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: Chapter 2 :
Ne'er Lark Nor Eagle Flew
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Her new cell was more like a room... Fitting new technology, Buffy supposed. Deceiving the captives. Looking through the two-way mirror that actually looked like a mirror, hanging on the wall adjacent to a fake window, Dana stared back into her reflection, her arms now free from restraint and straightening her hair and pinching her cheeks for color.
"She's receded into this certain Slayer's personality: Grace." Giles stood beside her a little more tired than usual. "At least, one must assume Grace is indeed a Slayer. There has been no indication of other, non-Slayer memories invested in her mind."
"What do we know about Grace?"
"We've talked to her very little. She seems to be more comfortable with you-"
"Because she has seen my life. She's familiar with it. But what brought Grace out?"
Giles sighed, watching as Dana turned to sit at the small table provided where a book and quill were set for her. "We're not sure yet, nor are we aware of why Grace remains. She fades, and in those times we must quickly retain her and move her back into the holding cell for her own safety." He gestured to the camera in the corner of Dana's room, watching her constantly. Buffy imagined the eight or so men in charge of watching her in some hidden control room she had yet to visit; sixteen eyes in control, but hardly two ever constantly on her.
Motioning for Buffy to follow him, Giles headed off in the direction of his office. "We convinced Angel to collect her session tapes from Dr. Rabinaw and send them to us as evidence and study." Once the door was locked behind them, Giles switched on his monitor and rewound the current loop of Dana's seventh session, entitled 'Dana.' She was placed in a room much like her holding cell, restrained like how she had been here, but less... cooperative. "This is when she is in between memories, when she is left with only herself and her confusion." He fast-forwarded to session eight, entitled 'Grace.' Grace was a major contrast to Dana, just as they'd witnessed first-hand. "Rabinaw must have lost interest quickly with Grace. I've practically memorized his notes on her, and all that he provided was something along the lines of 'withdrawn, nothing important.'"
Sifting through the piles of folders on his desk, Giles pulled one out that had crumpled paper sticking out the sides. "She illustrated her memories. Like a child watching the telly, enjoying the show, not wanting it to end, so she draws it out."
Buffy looked horrified. "You think she enjoys it?"
Nodding, Giles shuffling through the drawings. "Every Slayer, deep downs, welcomes the darkness. It's how they cope. You've coped well, you should recall." He looked to his Watcher Diary draft, perpetually unfinished. He figured it would be once his Slayer... "But Grace never drew, so it seems. She wrote." Pulling out a sheet less crumpled than the others, he handed it over. Buffy's eyes widened at the perfect calligraphy, albeit done in crayon.
Gentle one the heavens see
A soul envied, angels agree
Thy restless heart that beats for thee
is hollow.
Ne'er lark nor eagle flew
Where I hath been with you
Til thou return anew
I follow.
"Before Dana lapsed into Grace, she said something like this... 'For him I follow until he is what he was.'"
"Grace," Giles nodded. "Her proper English dialect and her wording tells me she could originate anywhere between 1850 and 1920, at the least extremes. She writes, and that is precisely how we're going to get through to her."
"So says this," Buffy held up the journal. "New tactic?"
"You could call it that. Grace was of the Romantics, therefore, the best way to reach her is through her hobby."
Buffy flipped through the pages, scanning the elegant cursive for anything that could look familiar. William, Cecily... Santa Casilda?
"She writes to a Casilda, then mentions Santa Casilda. Who's that?"
Already ahead of her, Giles flipped open a thick book, its cover adorned with an engraved cross. "She was one of the Christian saints. Daughter to the Emir of Toledo-"
"Toledo, Ohio?"
Giles frowned. "Toledo Spain, actually. She was converted to Christianity in secret and defied her father's will to feed his Christian prisoners. She was caught in the act, but the bread she carried miraculously turned into roses."
"So she was some little saint.." Buffy paused, catching herself. "Saint Casilda."
"Many pray to certain saints. Grace must have found condolence with Casilda. I don't know enough about either of them to know why, except that it seems young Grace was a tender-hearted child in love with-" he nearly choked.
Buffy continued to leaf through the pages. "It's like she picked up where she left off... or maybe in the midst of things..."
"In Medias Res."
"Fan of Horace, Dante, Virgil and the like?"
"How'd you know?"
"When in Rome... and the fact that Dawnie's in that school. Tryin' to keep myself educated."
Giles smiled down at her, removing his spectacles and fiddling with them. "You've changed so much, albeit I must say it is quite pleasant... which is to say, not that you weren't before--"
"I get it Giles," Buffy offered, meeting his gaze. "I'm growing up... finally. I'd say after that last foregone apocalypse, it's about time I straightened myself out."
Knowing full well that she didn't entirely mean her studies, Giles' smile quickly faded. "What ever do you mean? I think you were... quite straight... er... straightened out..."
"You're starting to sound like Xander."
"Bite your tongue!"
Buffy laughed. "Just messing with you, Giles. No need to get all reprimandy." Her giggling quieted into a breathy sigh, her hands tracing over the paper and dry ink. "I miss them."
"Well," Giles started, replacing his glasses and checking his datebook. "We're scheduled to reconvene pretty soon. Nice little reunion."
"Mmmhmm..." Snapping the journal shut and slipping it into her shoulder bag, Buffy stood and waved a goodbye to Giles.
"Where are you off to?"
"To visit some friends."
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Mobile headquarters had set up camp in Sienna, Italy faster than a bunny in heat... and Anya would've hated that analogy. Leave it to Giles to accommodate everything to suit Dawn's schooling. Italian school was quite the dare for little Dawnie, but it was nothing she couldn't handle. Società Dante Alighieri - Comitato di Siena, the international center of language, art, and Italian culture, a.k.a. Dawn's little niche. She always liked to spout her learned Italian, shoving it in Buffy's face that she hadn't picked up on it as quickly as Dawn had. "Il Buffy è pieno di escremento" just did not have a nice ring to it.
Dawn lived on-campus, her study-abroad package having saved on costs the first year until they were on their feet. She managed on her own, working two jobs that left just enough time for studying and occasional amuck-running. Buffy was proud. Already Dawn was surpassing her own accomplishments when she was her age.
In the meanwhile, Buffy's apartment left little to the imagination. There wasn't much separating the kitchen from the living room, the bathroom resembled a mini-sauna with a toilet, and the bedroom was more like a cubicle. Then again, she wasn't about to complain. She was surviving. Living. The least she could do was live.
Living - such an understatement. At this point, it was a day-to-day process. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing to leave behind. She'd finally found her happy medium. The only things that kept her content were her two duties: assisting her new home with the demon-slayage and assisting in the rebuilding of the Watcher's council. Assisting. She was reduced to an assistant, like a nurse or a secretary or a reporter - never performing the surgeries, guiding the business or relaying the news, never back up on the mainstage doing the yummy, dirty work. But she was content with that. She had had her share. How many times did she save the world again?
What are we gonna do?
And the same smile that answered that question still plays on her face. That same free, broken smile.
The sun was aching to set, its fingers of light tracing the horizon and dotting through the trees, warm enough to be out but with that bit of chill that makes one pull their collar tighter around his neck. Not a bad practice nowadays, to protect your neck.
The cemetery was one of the nicest she'd ever patrolled, though her patrolling was different now. There were a few stray baddies now and then, but never a constant flow that called for her expertise. She'd never been at peace in a cemetery until this one... then again, it could've been for the fact that it was a yard specifically for burials without bodies. Headstones lined in perfect little rows with nothing beneath them but dirt and grass and memories. After the destruction of Sunnydale, it had been hard to face that, along with the bad that had been desolated, so had the good.
The corner of the lot that she paid a pretty penny for was the most scenic. Four headstones set at the crest of a hill overlooking a decent expanse of field and wildflowers lined by more trees than she could count. The first three were placed together, sides hugging as if each depended on the other to remain sturdy.
The first read Anya. She always spoke her mind.
The middle read Joyce. Mother to some, angel to all.
The last read Tara. Her magick bade us love.
Set aside from the ladies was a darker granite stone surrounded by the small, sparkly white rocks Dawn insisted on putting there 'as a nice contrast.' She had wondered whether to group his stone with the others, then thought twice. He needed some space for when she'd join him.
Kneeling, she ran her hand across the white rocks, the tiny bits of quartz in each of them flickering against the last rays of sun as the sky darkened. "Came at about the right time." She smiled halfheartedly at the stone, reading its inscription:
William - Spike
Died for all.
Lived for her.
They had it inscribed without her knowing. In fact, she hadn't even assumed they would include Spike. Little did she know at the time just how their minds changed over his sacrifice. Usually that'd be a given, but Buffy knew better. A little something like saving the world doesn't wipe away the entirety of one's sins. Apparently, this time around... it did.
Pulling the journal from her satchel, Buffy leaned against the stone and opened it on her lap. "So William... Spike... let me tell you a little story."
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To Be continued... Chapter 3: Proper Young Ladies
Author's Note: I'd bet that it's safe to say y'all are still confused. If you're not, I'm not doing my job right. :D Just settin' the stage, my loves, just settin' the stage. All this crap muddled in my head, it shall make sense one day... *eyes glass over* Oooone daaay... At least pick up on the subtle hints, such as, Buffy doesn't know that Spike's alive over in LA. Sadness!!! That'll change. Woot.
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