there are some things we can never assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away.”
~Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
“Bloody. Hell.” Spike winced. Every inch of his body felt it had been ripped apart and sewn back together by a blind man. With his feet. Eyes closed, he reached out with his other senses. He was met by the earthy smell of dirt and decay and the siren song of a steady heartbeat. With a painful turn of his head, he ventured a look toward the owner of this enticing rhythm.
“Hey.”
Standing several feet away by a small fire, was the last person in the world he thought he would ever see again. “Buffy?”
“Yeah, sleepyhead. I was wondering when you were gonna get up.”
“Buffy?” Spike stared owlishly, unable to wrap his head around that of all people, she was actually there.
“Yes, silly.” She walked over to where he was lying and crouched down. He wanted to reach out and touch her. All he managed were a few finger wiggles.
“Now, don’t move. Just rest and you’ll be right as rain in no time.”
Spike narrowed his eyes. Something felt off. It looked like Buffy, even the voice sounded like hers, yet his gut was telling him not to trust what he was seeing. Even with the immense pain of each shallow breath rubbing broken ribs together, he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs. Letting out a ragged sigh, he closed his eyes.
“You’re not her. Are you—”
When he looked over again, Illyria was staring at him.
“Blue.”
“Don’t you find her form pleasing?” Illyria cocked her head to the side as if she was studying a struggling bug pinned to a spreading board.
“Now there’s a loaded question. How do you know about her? Buffy?”
“Fred’s memories. After she found out Angel would not return her affections because he loved another, Fred needed to know more of this…Slayer.” Illyria stood, looking down at Spike.
“Fred was once in love with Peaches? Why all these intelligent birds fancied Tall, Dark, and Brooding is a soddin’ mystery.” Spike slowly sat up and leaned against the cold stone wall. The ratty blanket covering him pooled to his lap.
“Care to tell me why I’m starkers, Blue?” Spike raised a scarred brow.
“I tended to your wounds. Some were bleeding heavily and required sutures.”
“Ah.” Spike slowly raised his hand to his throbbing head, and in the process discovered an area of baldness. Moving his hand, he found more hairlessness mixed in with patches of tangled tufts of hair. He looked up, eyes wide.
“My hair! What the hell happened to my bloody hair?”
“The wound to your head was severe.”—Illyria watched him frantically feeling his head now with both hands—“For a creature with no reflection, the value you place on such a trivial notion as appearance is intemperate.”
“Listen here, Carly Simon, vain or not, you scalped me like a bleedin’ Indian!”—If possible, his eyes widened further—“You didn’t take liberties with other parts…”—Spike pulled away the blanket and looked down—“Oh, thank bloody Christ.”
“You had no injuries to your genitals. Nor do I have use or desire for such appendage, vampire.” Illyria eyed his lap in clear disgust.
“Right. Strictly business. Good.” Spike nodded and took in where they were. The cave was small. Just large enough to hold them, a battered cooler, and a small stack of fire wood. “And speaking of business…the others?”
“You know of my Wesley.”—Spike ignored her use of “my” and just nodded—“Gunn succumbed to his injuries shortly after you and Angel charged the demon horde.”
“And Angel?” Spike could feel deep down his grandsire was gone, but he needed confirmation.
“The dragon posed a great obstacle.” Illyria had a faraway look as she spoke. If Spike hadn’t known better, it resembled something akin to remorse.
“No surprise he went down in a blaze of glory. Bastard always played the martyr.” Spike stared into the fire. Though there was no love lost between them, he was going to miss his arse of a grandsire.
Neither spoke for some time. When the heavy silence was getting to be too much, Spike needed to move. Needed to do something. He tried pulling himself to standing, failing miserably each time. “Care to hand me my trousers?”
“You are in no position to leave.”—Illyria opened the cooler and pulled out clear plastic packet—“I understand your kind needs substance for recovery. Though I found the task menial, I procured human blood.”
“I don’t drink human anymore. Strictly Wilbur for me.” Spike eyed the blood, his fangs itching to break free.
“You do not wish to consume my offering?”
Spike instantly recognized Illyria’s stormy expression. He’d seen it enough. Old One or not, she was a woman or technically, her essence was in a woman’s body, and he knew entirely all too well ‘that look.’ She was pissed and at any moment the shit was gonna hit the proverbial fan. Better to take the blood.
“Actually, this time I’ll make an exception. Since you’ve gone to the trouble and all.”
Illyria carried the cooler over to Spike and he took out a packet. Calling forth his demon, he ripped into it with his fangs and guzzled it down. It was cold and thick, but he already felt it working. After his third, he closed the lid and shook off his ridges.
“So what’s next?” Spike shifted, feeling the extent of his newly mending bones.
“Vengeance.” Illyria remained near the fire; her eyes burning with the same intensity.
“That’s all well and good, but I wager I won’t be in any shape for fighting for at least a day or two…”
“This is not your fight, vampire.”
“Like bloody hell it isn’t!” Gathering all his strength, Spike stood. He barely held his ground as his legs shook and threatened to buckle under his weight.
“No, it is not. This is my retribution, mine and mine alone.” Illyria moved to stand toe-to-toe with Spike.
He felt her grief radiating off her in waves. Palpable, soul-wrenching grief. Without another word he understood with absolute clarity her needing to do this alone. She needed to find her way in a world where she was no longer a superior being, or a ruler with immense and ancient powers. A world where she was no longer able to annihilate her opponents with a mere thought. A world where she lost the only being she ever cared for, Wesley.
In all their time together, Spike never realized how much he and Illyria were alike.
With a nod, Spike lowered himself to the floor. The rest of their time together was spent in silence, until he drifted off to sleep. When he awoke, Illyria was gone.
Several nights later, belly full of blood and shaving off the rest of his hair with a dagger left by Illyria, as he had done two years before, Spike left a cave to start another chapter in his unlife. Alone.