The pain is like nothing she has ever experienced. It rips through her, shreds her to the bone and beyond. She screams until no sound emerges from torn vocal cords. She weeps until her tear ducts are gone.

And then...

It all fades...

*****

"She must survive."

"Reunion with her body is necessary, but not now."

"The future..."

"The future needs her."

"He needs her."

"She needs him."

"They need to know that."

*****

This isn't heaven, it's hell.

She doesn't know who she is or how she got here, but the first thing she knew was the pain of a whip cutting into her tender skin.

She remembers crying out, in a voice unfamiliar to her, and begging for the beating to stop. She remembers looking up from her place on the floor to see a figure in black holding a whip. She remembers his sharp blue eyes cutting into her as surely as the lash.

Weeks passed, and the whipping was only the first of many punishments.

Her name is Whore or Bitch and sometimes, when he's being playful, Pet.

She prefers the first two.

Occasionally she gets flashes of memories of another life, of men and women and a young teenage girl who love her, of laughter and family and the ordinary joys and sorrows of life.

She thinks maybe they're dreams, because what they show her is nothing of her reality.

This place is cold. Surrounded by stone walls, she sleeps on a pallet at the foot of a massive bed carved from teak. The room is windowless.

She's never left it.

If there's a sun or even a world outside the room, she doesn't know it.

She does know that she died. It's the only clear memory she has before awakening beneath the lash. She died.

And this can't be heaven.

Once she asked him what she did to deserve this punishment. Being referred to as a punishment angered him, and he took his fists to her until she slid into the peace of unconsciousness.

When she awoke, she knelt at his feet, head down in submission, and begged to know his name.

He told her it was Spike.

*****

Keeping her tears bottled behind her tightly shut eyelids, she bites deeply into her lower lip as he forces himself into her body. He never prepares her, and it's always rough and fast. Dimly she knows that others have loved her body gently, that their touch has given her pleasure.

But, not his.

She digs her fingers into the bedding and flinches as his bony pelvis slams against her sore bottom. His hands hold her hips as he pumps and grinds. Grunts and growls fill the air as he seeks his pleasure from her still, quiet body. A shiver runs through her--pain, cold, she doesn't know which--and it seems to please him. He increases the pace, and she winces as the thick head of his penis pushes against her cervix.

He's so big, so long, and she knows she's never felt anything like it.

Sometimes she wonders if she wanted him, if he kissed her and touched her and prepared her, it would be pleasurable, him stretching and filling her until she wanted to burst.

Most times she dismisses those thoughts as idiocy.

He's her rapist, her master.

Not her lover.

*****

He doesn't know why the Slayer was dumped on his doorstep. He debated for half a second over killing her, then dragged her naked into his bedroom and took a whip to her. He expected that when she awoke they would fight and one of them would die.

He didn't really care which.

Drusilla's death two years earlier left him empty, his existence meaningless. Moving through the nights, he avoided his own kind, and fed only to survive. He saw the Slayer fighting in the distance on a few nights, but he had no desire to confront her.

So finding her naked and unconscious on his doorstep came as quite a surprise.

He wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, though. Enemy of his kind she might be, but she was also female and beautiful and smelled of vanilla and blood.

And there was no way better to vanquish an enemy than to break them. He learned that at the feet and the whip and the cock of his own master.

He likes to fuck her from behind, standing at the end of his bed, her legs hanging over the side, spread wide, or her knees drawn up beneath her. She's overly thin, but her ass is plump and round, and he likes to grab it and watch the flesh quiver as he pumps into her.

The first time he took her she fought him, but she hasn't since, probably due to the whipping he gave her before fucking her in the ass, and her fear of a repeat performance.

He sometimes misses her fighting.

*****

When he's through with her he pulls out with a grunt of satisfaction and stands back to watch his seed drip down her bruised inner thighs. She remains still, on her knees, legs spread, whole body trembling in reaction, waiting.

At his brusque command, she slides slowly from the bed, eyes always on the floor, and curls on her pallet. Her arms wrap around her shivering body, and she tries to relax, to ignore the pain of his possession, to ignore his hot eyes on her.

As he fastens his jeans and belt, he grunts again in satisfaction, this time at her obedience. The first three or four times he took her, as soon as he was done, she scrambled away from him. He had to hit her, explaining that she was only to move when he gave her permission.

To explain that he liked to see her shaking from his rape.

The horror on her face is just an added benefit.

That she has no memory, no knowledge of herself or of what he is, only serves his purpose more. She's easily molded, trained and broken into what he wants.

A willing slave.

*****

Neither of them are sure when the first change occurs, but one night when she's laying beneath him, his chest pressed to her breasts, his hips pumping at a rapid pace, she looks up into his eyes and sees something more than ice and lust. A small gasp issues from between her lips and her hands unclench from the bedding. Accustomed to her silence, he looks down and sees something other than fear and pain and resignation in her widening eyes. His pace slows to undulations and he concentrates on making her inner muscles flutter around his staff.

The slower pace, the rolling of his body against hers, makes something inside her soften and tighten at the same time. A slow, sensual smile crosses his face, and she flushes.

He's no longer hurting her, no longer uncaring with his thrusts, and her body is responding just a tiny bit--moistening slightly, relaxing--and a tremor goes through her.

Not of fear or pain.

She flushes in humiliation and rolls her head to stare at the wall. He takes it as a challenge and slides his hand between them and into the sweat-dampened curls between her legs. Fingers find her clitoris and rub it gently until she arches helplessly into his touch.

"Please...no..."

Her tiny whispering plea only makes him touch her more, his skillful fingers bringing her to the peak again and again as he continues to thrust at an easy pace into her rapidly heating body. As she gasps and trembles beneath him, he dips his head and runs his tongue across her cheek. She jerks her head away, trying to escape his lascivious touch, but his mouth captures hers, and he kisses her deeply, carnally.

And she's lost to the sensations.

*****

Hours after he left her, she lays where she fell from his embrace, legs spread, the insides of her thighs sticky with spent passion. Her eyes stare blindly at the ceiling, full of tears she fights to keep from falling.

He gave her pleasure of a kind she never dreamed. Her body responded to his gentleness like it was starving for it.

When he finally let her come, she screamed and wept and thrashed in his arms. The orgasm seemed endless, rolling through her body over and over until she collapsed, panting for breath, weak and drained.

Only then did he seek his own release, which set off another explosion inside her. As he came to rest on top of her, his lips brushed across her cheek to her ear.

His whisper erased all the bliss she felt.

"My lovely whore."

And for the first time, she felt like one.

*****

He avoids her for three days, bringing her food and water only when he knows she sleeps. At some point in time that first day she moved from the bed to her pallet.

He can smell her tears filling the stale air of the room, mingling with the scent of sex and old blood.

He doesn't think she's cried before. Odd that giving her sexual release would free the tears when whippings and abuse never do.

But, then, her orgasm affected him as well, which is why he's been avoiding her. He can't understand why he gentled his touch, why he sought to bring her pleasure. He really doesn't care if she feels anything but suffering at his hand.

Or so he keeps telling himself.

*****

On the fourth morning with an erection he can no longer will or wank away, he drags her to her feet, shakes her awake, and flings her onto her stomach on the bed. Still half asleep when he shoves into her unprepared body, she whimpers and wriggles. Growling with lust, he wraps one arm around her waist and pulls her up to her knees, as he begins to thrust at a quick, hard pace.

Trying to make herself more comfortable, she wriggles again, and he curses. Her inner muscles clamp around him, and he repeats the curse through clenched teeth. His fingers slip between her legs and fondle her soft flesh.

She quickly dampens, easing his way and sending quivers through them both. As she feels her body adjusting, accepting his hard, deep thrusts, even beginning to crave them, she sobs bitterly into the bedding, her fingers forming fists around the woolen blanket that scratches her cheeks and breasts as he pushes harder and harder into her.

Her orgasm is unwanted and sudden, sending him over the edge as well with a guttural howl that isn't human.

*****

This time he doesn't leave her. Stripping off his clothes, he crawls languidly into bed, taking her arm and tugging her up against him. She lays stiff and unyielding as he wraps her in his cold embrace, pressing her cheek to his muscular chest, and pulls the blanket over them.

They lay there for long minutes and slowly she begins to warm, noting that her heat is warming him as well. Her body, tired and aching, begins to relax, and her eyes flutter shut.

Half asleep she asks the question weighing heavily on her mind. "Why?"

He knows she asks a multitude of questions with that one, but he answers the first one that comes to mind. "Because sometimes we all need comfort." And his arms tighten around her as his own eyes shut.

He has his own questions as to why he's holding her, but he refuses to acknowledge them.

*****

When she awakens, he's still there, holding her. Hesitantly glancing up at his face, she wonders at the stillness in him.

There's no heartbeat beneath her cheek, no breath coming from between his slightly parted lips.

Oddly...that doesn't faze her.

She's known all along that he's inhuman.

Carefully she pulls away from him, trying hard not to disturb him. As his arm falls away from her, she sits up, alert for any movement from him. He remains still, and she builds up the nerve to slide from the bed.

Deep inside herself she knows that nerve was something she always had in abundance, and she wonders, as she often does, what happened to change that.

She doesn't think that his abuse alone broke her.

She was already broken when she awakened to the first whipping.

Free from the bed, she finds his shirt and slips it on, her fingers fumbling with the buttons, unused to performing such a simple task. It's been a long time since she wore anything.

She's not sure why she's doing so now.

Before her mind can protest, her feet are moving her silently across the floor to the door. She's not surprised to find that it's locked.

She *is* startled by the hand that clamps down heavily on her shoulder. Crying out, she struggles weakly as he pushes her against the thick wood, one knee shoving between her thighs.

"Trying to escape?" he whispers, his voice dripping with icy fury.

"Please..." Placing her hands on the door she tries to push away, but he pins her tightly. One arm wraps around her waist and lifts her as his erect cock finds the tight entrance to her body and slams inside.

Helplessly she arches back, her head falling onto his shoulder. His mouth clamps around her throat, his teeth scraping along her sensitive skin, as he brutally fucks her.

She's still wet from before, which lessens the pain, but the emptiness inside her makes her whimper and claw futilely at the door.

His grunts fill her ears and he pushes her forward, dropping her to her feet. His hands circle her wrists, shoving her hands flat to the door as he bends her, fucking her deeper and harder.

"Mine," he growls animalistically. "Forever." His mouth clamps around the nape of her neck and she's shocked to feel needle sharp teeth sink into her skin.

As she screams, she climaxes, her whole body going wild. The pain of the bite is nothing compared to the nearly unbearable ecstasy, and she swoons. Only his hands on her wrists and his cock buried in her, keep her on her feet.

*****

When she becomes aware again, she finds herself chained to the bed, spread-eagled on her back. He's kneeling between her legs, his cock thick and hungry looking, bouncing lightly against his taut stomach, as he licks his fingers of her juices, then slips all four inside her again.

She comes violently, panting helplessly as he manipulates her swollen flesh, and cries out as he continues to thrust his fingers as far as they will go. His thumb presses hard to her clit, and she tries to arch into his touch, but she's chained too tightly and all she can do is squirm and come and sob until she's insensate.

*****

He keeps her chained for a week, feeding her, tending to her intimate needs as she reddens in humiliation, fucking her half a dozen times a day.

Every day he tells her she's his forever and he's never letting her go.

By the end of the week she knows it's true. When he unchains her, she drops limply to her knees, unable to stand on shaky legs. Leaning her head against his hip, she feels him pet her, stroking her oily hair, and her numb fingers fumble with the fastening of his jeans, freeing his cock.

She gives him the best blowjob of his life, her mouth a wet oven that nearly devours him and leaves him panting mindlessly and pumping his cum down her throat after only a few minutes. Amazed, he gazes down at her, ignoring the emptiness in her eyes, and watching her tongue flick out and lap up the last drops of semen from the tip of his cock.

Then she tucks him away and refastens his jeans, before curling at his feet and crying softly.

The sound of her sobs, the sight of her tears, makes him very uncomfortable, and he picks her up, cradling her against his chest, as he carries her to a chair. Sitting in it with her in his arms, he watches as she curls into him, still crying, but seemingly accepting of him.

"Mine?" he murmurs the question.

"...Yes," is the response muffled by his chest.

*****

The next night he takes her into the bathroom and turns on the shower. She can stand again, her muscles rebounding well from a week of inactivity, and she weakly protests that she can bathe herself, but he climbs in after her. Running soapy hands over her body, he smiles as her nipples harden beneath his fingers, and her skin flushes from more than just the hot water.

When he stands behind her massaging shampoo into her hair, she arches back, mewling softly in pleasure, unconsciously rubbing her body against his.

Once she's clean, he pushes her against the wall and fucks her slowly, one hand fondling her breasts, the other between her thighs. She responds immediately, her body welcoming his touch, opening for his cock, as her hips move back against his pelvis.

Tear stream down her face as she eagerly fucks him back, her body and its needs overwhelming her fear and hatred and humiliation.

Even as pleasure floods her and she bucks in his arms, she hates herself as much as she hates him.

*****

He no longer beats her. She's not really sure when he stopped, but one day she's sitting at his feet listening as he reads the Iliad to her and she realizes her body doesn't ache. Glancing at her arms and breasts and thighs she realizes there are no bruises or lash marks on her.

He still fucks her several times a day, but she finds only pleasure in his arms, and she wonders at why he stopped hurting her. She knows that he enjoys the infliction of pain and that punishing her is nearly equal to sex in his mind. He told her often enough during those first several weeks. She didn't even need to do anything wrong to earn a whipping.

But, he hasn't laid a violent hand on her in a long time, not since before the week chained to his bed.

Looking up at him through puzzled eyes, she wonders what changed...

When he stops reading, she notices him staring back at her, and drops her eyes.

"What do you see in me?"

His question confuses her and she shakes her head.

"Look at me." His voice is silkily, but also deadly, and she peeks up at him through her lashes. "What am I?"

"I don't know," she finally whispers, one hand straying to the marks on her neck. He bites her daily now, always in the same place, carefully reopening the wounds.

And drinking her blood.

She should know this. It's familiar, but her mind is so fuzzy, her memories so scattered.

So, she shakes her head and hugs her knees to her chest.

*****

Half-asleep when he returns the next night, she is confused and frightened when he screams at her and roughly drags her from the bed.

"How did you get out of here, bitch? How?" He punctuates each word with a hard shake, his claws biting painfully into the pale skin of her arms.

She looks up into his monstrous face, baffled, and pleas spill from her lips. "I don't understand. Please, please, you're hurting me."

Golden eyes glare down at her and she shrinks as far as his grip will let her. "I saw you, hunting, killing. Have you been playing me for a fool all this time?" Furious, he flings her back on the bed and comes over her, pinning her down. "How did you get out?"

Tears spring up in her eyes and she presses futility at the chest hovering menacingly above her. "I didn't. I swear. How could I? The door is locked. I have no clothes."

Her last breathy babble makes him still. Shifting back to human, he gives her a puzzled look.

He had seen her, the Slayer, fighting in the distance, easily staking a fledgling. All strength and muscle and golden beauty...Golden...

"Two of you," he breathes, rising from the bed. His beauty no longer has golden skin, but that of bruised cream.

Rolling over, she curls into a ball, her breath hitching in her throat as fear threatens to choke her.

"Who are you?" he asks softly, not expecting an answer. Wounded hazel eyes turn to him and he asks another question, one that he's wondered since he found her.

"Who broke you?"

*****

Her story comes out in spits and spurts as she sits on his lap and he feeds her cheese and grapes.

"I died." Closing her eyes briefly she presses her cheek to his chest and listens to the silence. "I must have been bad because...well, this isn't heaven."

"Not hell either, luv. This is Earth."

Her brow furrows and she glances up at him. "But, I died. It's all I really remember. Falling and dying and...pain. And then I opened my eyes and there was more pain and I was here."

The resigned acceptance in her voice as she curls so trustingly in his arms makes something inside him tighten.

He knows he caused the final break in her spirit, but who caused the first?

And can she be repaired.

*****

Several days pass before she remembers a comment that he made that now puzzles her. At the time, she was too frightened to think about it, but everything has been peaceful between them since his attack, and she's begun to relax again.

"There are two of us?"

She's on his lap again, sitting quietly as he gently brushes her long, blonde hair. He catches her chin and turns her head to his.

"Hm?"

"You...that night..." She drops her eyes and he strokes her cheek with one slender finger.

"Oh." There's a long silence before he sighs softly and makes a decision. "When I took you prisoner, I thought you were the Sl...a girl I knew. But, I've seen her now, outside."

"Do I really look like her?"

He nods. "Identical."

"A twin?"

"No." Setting aside the brush, he wraps his arms around her and she lets her head fall back onto his shoulder. "I think she's the Buffy who belongs here and you're from another place, another world even."

"...My name's Buffy?"

At the slight indignation in her voice, an emotion so very true to character, he chuckles and hugs her tighter.

"Was my mother a druggie?"

He laughs harder.

*****

"You're a vampire."

The comment comes out of the blue, and he looks up from where he's pressing soft kisses across her pale stomach. "And you've just figured this out?"

Shaking her head, she runs her fingers through his soft hair and feels the coolness of his scalp. "I just couldn't admit it. It's...I think I should know this."

"Yes, you should, along with a million other things, luv."

He laps his tongue across her navel, and she whimpers softly, "Who am I?" before pushing his head down farther.

"Mine," he growls possessively before lowering his mouth to her wet and swollen flesh.

*****

"No, that's *what* I am," she comments, several hours later as she lies replete and trembling in his arms.

"Huh?" His mind is still short-circuiting from the pleasure of her throat squeezing around the tip of his cock.

"Yours. But, who is Buffy? What do I do? What do I like? How did I end up here?"

"Luv, I don't have the answers to any of those questions. Wherever you're from, you might be totally different than this world's Buffy. Hell, you might even have a different name."

"Hopefully," she mutters. "Maybe something simple and neat like...Joan."

He arches an eyebrow at her and snorts indelicately.

"I could be a Joan," she replies staunchly.

"You are not that dull."

"How do you know? We don't know anything about me."

His finger began a lazy trail down one of her arms as his mouth skidded softly across her cheek to her mouth. "I know your quim tastes like strawberries and you make this delightful hiccup of sound when you come."

Flushing in embarrassment, she turns into his embrace and meets his kiss.

*****

More time passes, weeks spent getting to know one another. She forces herself to ignore the pain and fear of the past, the whippings and the rapes. A tiny part of herself knows that allowing herself to grow close to him, to talk with him, to become friendly with him, is wrong and a betrayal of herself.

But, he's all she has.

And he's become...nice.

Her body is no longer her own and thrills to his touch. Her mind, too long starved for interaction with another, eagerly absorbs anything he has to tell her.

She no longer sleeps on a pallet on the floor, but she knows he sees her as some kind of pet. Kept nude, often fed from his hand as she curls on his lap while he tells her tales of distant lands, she wonders at how she's grown to accept this treatment.

How a gentle touch keeps her controlled so much more readily than a blow.

There has to be something wrong in her to revel in his touch, to kiss him back, and curl so trustingly against him.

He brutalized and raped her.

Why does she allow him to give her such pleasure?

*****

She stares blankly at the dress he holds in one hand--just a slip of emerald silk--then lets her eyes drift to the black leather strappy sandals in the other.

"Why?"

"Would you like to go outside?"

Her eyes widen even farther and a tremor runs through her.

How long has it been since she's seen anything but this room and the adjoining bath?

Snatching up the dress and shoes she puts them on her clean body and flips her half-dry hair over her shoulder. The dress-- pure silk--feels like heaven against her skin, and she stretches like a cat.

Opening her eyes, she finds him staring at her, mouth agape, and something powerful goes through her.

"Take me out," she whispers, grabbing his arm and tugging him towards the door.

*****

He watches in awe as she dances lightly around the fountain, her eyes on the stars glittering in the moonlit sky. A light breeze lifts her hair, bringing with it the smell of jasmine and late summer roses. She laughs and something painful grips his dead heart.

She's his prisoner, his pet, his toy. There to serve his every whim, to beat and fuck and destroy.

So, why hasn't he done any of those to her in the last month? Why does he touch her with tenderness and passion? Why does he feel like crying when she kisses him so gently right before she drifts to sleep?

You don't get to know a fucktoy. You don't sit and read to one and feed her expensive chocolates and lick the remnants from her lips until she whimpers in desire. You don't enjoy giving pleasure to a slave.

You don't fucking *give* pleasure to a slave.

She holds out one hand and pleads, "Dance with me?"

Shaking his head, he slumps down on a bench and runs his hands through his hair.

The smile leaves her face and she hesitantly drops to her knees in front of him. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, pet," he mutters. "I think I did." Ignoring her puzzled look, he sighs deeply and focuses on the slipping strap of her dress as he continues, "I raped you."

She pales, but he doesn't see it, as the strap slips another centimeter.

"I raped you over and over again. I made you cry. And then I made you come and you cried even more. Why don't you cry any more?"

Rising to her feet, she swallows convulsively and backs away from him. "I should," she finally forces out, her voice strangled with horror. "I'm...I'm bad."

"Oh, fuck, luv, you're not bad." Standing, he reaches for her, but she takes another faltering step backwards and wraps her arms around her trembling body.

"It's sick, me wanting you. I know that. Don't you think I know that? Why did you have to bring this up now?"

It's the most spirit he's seen in her in a long time, and not even the vilest part of him wants to squash it. Eyes drifting to the nearly full moon, he shakes his head. "It happens, luv. You have to rely on me for everything, down to food and water and basic necessities. Your subconscious mind knew that pleasing me would end the pain, make the captivity easier. Your body didn't want to break any more. It chose pleasure. None of that makes you bad or sick."

"What does it make you?"

At the hint of anger in her voice, his eyes snap to hers. She's...mad.

He smiles in giddy pleasure.

"Evil, pet. Pure evil."

Shooting one hand out, he snags her arm and jerks her against him.

It isn't fear that makes her tremble as she presses her hands to his chest and looks up him, wide-eyed.

"I want to fuck you in the moonlight."

A thrill goes through her and she grinds against the bulge in his jeans, forcing aside all thoughts of being sick, and retaining the one about being bad.

Bad can feel so good sometimes.

*****

Her third orgasm builds slowly as she rides him, rocking her hips against his, her fingers teasing her nipples. Her back is arched, her eyes closed, her face bathed in moonlight. He watches her, his hands kneading her hips, occasionally guiding her and pressing her body down on his.

He wants to see how many times she can come before she screams.

He understands that she feels that wanting him is wrong and makes her a sick person, but he doesn't care.

He likes this better than the shallow feeling gained by raping her. Her cries of ecstasy please him so much more than the ones of pain.

When did that happen?

And why?

A long groan spills from her pinched lips, and he arches his back, driving up into her. With a sharp cry, she shatters around him, her body pumping wildly, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. As the orgasm rolls through her, she collapses forward, panting against his neck.

Grabbing her waist, he shoves her slumped body back up and gives her a feral grin. "Again."

"...Can't." Even as she protests, she begins to rock slowly on him, her eyes nearly crossing as his cock pulses deep inside her.

"Oh, yes you can." Raising his knees, he leans her back against them, and, whimpering in need, she resumes the ride.

*****

More time passes. She now has free reign of his house while he's awake--and it's a castle, their room in one of the turrets-- and he takes her out into the garden every night. She's still a prisoner, but rarely feels like one.

Their nights are spent talking and making love and sometimes just sitting quietly and watching old movies on the television. He continues to read to her, and she finds herself anticipating the sound of his voice. It's rich and powerful and with it he weaves amazing stories.

One large room on the ground floor contains a grand piano, and one night she sits at it and touches the keys. Something comes back to her, not a memory, but she knows this instrument, and the tune she plays is haunting.

"You play the piano," he comments when she is done and is staring at her hands.

"I...guess so."

After that, she plays every evening, the songs just coming to her, sometimes classical, sometimes rock and roll.

Sometimes he sings along with her playing.

It feels right.

She again ignores the past, the pain, the fear. He never mentions it. They live together in peace and growing tenderness, and she wonders if the warm feeling she gets when he smiles at her is love.

She's not sure she remembers what love feels like.

But, whatever the feeling is, she likes it.

*****

One evening she awakens and everything is different. Beside her, he stirs and opens his eyes to find her sitting up and staring across the room. Her heart is pounding and she's nearly hyperventilating. Concerned, he touches her arm and she jerks away, mewling in fear.

"What is it?" he asks, as she scrambles naked from the bed.

"I...I had a dream..."

~~~~~

"It is time."

"She has learned all she can."

"He has done the same."

"Their hearts are open to the possibilities at last."

"Say goodbye, Buffy."

*****

"Goodbye?" he questions harshly, jumping from the bed and grabbing her shoulders. "You're not leaving me!"

Her eyes are wide and blank, and she licks her suddenly dry lips. "This isn't my place. I can feel it, my real place, my real life...pulling at me..."

He shakes her hard, terrified at losing her. "What?"

Suddenly she snaps back and almost smiles at him, raising one hand to caress his cheek. "You're not evil. You've grown past the demon inside you. Show her."

"...What?"

"They tell me I won't remember you, I won't remember this, but...the feelings...the truth...those will remain. It will be the same for you."

"I don't understand," he cries, fear nearly choking him. "I can't lose you."

"You won't," she whispers, as a brilliant light fills the room.

"I love you," is the last thing she hears.

"I forgive you," is the last thing *he* hears.

And reality twists.