Author's Chapter Notes:
The poem in this chapter is Lord Byron's, She Walks In Beauty. I own nothing and I'm not creative enough to even write a poem!
Chapter 10


It's hard to imagine what the generations in the past would do to fill the time, or even what was socially accepted for that period. People at the age of 50 who share their childhood stories make it sound like they grew up in an alternate land because it's so different from today. Buffy remembered when she would listen to her mom talk of life in high school, and it always gave her the impression of "the olden days." Comprehending what it was like living in this world 40 to 50 years ago was strange enough, but over 120 years?

This wasn't the first time she'd wondered about the past; in fact, she would inquire about Angel's first years when they were together because she was genuinely interested. Although, he would never talk about anything unless it involved his pain and suffering of trying to cope with his curse, or telling her what he thought she should do for her benefit. Buffy knew it was a touchy subject for Spike after he had shared part of Williams’s heart breaking experience with her at The Bronze last year. Which is why she didn’t want to push and make him relive what he may have worked hard to forget?

For that reason, Buffy wasn't sure if by asking what he constituted as fun in the late 1800's had made him angry. So far she hadn't heard a peep from him since leaving awkwardly out the back of the diner. She also wanted to ask why he was acting like a member of the government and being so secretive, but obviously now wouldn't be the best time to bring up last night's encounter and the spying of said encounter. He wasn't acting any less Spike like, so maybe there truly wasn't anything to worry over.

****

Spike had finally stopped their journey, and now Buffy was standing in a small park, that only they were occupying, while he stood observing a large flower garden. The space before them was filled with bright yellows, vibrant purples, and striking reds all perfectly mapped out to compliment each other. Every plant was healthy and abundant with blossoms, giving off a rich fragrance that filled the air.

“They’re beautiful. Wait. Did you enjoy working in the garden?” Buffy guessed since he kept looking over the splash of colors.

He spun around as if appalled by her insinuation, “God no. We had servants who toiled over the landscape. You’d never find me dirtyin’ my hands.”

Putting her hands in the air like a gun was pointed at her, “Okay. Okay. Rich family. Check.”

“Well yea, Mother an’ I we’re well off, so b’tween taking care of her,” Spike raised his arms, putting his hands out, “I did this.”

Buffy searched the grounds again, trying to realize what he meant, “This.”

“Go to parks n’ other spacious outdoor areas to...,” he took a deep breath, frowning at himself. Jus’ get on with it. “To work.” Oh yeah, real descriptive on that one, you sod.

She stood, waiting for him clarify, “To work?”

“To work...,” taking a moment to roll his eyes, as if he was pushing himself to proceed, “On my verses.”

Putting her mind at work, squinting as she tried to understand. Within a matter of seconds the corners of her mouth lifted, “Like poetry? You wrote poetry?”

His face hardened, “If you bloody well poke fun-”

“No, no it suits you. You’ve always had that lover’s outlook and wisdom thing going for you.”

“Oh?” Standing up straighter and throwing his shoulders back some, “I mean, yeah. Right. I do.”

Continuing to boost his confidence, “Just because you write poetry doesn’t mean you’re any less of a man.”

“Exactly.” Spike began nodding his head in agreement.

“It just means, you’re not as badass.”

“Precisely.” Then it hit him, like a father’s hand. “Oi!”

Buffy smiled coyly at him, “Just kidding.”

Catching her in a deadly, but mischievous glare, “Better watch it Slayer.” He slid off his leather duster, laying it open on the grass like a blanket for picnics. “Here now.”

Taking her spot on the coat, “What made you get into writing? Was that just the norm for rich English families?” Buffy was pleased Spike was able to trust and confide in her with his story and passion for poetry. All it took was simply asking, and was glad she did.

“Poetry’s been ‘round quite sometime luv. The kicker ‘s jus’ that I wasn’t known for mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“William the Bloody? ’S not because I rammed railroad spikes through my victim’s craniums, was cause; I was bloody awful at my compositions.” Talking about this only angered him, but he satisfyingly added, “Ironic enough, I only shoved those spikes in those wankers who talked bad on me work.”

Buffy, always the smart-aleck, had to let it out, “Gee, just what they deserved.”

Winning her over with horrifying tales probably wouldn’t have worked anyway, so he carried on. “I read the ballads of many, but there was one that simply inspired me. I became fixated on writing. Any moment alone, I’d be scribblin’ away, tryin’ to create my own magnificent piece.” Recalling those memories was something he tried not to visit often, and he feared letting them slip to Buffy, but her sincere interest helped to dissolve his reluctance.

She wanted to hear more from him, but the bleached blond seemed engrossed in the crystal sky above. Just as she was about to implore for more, he moved toward the flowers, looking away from her as if bashful. A slew of words began pouring from his lips, in a refined accent which she imagined a prince would have.

“She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair’d the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.”


Perhaps it was the setting, or the way it flowed when he recited it, but if it was possible to literally have your breath taken away, Buffy's had been stolen. “Wow.” Okay, her response may have been lame, but she was completely mesmerized.

Rotating slowly to face the sitting lady, “Lord Byron’s, ‘She Walks In Beauty.’ It was the first to justly motivate me to try my own hand in creating scripture. I didn’t reckon I’d bollocks it up so bloody badly.”

"So does the Big Bad still write?" There was a gleam of eagerness in her eye as she looked up at him.

Spike’s scarred brow shot up, “An that will be another day.”

Everything was going perfectly, and best of all, Buffy didn’t suspect a thing. He would be able to put a cap on this ‘past coming to bite him’ problem without the girl even finding out. So far, all was under control, but he would have to think of a clever plan that takes Colton out of the picture, protects Buffy, and keeps himself in the clear. There was some major thinking to be had, especially because his childe’s own disposition was highly detailed, but even more so, extremely motivated. When they had the chat in the alley, Colton had revealed why Sunnydale was his new vacation spot and what he was trying to accomplish, allowing Spike to set him up without realizing it.

****

It all started when Spike became obsessed with taking the life of The Chosen One. In the beginning, Colt would follow Spike, learning to adjust to this new life, but it quickly grew into a twisted idolization of his maker. He began imitating William the Bloody’s kill and style, always wanting an appraisal, like cats try to please their master with dead birds. At the time, William was rather pleased he could have this effect on somebody. It felt good to have someone look up to his strengths instead of looking down upon his flaws. Around that time is when the more than cocky attitude he adopted started to shine. The two would rip apart the town’s people they came across, reveling in every minute of the gruesome show. He changed his name from what Mother had given him to something more menacing, something more deserving of the reputation he was working hard to establish. With Drusilla in his arms and Colton at his beck and call, even Angelus couldn’t ruin his high because Spike was the king in his own little world that was, until it all began spiraling down the metaphorical drain.

Angelus. The ponce. He was the one to blame for everything. He was the one that couldn’t stand not getting attention. He was the one that introduced a legend as a scare tactic. The Slayer. With a new found fixation, Colt felt the need to further his efforts to please, and soon after he started to get jealous that his sire was no longer treating him like a student or friend, but instead like a servant. If Angelus would have just let them be, Spike wouldn’t of had to evade the resentful lunatic. Every once in a while, Colton would pop up where the Order of Aurelius would be currently taking advantage, and have a somewhat spiteful attitude, but mostly would attempt to rekindle his favoritism. This time was no different.

Knowing his old time friend was in Sunnydale, home of the Hellmouth, and that there was a Slayer in the mix, Colton had come with one intention. As legend would have it, only once has a Slayer been turned throughout history, bringing forth a new demonic breed. It was common law among vampires that one does not sire The Chosen One if given the chance. There had never been questions or defying pursuits, it just simply was known. Being a spectator of the Slayer of Slayers’ career, Colton had researched this myth for years, with hopes to finally gain the wanted attention and respect from William. From what Colt had gathered, efforts to turn a Slayer were risky because once risen; she would become impervious to most harm.

Sunlight, holy water, crosses, and stakes were useless against her, and because demon aura was already living inside her, once combined with the vampire’s, the strength and agility was said to double. The books told of how this new variety was one of the most dangerous to walk this dimension. Not only was she surging with power and impeccable skill, but her soul was still intact. Documents reported that the malicious side and evil tendencies over powered any human decency left in her. She rid entire villages of all things, evil and human. Within the first year she went mad from the pain and torture as the soul she still bears ate away at her. The Watchers Council deployed their best assailants to contain the outrage, which after many lives lost, they were able to secure and restrain her with much struggle. Those who claimed to be witnesses said they had watched a young woman be dismembered and fed to the wild dogs that roamed the towns, and it was believed that the girl was the one causing mayhem throughout local communities. There were also innuendos referencing that the turned Slayer was placed in a hidden location with heavy security, forced to exist in isolation, never to be released in order to ensure no return from the monstrosity that was born.

Few know of this treacherous history, as The Watchers Council had gone to great lengths to keep it veiled, but after years of chasing leads and gathering information, Colt was satisfied he had a way to maintain the situation to his liking. He wasn’t the one who would alter history though. No, that honor was for one vampire to have. He would make sure he was the vamp to hand the tribute to the one deserving. William the Bloody could never forget him.





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