. You’ll have to use these to cover up.”
He was already garbed back in his black body armor, which she now realized was mostly just made up of many varied strips of leather wrapped around protective plating. Buffy watched him as he went over to the dull grey stones, carefully nudging a few of them back together again - once gathered together, each of the clustered stones suddenly cast a brighter light, and some of the surrounding gloom was pushed back.
Buffy blinked at the unexpected light. “How did you - what are those?”
“Not really sure,” Spike replied absently. “When they’re set together, they glow. But they also seem to have a mind of their own, and they always wander off eventually. Doesn’t matter,” he said, as if to shut down any further questions, “we’ll be gone soon enough.”
Returning to what looked like a small cache of weaponry, he retrieved a piece of spiked metal bracing, lashing it securely over one forearm. He tried to do the same with the other arm, fumbling awkwardly for a few moments, seeming oblivious to her scrutiny. “Help me out here, will you, Blue?” he sighed. “Left arm’s still a bit out of sorts.”
Illyria went immediately to his side to assist him.
Spike glanced back towards Buffy, almost cautiously. “How’s your leg? Can you walk?”
“Yes,” she replied sullenly, not certain that he’d meant the question as a challenge, and if she hadn’t felt so out of her element, she might not have been so defensive. “But... but where are we going?” Buffy still felt as if she were more than three steps behind the two of them, and she wasn’t sure if it was that, or her lingering injuries, that was causing the queasy uncertainty inside.
“We have to leave,” Spike replied perfunctorily. “Not safe. We can’t stay here.”
“I know. I mean, I remember you said that - but... why do we have to go out there?”
“Because that’s the way out,” he said, patient. “And we can’t stay here.” Repeating it again, as if she were especially forgetful.
Buffy looked towards Illyria. But can’t she open doors in the air? Wasn’t that how we got here in the first place? But that sounded so stupid, like something out of a fever-dream, and she didn’t exactly remember how she’d got here - just that there’d been a portal - and Illyria was already staring down upon her as if she were nothing more than a stupid and ignorant child.
Frustrated and bewildered, Buffy dropped her eyes and picked anxiously at the fabric. It was shabby fragments of what seemed to be an old, old tapestry, but she couldn’t make out any recognizable symbols or pictures. It was weird - just like everything else here. In spite of herself, her nose wrinkled and she struggled against a strong urge to sneeze. “It smells like... dust.”
“Better that than frostbite,” Spike replied, not quite meeting her eyes as he stepped forward and extended a hand to pull her to her feet.
Buffy caught her breath at the way that movement felt so much like dizziness, and then forcibly steeled herself, straightening her back and tightening her jaw. If there was one thing she knew, it was how to be strong. No weakness. Not in front of Illyria, and not in front of him.
Giving her a measuring look as if to make sure she wasn’t about to topple over, Spike picked up the mouldering old tapestries and began draping them over her shoulders, winding and rearranging the threadbare fabric until he seemed satisfied. His eyes finally caught on hers, and something flickered in them, softened a bit. “You okay?”
“I’ll manage,” Buffy said, clutching at the fabric - it felt like a heavy weight of age and decrepitude. She pulled it tighter, looping some of it over her head in a hood. Her chin lifted, and she turned her gaze away from him. “I always do.”
She wasn’t sure if he felt the rebuke in her averted eyes; she wasn’t even sure if she wanted to cause offense. At the moment, all she knew for sure was that she felt so awful, she couldn’t distinguish one source of misery from another.
“Right, then,” Spike replied evenly, picking up his metal quarterstaff. “Then we’d best get moving before Illyria leaves us both behind.”
In spite of his words, Illyria had not moved at all. Buffy had the distinct impression that Illyria would never leave Spike behind anywhere, but that comment sounded catty, and she kept it to herself. No sense in making a fool of herself... at least, not until she was sure she absolutely had to.
“You’re sure it’s safe now, Blue?”
“Do not delude yourself,” Illyria responded sternly, seeming more ill-tempered than before, if such a thing were possible. “The protections on this place yet remain, and what is in my power I have done to ward away detection, but we have tarried too long in this place. They know we are near - given time enough, we will be found. Therefore, it is expediency and not the dubious merits of easy escape that governs our retreat-”
“All right,” he sighed, seeming worn out, “all right already, I get the point. We’re going to have to make a break for it. So what are we waiting for?”
Buffy felt Illyria’s piercing winter-eyed gaze fall briefly upon her, knew that fleeting look meant she expected she wouldn’t be able to keep up. Spike also turned to look back at Buffy, seemed to register the sudden anger in her gaze, and quickly turned away again.
The prickly little creature chirruped something unintelligible to Buffy’s ears - none of them said anything in response, but Buffy saw Spike’s jaw tighten - and then it spun around, its long needles skittering noisily as it bounced up the stone staircase. Illyria followed in silence.
Spike glanced back at Buffy. “Come on, then,” he said, his voice tinged with irritation.
Buffy didn’t know which was worse - the idea of having to go up all those stairs with a weak leg that didn’t want to bear weight, or the fact that nobody seemed to think she could do it. Spike was waiting for her, obviously intending to let her go first - but she didn’t need someone walking at her back to protect her, wasn’t some weak and helpless girl who needed to be hovered and fussed over and watched out for.
“I don’t need you to look after me,” she thought resentfully, and was surprised when Spike looked at her as if she’d spoken the words aloud. She wondered if maybe she had. “I can take care of myself.”
A pause, and then he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Turning, he followed after Illyria, and Buffy trailed behind him.
<><><><><><><>
All her attention spent on stairs, on climbing them, on chasing after Spike and trying to keep pace, while ignoring the jarring pain in her leg. It felt like a repetitious dream, climbing upwards in the dark - when had it ever been so dark before? And why hadn’t they brought one of those glowing stones with them? Then she remembered what Spike had said, and if those stones were somehow alive, then she was glad - or maybe almost glad - that they hadn’t brought any with them.
But it was dark, and it was exhausting, and no matter how hard Buffy tried to catch up with him, Spike felt very far away.
When she finally emerged at the top of the stairs into a large antechamber, her eyes were so tired of darkness that the gloomy light there seemed almost refreshing. The light came from the one narrow doorway that led outside - every other passage seemed to lead into different kinds of darkness.
She remembered that yesterday - was it only yesterday? - Illyria had brought her here, and they’d gone into one of the adjoining passageways, where there had been a small, murky current of leisurely-flowing water for her to drink. Her ears straining, Buffy thought she could hear that stream gurgling somewhere nearby... or maybe not. It crossed her mind that other things might be hidden here in the darkness, and she shivered and hurried after Spike.
Illyria had already gone outside - Buffy only just caught sight of her disappearing through the doorway, and Spike was already following hard on her heels. He paused briefly, as if to make sure she was still following, then went outside.
Though Buffy had felt the chill as they made their way up the staircase, still she caught her breath with surprise as she stepped out through the narrow doorway to find herself standing atop a barely discernible path skirting the edge of a perilous slope, high up in the wind and the air.
Cold.
Bitter cold.
There was a dreary half-light in the sky that was either dusk or dawn, but she couldn’t tell which. The thick clouds lying low overhead felt near enough to touch, within easy reach if she stretched out her hand. Already, they were starting to dissolve into rainfall, and the misting raindrops seemed nearly solid, more than half-way to ice already, and the air felt chill enough to be trying to freeze her lungs.
“You all right?” Spike’s voice coming again.
She couldn’t quite find the breath to answer him, just tightened her grip on the tapestries, momentarily glad for the hood burrowing over her.
“Come on, then,” he said and turned away, and Buffy trudged after him. Angry, miserable and confused.
She thought of that long-ago snow in Sunnydale, at Christmas, those big fluffy flakes that were like rain, that melted in her hair and on her face like tears. Snow like rain that had warmed her. But here, it was rain like snow that was freezing her. Ice now. Maybe everything turned to ice, here. Cold like Illyria. Like Spike...?
Don’t be stupid, Buffy. Don’t be afraid. You came here, and - and you can do this. You can tell him how you feel, make him understand. Even if he’s changed. Even if he doesn’t want...
Yet again, she stumbled over her feet and realized she was going to have to pay more attention to walking and staying upright. It was harder than it should have been - something was off-kilter inside of her, and that fever-hard edge deep inside was fast turning to frost.
Just walk. In a straight line. They were all doing it, so why couldn’t she? All walking single file, and the porcupine was bouncing nimbly over the slick cold rocks as if it were easy. Like a Sherpa leading them alongside a cliff-side path. Like a sure-footed mountain goat.
God, she was tired.
And freezing cold. Even under the swaddling weight of the stinking, dusty swath of tapestry. Cold wind leaked through. Was making her fingers tingle. Lifting one hand, she closed her fingertips over the cold, cold stone in her necklace. Dawn, she thought, but her little sister was more than a world away from her now, as silent and unreachable as if she’d never been at all. Her eyes watered and turned to ice. Oh, Dawn. I don’t know what I’m doing here.
The wind caught the hood of her makeshift robes, pulled it away from her like a streamer unfolding. Trying to snare it - so hard to see with the wind and her hair in her eyes - she turned around, then stopped in her tracks. Something else was moving behind them.
A man - or maybe what looked more like the shadow of a man - was prowling overtop the ragged stones of the mountainside. He - it - saw her scarcely a moment after she had seen him, and before she had a chance to say or do anything. He stopped, falling utterly motionless as his eyes locked upon hers, only his cloak batting about in the wind like black wings.
Transfixed, Buffy stared at the unnaturally dark skin, the way it seemed to swallow light, looking like the smooth gloom of night, as flat and featureless as a silhouette, except for the startling red-tinged eyes that were fixed upon her with such chilling attentiveness, even at such a distance. And the alarming white of teeth as his lips curled back in a snarl.
No stake in her hand, no sword at her side, and barely a clue of who was what and where or why in this strange world. But she still recognized danger when she saw it.
“Spike...?”
It was more question than warning, thready and uncertain, but she heard him curse - and then someone grabbed her elbow and her shoulder, had spun her around and was steering her firmly in the opposite direction, then dragging her into a run. Spike. Must have been Spike, because that thin figure now looking back towards her with the unearthly piercing eyes was Illyria.
“Where’s the damn doorway?” Spike bellowed into the wind. Whatever reply Illyria might have given was lost to Buffy’s ears, but Spike obviously had better hearing. “Then bloody well hurry it up! We’ve been spotted!”
Her feet were slipping - too high in her stupid heels, no grip on this rock - stumbling as she tried to keep up. Her bad leg jarred with every running step, and Spike had his hand knotted in the tapestries, holding her upright and hauling her alongside him, trying to make her go faster. But she sensed that neither of them was anywhere near fast enough to outrun that - whatever it was - and could all but feel the dark creature flying hellbent upon their heels, speeding over the rock-strewn expanse, and swiftly closing the distance between on them.
“Illyria!” Spike roared in desperation.
Buffy didn’t see it when Illyria finally opened a door - she just felt it as they stepped into it, that stomach-turning, spinning feeling of airless free-fall - while behind them something roared rage and violence - and then the warmer air on the other side hit her like a furnace.
Chapter: 10
Pairing: S/B
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Post-NFA. When Buffy discovers that Spike survived the destruction of Sunnydale, she heads to L.A. looking for answers; however, her search eventually leads her to a strange place that is more than a world away.
Previous chapters here
Author's Note: Much thanks to my sis doctor-dorothy for betaing for me, even though she has a busy life of her own. Love ya, DoDo! :-P
Disclaimer: The characters of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and “Angel” belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. The original characters are my fault. No copyright infringement intended, and as this is posted for free, and read for free, nobody is losing any money. Suing me won’t make you any money either (wah! see my puny bank account!), so let’s just not.
All the Things That Are Lost
Chapter 10 : Passing Sanctuary
“What the bloody hell’s going on, Illyria?” The barely-leashed turmoil in Spike’s voice gave it the sound of accusation, and it was only Buffy’s nearness that kept it from rising into a shout. He was all too aware that Buffy had given way only because she was too worn down to press the issue - and not only did she need the rest right now, but he also needed some answers. “How did she get here?”
In counterpoint, Illyria was a study in composure - nothing, it seemed, ever fazed her. “It is evident enough to me: A portal opened. She came through.”
“I know that! I figured that part out myself!” he snapped back at her, and then tried to rein himself in. He was more than a bit too tightly wound at the moment, and he’d long ago figured out that sometimes Illyria liked to jerk his chain just to see him jump. “It’s the ‘how’ that’s posing the big question. As in how the hell that’s possible?” All this time, and the way back home had always been hid behind an impassable barrier, and nothing and no one had crossed through the portal that had brought them here, nor through any other. Not for lack of trying, either. Full stop and dead end. “I thought that they were closed - that all of them were closed. That’s what you said, wasn’t it? You said that there was no way here and no way back.”
Something bordering on annoyance flared in her eyes. “That passage is closed to us. But she is a lowly being,” Illyria replied with seeming disinterest. “Insignificant. It may be that only such a baseborn creature can slip beyond the edges of the portal. The snares were not set for the likes of her.”
No, the gaping maw that had opened up beneath them had been summoned especially to swallow up monsters, vampires and god-kings - anything and everyone taking part in the battle. And while some random, luckless demons from their world had been near enough to the portal’s epicenter that they’d been dragged down with them, so far as he knew, not a single other creature had been pulled through. It was a trap for his kind alone.
“She can’t stay here.”
“I have no interest in keeping her,” Illyria stated by way of agreement. “She is burdensome, and will impede our progress.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Bluebell; that’s not what I meant,” he countered quickly. “We’re not abandoning her here. I’m talking about finding a way to send her back.”
Illyria’s cool eyes narrowed, very intently fixed upon him. “The way back into your world?” she intoned archly. “What has changed to make you believe that such a feat is now possible?” It wasn't a question; there was no uncertainty in her austere expression.
“She can’t stay here,” he repeated doggedly, as if his insistence would make a whit of difference to Illyria. Or, for that matter, Buffy, if she chose to set herself against it. “She doesn’t belong here.”
“None of us belong here,” Illyria reminded him placidly, shifting her eyes away and staring past him in her damnably annoying way of dismissing him from her presence.
Not that it ever worked particularly well. A step sideways and he’d planted himself right back in her line of sight. “So then find a way to send her back.” Aware that he was asking the impossible. Demanding, even. Which sometimes worked with her, and sometimes backfired spectacularly. “Illyria...”
“What do you suggest?”
Spike hesitated, thrown by Illyria’s unexpected deference to his opinion. It felt out of place at the moment, considering that she was the one with the ability and lore to comprehend the mystical currents in this strange half-world, and she was the one who was always prying at dimensional doorways and listening to the sound of the earth and sky. His own contributions - hunting and tracking, partnering her in combat, and using what leverage he could to smooth over her sometimes heavy-handed excesses with the locals - none of those were likely to be of any material help in getting Buffy home again.
He had the distinct sense that something else was going on here, but he also knew without asking that Illyria wasn’t going to fess up as to what it was until she was damn well good and ready, which meant he’d just have to watch and wait and see.
“If Buffy,” he said, “- an insignificant little human - can get through here, then obviously the locks on the doors aren’t wound up nearly as tight as we figured. So, you - being the great big God-King of everything - ought to be able to find a way to send her back home. Right?”
Illyria did not immediately respond to his prodding, but simply regarded him in an unmoving, stony hush, which - once upon a time - would have been more than a little intimidating. But he’d been with Illyria long enough now that he’d learned to read most of her inscrutable silences. This one did not have the feel of displeasure in it - just an odd watchfulness.
“Her intrusion onto this plane was unforeseen,” Illyria stated obliquely, and Spike wasn’t sure whether that was meant to be agreement, disagreement, or a brand new conversational topic altogether. “She has marred the perfection of this world.”
Spike eyed her skeptically. “Hate to be the one to break it to you, Blue, but this hellhole wasn’t ever what I’d call perfect. And besides,” he went on, feeling compelled to offer some defense on Buffy’s behalf, “once you get to know her, she’s really not-”
“There was symmetry,” Illyria said, brushing off his digression. “An all-encompassing equilibrium in the power and pulse and breadth of this world. It was that intricate balance that sustained our coexistence here. Now, there is-” she paused, her countenance growing even more remote as if she were measuring the state of the entire cosmos all around her. “-a flaw.”
“All right, then. What kind of flaw?”
Her eyes slid away dismissively. “It is beyond your ken.”
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. She was in quite the mood today. “So give me the abridged version: are we talking about a nasty little scratch on the paint job, or the whole wide world knocked off its axis kind of problem?”
“That remains to be seen,” she replied dourly.
“Have it your way,” he sighed. “Just do me a favour and give me a heads-up once you’ve figured out what new brand of doom and disaster is headed our way. In the meantime, let’s get the hell out of here before things get any worse-”
“No. We cannot leave now. It is as I said: we have lingered overlong.” Illyria’s moodiness seemed to have taken on a more pointed edge. “A shadow has drawn near to us.” Not a physical shadow; he knew that Illyria was referring to something more imperceptible. Danger. The nearness of enemies. Portents of power that she seemed able to sense in the air around them. “Too near, now, for me to mask our movements. Discovery and pursuit would be inevitable. We must wait.”
“Wait,” he echoed disbelievingly. Her, the self-styled queen of bashing and smiting, wanting to sit out a potential fight? If she was resorting to that, either things were a lot worse than he thought, or there was something more at stake that she was choosing not to risk. This place? He glanced at the ruins around them, all dust and rubble. “For how long?”
She merely stared at him, long and unblinking, plainly prepared to wait until hell froze over if it served her purposes.
Though Spike had long ago learned to trust her instincts, he was reluctant to do so at the moment. “If they’re sniffing around all that closely, then maybe we ought to be on the move right now. We’ve outrun them before.”
Her eyes flicked away from his, disdainful. “If you had not needlessly chosen to wound yourself in ill-advised combat, that course might be open to us - but now you are weak. And she is less than useless.”
“Okay, first of all, I’m taking issue with the ‘chosen’ part of your little lecture. It’s not like I bloody well shot myself in the foot to get out on medical leave! I was a bit outnumbered back there, remember?”
“Hence, ‘ill-advised.’”
“Secondly,” he continued, ignoring her input, “Buffy isn’t useless - she’s strong and tough and determined as hell. She just got mowed down by several Grushnalks - give her a chance to find her feet, and the girl will surprise you. And third: Weak?!” he scoffed. “I’m not weak. I’m fine.”
Illyria reached out toward him, and before he could step away, she took hold of his side. Though it was only a moderately firm grip, in his current state, it seemed an excessively punishing one. Torn muscles and mottled skin not yet healed, and her prodding fingers felt like steel.
“Aargh-!” Spike leapt away from her, an arm wrapped protectively around his wounded flank. He scowled ferociously. “That’s a bloody rude way to prove your point.”
She raised an eyebrow, silently daring him to dispute it, and Spike noticed the way the corners of her lips quirked upward in a barely perceptible smug little smile.
“All right,” he conceded tightly, unhappy with the outcome, but temporarily resigned to it. “You win: We’ll wait for a bit.” He frowned. “And wipe that grin off your face. Gloating’s not nice.”
Turning away, he finally dared cast a glance over his shoulder, and was immensely relieved to see that Buffy had slumped over sideways into a restive sleep.
For the moment, then, he’d dodged that awkward conversation with her. Because, god, he didn’t think he’d ever quite managed to resolve any of it in his own mind. But now Buffy was here - and he had to settle it all right now, didn’t he? Clear his head but quickly, set it on straight before she started spinning it around again.
“Where are you going?”
Until Illyria asked the question, Spike hadn’t realized he’d been moving, but found himself shambling unevenly towards the stairs. “Up. I need to... stretch my legs. Move around a bit.” He wasn’t fooling her, but mouthed the excuses anyway. Couldn’t straight-out admit to running away. Not to the belligerent God-King who scorned any and all weaknesses. “I won’t go far.” He paused again. “Look after Buffy.”
“Must I?”
Haughty, powerful and petulant, all at once. He laughed, even though nothing about this felt remotely funny, even though the sound of it was flat and humourless. “Yes, you must, Illyria,” and he made sure she knew he meant it with every fiber of his being. “I’ll be back soon.”
<><><><><><><>
Spike climbed the thin and crumbling staircase, hewn roughly out of stone - as Illyria said, anyway - by lesser beings. The implication being that her kind built things to last, apparently, which was ironic since Spike distinctly recalled Wesley reporting that Illyria’s long-ago kingdom had fallen to ruins in her absence.
A few times he had to lift a hand and press it against the side of the wall for balance, but the persistent ache of injury lingering in his side was not yet enough to make him ease up, and he climbed until he reached the top, moving towards the narrow, inconspicuous doorway, little more than a cleft in the rock of the mountainside. How Illyria had ever happened upon these ruins in the first place was beyond him, but, heeding her warnings of danger, he stopped just short of the entrance, staring out at the dark night sky beyond.
The high chill air off the mountaintop hit him in the face. He leaned into the draft. Needed air. Needed to breathe it. Needed to pretend that he was still human. “Bloody buggering hell,” he muttered, watching his words fog into the cold air. Right now, he’d just about kill for a cigarette. And some hard liquor to wash it down, maybe loosen up some of his nervous tension just a bit.
God. The sight of Buffy - such a strange, unnerving feeling. He still couldn’t make sense of it. Couldn’t even use a word like bittersweet. It was all just... unsettled. Like the way even now the weather was gathering and fomenting on the horizon, and though he could see the signs of it in the sky, he still didn’t know which way it would turn, or if the storm would ever come.
Why her? Why here? Why now? Seeing her again - it was a never-spoken wish come true and a brutal kick in the gut at the same time, and the only thing he was sure of at the moment was the turmoil churning inside him. Look after her; get her out of here; get her to safety. He couldn’t do it all - couldn’t do any of it - not here, not in this godforsaken place - and what the bloody hell had she been thinking, anyway, to come here willingly?
But that answer came easily enough: Angel. She’d come looking for Angel. Just like everyone else. Angel was the reason that he was here, that Illyria was here, and now the reason that Buffy was here. Needed to be clear on that. Needed to not get sidetracked...
Yeah, right. Cause he had such a good track record on that front.
The thing was... he’d been there, and done that. Loved Buffy, wanted Buffy, bundled it all together in twenty different kinds of hope and need and audacity and burning, and always never quite reaching, never quite found.
Wasn’t so sure he wanted to go through it again - and for what? Yeah, so she was here now, but nothing between them had changed, had it? She was still Buffy, and he was still Spike, and no matter how many different ways he’d tried to work it out, that equation had never added up. Maybe if his name had been Angel-
But, no, better to leave that spiteful speculation alone. Bitterness wouldn’t change anything.
And anyway, the whole sodding mess between them had been painful enough the first go-round, and he’d like to think that he’d eventually learned his lessons.
So that was that, wasn’t it?
Still, it didn’t feel like closure. Didn’t even feel like resolve. Whatever label he tried to slap on it did nothing to change the hard core of anxiety knotted up in his gut.
Or, hell, maybe that was really just his damaged side still chewing on his nerves. Probably a bad reaction to all the melodrama.
Pained, he pressed a hand against his abdomen. Even before Illyria’s helpful prodding, he’d been acutely aware that he wasn’t anywhere near healed yet. Illyria’s blood was still churning through him at high-voltage intensity, still binding and biting and mending. Potent healing stuff - with a sharp edge that completely lacked the comforting numbness of anesthetics. God-Kings, it seemed, were fuelled by fire and burning, not by peace.
Couldn’t complain too much, though. She was what kept him going.
And didn’t she damn well know it, too.
Another flare of pain in his side, but this time he welcomed the distraction. Focus on that instead. Concentrate on the hurts that could be healed, the wounds that could be put right again. And learn, somehow, to let go of lost causes.
The clicking tic-tic-tic sound of needletips bouncing over stone announced Puffin’s arrival as readily as any footstep. “Sent you to check in on me, did she? Bloody hell, she’s in an overbearing mood tonight.”
Puffin ruffled his quills and chattered.
“Oh, sod off. What the hell would you know about any of it anyway?”
<><><><><><><>
Her eyes opened - which was weird, because she didn’t remember having closed them - and the way her vision briefly dipped and whirled was enough to make her nauseous.
Buffy closed her eyes for a moment and willed the world to stop spinning. Taking a deep breath - which wasn’t all that deep, really, and still it hitched uncertainly in her throat - she steadied herself and opened her eyes again. Still a bit of spin going on, but she tried to convince herself it was better. Better. Even though her vision was damped down in shades of black and grey, like peering through a dark cloth.
Memories spun in an equally sickening blur. Spike, silent, and blue Illyria, the blast of desert heat, like a furnace burning, so bright and hot-
And now cold sweat beaded on her brow, started trickling down the sides of her face like a trail of tears.
God, she was really getting sick, wasn’t she? Not just exhaustion, not just injuries. Fumbling at the bulky bandage about her leg, she peeled back the edges to find a purulent smear bubbling beneath. Buffy tried not to retch at the sight, and bitterly considered that lately, it seemed like the only flavour her luck came in was ‘bad.’
But she’d bounced back from worse than this, hadn’t she? It was just that she usually had a soft bed, and food and drink to help speed the process. Here, at the hole-in-the-ground Roach Motel on the wrong side of the universe, there weren’t so many amenities. So, of course, it made sense that it was taking her a little longer to recover.
Slowly pulling herself upright, Buffy looked around.
It was harder to see now. The small pile of stones that had provided light before seemed much dimmer now, and the stones themselves were spread out and fading into grey, slowly letting the natural darkness of the underground room reassert itself. Buffy felt a chill that wasn’t entirely due to the coolness of her surroundings.
Once her eyes adjusted, Buffy could see Illyria standing with her back turned to her, seeming deeply engrossed in a staring contest with one of the massive stone pillars.
Buffy could only barely make out the mottled patterns carved into the stone. Maybe Illyria was reading those scrawls - hadn’t she said something about it last night? - yesterday? - whatever the last time it was that Buffy had been awake. Something about a temple and signs. Did it matter? Probably not.
Peering into the surrounding darkness, Buffy also caught sight of the scraggly little thistle-creature, but nothing else.
“Where’s Spike?”
The small creature looked towards her, dark eyes blinking, and gibbered like some kind of rabid squirrel. Illyria did not move, and did not answer.
Buffy raised her voice: “I said, where’s Spike?”
Slowly, then, the blue-haired woman swiveled her head ever so slightly, sparing Buffy no more than a glance from the very edge of her peripheral vision, and then very deliberately, she turned back to her meditation.
“Hey! Did you hear me?!” The long echoes in the room amplified her strained unease into something that sounded like a challenge. It went unanswered, rolling back towards her through the cavernous darkness.
As silence fell again, Buffy felt abruptly small and inconsequential, her hands tightening into fists as if she’d be able to protect herself that way. If only she knew better where she was, or what was going on. If only she had her usual strength - or maybe even half of it- But she didn’t. At the moment, she didn’t have anything to go on, and all she could do was sit here and wait until she did.
Stay calm and wait, then. Don’t let this place remind her of the caves beneath Sunnydale where she’d briefly died of drowning when she was sixteen - or the deep caverns where Spike had been trapped when Sunnydale fell apart. Don’t think of the dark places.
There was movement from the corner of her eye, a shadow coming at her from the darkness, and her head snapped around. “Spike,” she blurted, both startled and relieved. Thank god, something familiar.
For an instant, he seemed thrown off his stride, and then he continued towards her as if he hadn’t faltered. He was carrying an armful of fabric. “Oh, good - you’re awake,” he said mildly. “Feeling any better?” Solicitous, and yet definitely detached, his face cut like stone, impossible to read.
“Y-yes,” Buffy very nearly stuttered, taken aback, “a little better.” And then lapsed into an awkward silence as his gaze dropped to her hands. Belatedly, she noticed how much they were shaking, and realized that he was taking it for weakness. Part of it was. “I don’t know why it’s taking me so long to heal,” she admitted cautiously. “I’m usually not this weak-”
“It’s the swords,” he said. “Have a bite to them. I figure the Grushnalks must tip them with poison.”
“She has not your strength,” Illyria said, suddenly deigning to speak, her stern disparagement ringing through the room.
Buffy noticed that the look Spike gave Illyria was not unreadable stone - it was closer to amusement. He didn’t argue with her, didn’t say anything, and Buffy found herself miffed when she realized he wasn’t even going to attempt to defend her. Not that she needed his support, but - but still...
She glowered at Illyria, glowered at him, but Spike’s attention seemed to be elsewhere and he didn’t notice. He handed Buffy the fabric he’d been carrying.
Puzzled, Buffy accepted the ragged rolls of cloth from him. “What are these for?”
“It’s cold outside - and you’re not dressed for it. You’ll have to use these to cover up.”
He was already garbed back in his black body armor, which she now realized was mostly just made up of many varied strips of leather wrapped around protective plating. Buffy watched him as he went over to the dull grey stones, carefully nudging a few of them back together again - once gathered together, each of the clustered stones suddenly cast a brighter light, and some of the surrounding gloom was pushed back.
Buffy blinked at the unexpected light. “How did you - what are those?”
“Not really sure,” Spike replied absently. “When they’re set together, they glow. But they also seem to have a mind of their own, and they always wander off eventually. Doesn’t matter,” he said, as if to shut down any further questions, “we’ll be gone soon enough.”
Returning to what looked like a small cache of weaponry, he retrieved a piece of spiked metal bracing, lashing it securely over one forearm. He tried to do the same with the other arm, fumbling awkwardly for a few moments, seeming oblivious to her scrutiny. “Help me out here, will you, Blue?” he sighed. “Left arm’s still a bit out of sorts.”
Illyria went immediately to his side to assist him.
Spike glanced back towards Buffy, almost cautiously. “How’s your leg? Can you walk?”
“Yes,” she replied sullenly, not certain that he’d meant the question as a challenge, and if she hadn’t felt so out of her element, she might not have been so defensive. “But... but where are we going?” Buffy still felt as if she were more than three steps behind the two of them, and she wasn’t sure if it was that, or her lingering injuries, that was causing the queasy uncertainty inside.
“We have to leave,” Spike replied perfunctorily. “Not safe. We can’t stay here.”
“I know. I mean, I remember you said that - but... why do we have to go out there?”
“Because that’s the way out,” he said, patient. “And we can’t stay here.” Repeating it again, as if she were especially forgetful.
Buffy looked towards Illyria. But can’t she open doors in the air? Wasn’t that how we got here in the first place? But that sounded so stupid, like something out of a fever-dream, and she didn’t exactly remember how she’d got here - just that there’d been a portal - and Illyria was already staring down upon her as if she were nothing more than a stupid and ignorant child.
Frustrated and bewildered, Buffy dropped her eyes and picked anxiously at the fabric. It was shabby fragments of what seemed to be an old, old tapestry, but she couldn’t make out any recognizable symbols or pictures. It was weird - just like everything else here. In spite of herself, her nose wrinkled and she struggled against a strong urge to sneeze. “It smells like... dust.”
“Better that than frostbite,” Spike replied, not quite meeting her eyes as he stepped forward and extended a hand to pull her to her feet.
Buffy caught her breath at the way that movement felt so much like dizziness, and then forcibly steeled herself, straightening her back and tightening her jaw. If there was one thing she knew, it was how to be strong. No weakness. Not in front of Illyria, and not in front of him.
Giving her a measuring look as if to make sure she wasn’t about to topple over, Spike picked up the mouldering old tapestries and began draping them over her shoulders, winding and rearranging the threadbare fabric until he seemed satisfied. His eyes finally caught on hers, and something flickered in them, softened a bit. “You okay?”
“I’ll manage,” Buffy said, clutching at the fabric - it felt like a heavy weight of age and decrepitude. She pulled it tighter, looping some of it over her head in a hood. Her chin lifted, and she turned her gaze away from him. “I always do.”
She wasn’t sure if he felt the rebuke in her averted eyes; she wasn’t even sure if she wanted to cause offense. At the moment, all she knew for sure was that she felt so awful, she couldn’t distinguish one source of misery from another.
“Right, then,” Spike replied evenly, picking up his metal quarterstaff. “Then we’d best get moving before Illyria leaves us both behind.”
In spite of his words, Illyria had not moved at all. Buffy had the distinct impression that Illyria would never leave Spike behind anywhere, but that comment sounded catty, and she kept it to herself. No sense in making a fool of herself... at least, not until she was sure she absolutely had to.
“You’re sure it’s safe now, Blue?”
“Do not delude yourself,” Illyria responded sternly, seeming more ill-tempered than before, if such a thing were possible. “The protections on this place yet remain, and what is in my power I have done to ward away detection, but we have tarried too long in this place. They know we are near - given time enough, we will be found. Therefore, it is expediency and not the dubious merits of easy escape that governs our retreat-”
“All right,” he sighed, seeming worn out, “all right already, I get the point. We’re going to have to make a break for it. So what are we waiting for?”
Buffy felt Illyria’s piercing winter-eyed gaze fall briefly upon her, knew that fleeting look meant she expected she wouldn’t be able to keep up. Spike also turned to look back at Buffy, seemed to register the sudden anger in her gaze, and quickly turned away again.
The prickly little creature chirruped something unintelligible to Buffy’s ears - none of them said anything in response, but Buffy saw Spike’s jaw tighten - and then it spun around, its long needles skittering noisily as it bounced up the stone staircase. Illyria followed in silence.
Spike glanced back at Buffy. “Come on, then,” he said, his voice tinged with irritation.
Buffy didn’t know which was worse - the idea of having to go up all those stairs with a weak leg that didn’t want to bear weight, or the fact that nobody seemed to think she could do it. Spike was waiting for her, obviously intending to let her go first - but she didn’t need someone walking at her back to protect her, wasn’t some weak and helpless girl who needed to be hovered and fussed over and watched out for.
“I don’t need you to look after me,” she thought resentfully, and was surprised when Spike looked at her as if she’d spoken the words aloud. She wondered if maybe she had. “I can take care of myself.”
A pause, and then he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Turning, he followed after Illyria, and Buffy trailed behind him.
<><><><><><><>
All her attention spent on stairs, on climbing them, on chasing after Spike and trying to keep pace, while ignoring the jarring pain in her leg. It felt like a repetitious dream, climbing upwards in the dark - when had it ever been so dark before? And why hadn’t they brought one of those glowing stones with them? Then she remembered what Spike had said, and if those stones were somehow alive, then she was glad - or maybe almost glad - that they hadn’t brought any with them.
But it was dark, and it was exhausting, and no matter how hard Buffy tried to catch up with him, Spike felt very far away.
When she finally emerged at the top of the stairs into a large antechamber, her eyes were so tired of darkness that the gloomy light there seemed almost refreshing. The light came from the one narrow doorway that led outside - every other passage seemed to lead into different kinds of darkness.
She remembered that yesterday - was it only yesterday? - Illyria had brought her here, and they’d gone into one of the adjoining passageways, where there had been a small, murky current of leisurely-flowing water for her to drink. Her ears straining, Buffy thought she could hear that stream gurgling somewhere nearby... or maybe not. It crossed her mind that other things might be hidden here in the darkness, and she shivered and hurried after Spike.
Illyria had already gone outside - Buffy only just caught sight of her disappearing through the doorway, and Spike was already following hard on her heels. He paused briefly, as if to make sure she was still following, then went outside.
Though Buffy had felt the chill as they made their way up the staircase, still she caught her breath with surprise as she stepped out through the narrow doorway to find herself standing atop a barely discernible path skirting the edge of a perilous slope, high up in the wind and the air.
Cold.
Bitter cold.
There was a dreary half-light in the sky that was either dusk or dawn, but she couldn’t tell which. The thick clouds lying low overhead felt near enough to touch, within easy reach if she stretched out her hand. Already, they were starting to dissolve into rainfall, and the misting raindrops seemed nearly solid, more than half-way to ice already, and the air felt chill enough to be trying to freeze her lungs.
“You all right?” Spike’s voice coming again.
She couldn’t quite find the breath to answer him, just tightened her grip on the tapestries, momentarily glad for the hood burrowing over her.
“Come on, then,” he said and turned away, and Buffy trudged after him. Angry, miserable and confused.
She thought of that long-ago snow in Sunnydale, at Christmas, those big fluffy flakes that were like rain, that melted in her hair and on her face like tears. Snow like rain that had warmed her. But here, it was rain like snow that was freezing her. Ice now. Maybe everything turned to ice, here. Cold like Illyria. Like Spike...?
Don’t be stupid, Buffy. Don’t be afraid. You came here, and - and you can do this. You can tell him how you feel, make him understand. Even if he’s changed. Even if he doesn’t want...
Yet again, she stumbled over her feet and realized she was going to have to pay more attention to walking and staying upright. It was harder than it should have been - something was off-kilter inside of her, and that fever-hard edge deep inside was fast turning to frost.
Just walk. In a straight line. They were all doing it, so why couldn’t she? All walking single file, and the porcupine was bouncing nimbly over the slick cold rocks as if it were easy. Like a Sherpa leading them alongside a cliff-side path. Like a sure-footed mountain goat.
God, she was tired.
And freezing cold. Even under the swaddling weight of the stinking, dusty swath of tapestry. Cold wind leaked through. Was making her fingers tingle. Lifting one hand, she closed her fingertips over the cold, cold stone in her necklace. Dawn, she thought, but her little sister was more than a world away from her now, as silent and unreachable as if she’d never been at all. Her eyes watered and turned to ice. Oh, Dawn. I don’t know what I’m doing here.
The wind caught the hood of her makeshift robes, pulled it away from her like a streamer unfolding. Trying to snare it - so hard to see with the wind and her hair in her eyes - she turned around, then stopped in her tracks. Something else was moving behind them.
A man - or maybe what looked more like the shadow of a man - was prowling overtop the ragged stones of the mountainside. He - it - saw her scarcely a moment after she had seen him, and before she had a chance to say or do anything. He stopped, falling utterly motionless as his eyes locked upon hers, only his cloak batting about in the wind like black wings.
Transfixed, Buffy stared at the unnaturally dark skin, the way it seemed to swallow light, looking like the smooth gloom of night, as flat and featureless as a silhouette, except for the startling red-tinged eyes that were fixed upon her with such chilling attentiveness, even at such a distance. And the alarming white of teeth as his lips curled back in a snarl.
No stake in her hand, no sword at her side, and barely a clue of who was what and where or why in this strange world. But she still recognized danger when she saw it.
“Spike...?”
It was more question than warning, thready and uncertain, but she heard him curse - and then someone grabbed her elbow and her shoulder, had spun her around and was steering her firmly in the opposite direction, then dragging her into a run. Spike. Must have been Spike, because that thin figure now looking back towards her with the unearthly piercing eyes was Illyria.
“Where’s the damn doorway?” Spike bellowed into the wind. Whatever reply Illyria might have given was lost to Buffy’s ears, but Spike obviously had better hearing. “Then bloody well hurry it up! We’ve been spotted!”
Her feet were slipping - too high in her stupid heels, no grip on this rock - stumbling as she tried to keep up. Her bad leg jarred with every running step, and Spike had his hand knotted in the tapestries, holding her upright and hauling her alongside him, trying to make her go faster. But she sensed that neither of them was anywhere near fast enough to outrun that - whatever it was - and could all but feel the dark creature flying hellbent upon their heels, speeding over the rock-strewn expanse, and swiftly closing the distance between on them.
“Illyria!” Spike roared in desperation.
Buffy didn’t see it when Illyria finally opened a door - she just felt it as they stepped into it, that stomach-turning, spinning feeling of airless free-fall - while behind them something roared rage and violence - and then the warmer air on the other side hit her like a furnace.