The place smelt strongly of loss, of endings and tears and freshly turned earth. Like love. It stank of love, love that flooded his already overwhelmed senses. Never before had he sat so still for so long and absorbed a place. Now, however, he felt sure that he knew every emotion and scent that her cemetery had to offer him. Every night, he came with a purpose, with the need to tell her, finally, the secrets of his heart. But not once had he ever spoken a word. In silence he found a peace that he had not experienced in so long, and he was loathe to disrupt the quiet. A few hours of solitude by the side of his love. He would imagine he could hear her breathing, taste the soft thrum of her pulse, smell her skin, and feel her smile and he would cry the silent tears of a man so lost that he didn't know what to do with himself.
Candle light bathed her grave stone as he sat in the grassy scrubland, running his fingers absently over her name, etched in granite that forever proclaimed her “Beloved”. Alone with his thoughts, he found himself comparing her to the carefully engraved letters; delicate, elegant shapes, but bold and vivid. Strong. “Buffy Summers.” Such an apt name. She was like a summer’s day- sweet and bright and shining and good.
The rose he’d brought, the rose he always brought, was a gift from his heart. A red rose; a mark of his love and respect. A mark of her ever-lasting courage. The nights were hot, and the pretty blooms forever wilted in the heavy air, but he couldn’t bring himself to go without an offering. Especially considering the fact that he never spoke a word to her once he arrived.
147 days since she’d been gone, and he finally plucked up the courage to speak. Her name slipped from his lips in a choked sigh, filled with longing and grief and heartache. And as he laid down his offering, he realised the irony of the dead leaving roses for the dead.
The roads were dark, but she knew the way. She drove quickly, desperate to beat the morning light breaking across the sky. She had decided to let him go, finally. She knew what her unrelenting grief was doing to the people she cared about, and she resolved not to put them through it any longer. She would always love him, she knew, and she would always miss him. Miss his eyes and his smile and his sharp, deadly features. Miss his heart and his warmth and his skin and the shivers that would skirt along her spine when he spoke in that low timbre. Beautiful, dangerous, sinful and good. He was like night and day and she could barely imagine what her life would be like without him. But he was gone, and her heart was already broken. She had to mask her pain now, for Dawn’s sake. To stop her worrying, to stop her friends worrying. She had to be strong.
The car pulled up along the side of the road, and she slipped out silently, taking with her the few small flower buds she had collected in offering. There had been a time, not so long ago, and not too far away, when she had tried to tell him how she felt. She had waited too long, and he hadn’t believed her, but now she was determined that he would know the truth of her love. The pretty buds were a deep crimson, and she had felt drawn to them and what they symbolised. Her love, that was a given, but her respect for him, too, and her acknowledgement of his courage. The deep red seemed to signify his very personality; blood, passion, beauty, fire, rage and power.
The crater was wide, so wide that she could barely see where it ended. It stretched for miles and miles and she found herself thinking back to a time when this hole in the earth had once been her home. Closing her eyes briefly, she pictured their final moments together, their hands clasped and burning in a lovers embrace. It had felt like her very soul was on fire. She found it ironic, really, that the most powerful moment of her entire life should have been moments before her lover’s death.
Releasing the roses was strangely comforting. She watched for as long as she could as the fragile flowers disappeared into the darkness. When she next looked up, the sky was pink and the sun was peaking over the tops of the clouds, bringing with it a new day. She felt somewhat numb, but she turned slowly, whispering words of love and grief as she made her way back to the car, all the while unaware of the tears coursing silently down her cheeks. Sometimes it was too hard to say goodbye. Even with roses.
Having spent so long with her, basking in her love, he had of course thought about the possibility, the horror, of them being separated. In the first few years, in fact, the very knowledge that he would undoubtedly outlive her had plagued his mind for sometime, until she had reassured him (in that wonderfully thorough way she had of reassuring him), that they had to live in the here and now.
When she had become his, his wonderful, gorgeous Mate, the concerns he’d had had vanished; she became immortal, and she was strong. He could keep her forever. Maybe that was the reason his very soul felt like it was coming apart; he’d banished the thought that he could ever loose her. They’d been together for almost 60 years, after all. She’d become so vital to his existence that he could hardly believe she wouldn’t be there the following day when he woke up and reached across their bed for her.
After his battle against Wolfram and Hart, he’d been unable to hide away from her any longer. Winning against the ugliest of evils had made him cherish his unlife in a way he never had before, and he knew that he had to at least try to win her back. Their reunion had been wonderful for a while; she’d been tearful and pliant and helpless against him, kissing every available square inch of skin until he couldn’t breathe for smelling her intoxicating scent. Then the shouting had started. The tears and the screaming. A single punch that had knocked him out cold. Ultimately she’d forgiven him, but it had been a rough few days trying to persuade her to talk to him. One night, however, she’d turned up on his doorstep at two in the morning, soaked to the skin from running through the rain, and had thrown herself at him, begging him to never leave her again, calling him her stupid Vampire over and over until he’d agreed with her. They’d made love fiercely, desperately, and afterwards she’d crawled into his embrace and clung to him as if afraid that when she woke he’d be gone and she’d be alone.
And now he would never again see her smiling at him, never again feel her skin against his, never kiss her brow and whisper how much he loved her, never again hear her say it back.
It had been so stupid. Ridiculous. An ordinary evening, a quick patrol before bedtime. They hadn’t even seen it coming. Just one Vampire, too quick for its own good, and wielding a sword that he had initially scoffed at. He remembered making a scathing comment about compensation and remembered the way her laughter had made him smile. They’d played with him for a bit, neither really expecting anything more than an easy kill, and then suddenly the game had changed, the sword was lodged in her heart, and he was crying out as if it had been him that had been run through. The Vamp had been dispatched with without a second’s thought, but it was too late. It was all too late. She may have been immortal, she may not have changed in appearance for 60 years, but she was still so human. So fragile. He felt her comforting presence inside his mind disappear abruptly and had howled like a wounded animal from the pain. She was gone.
Even now, as he sat by her graveside, he could hardly believe he was back here. That he was back laying roses on her grave. It felt so surreal. At least this time, he had a reason to be here. His love. This time, he had been her love, too. The few remaining members of her Scooby gang had come to pay their respects, and though they had never understood her wanting to spend eternity with him, they had looked on him in pity and remorse. He supposed his grief was obvious; after all, she had been his. She had belonged to him, and she was gone forever.
The sky was turning pink and the sun was peaking over the tops of the clouds, bringing with it a new day. The roses were bold and beautiful against the granite of her grave stone, and in the light of day, they seemed all the more perfect.