Spike

"Immortality is so much more than living forever. Nothing's ever for free, Spike. I'm sure you know that. You made the trade—eternal youth for your soul. Me? I didn't get a choice," she whispered as she stared down the alley at nothing. "Immortals are born foundlings. No one knows where they come from or how they came to be, but they've been around for at least 5000 years, if not longer. Once an Immortal 'dies' the first time, their immortality is triggered. From that point on, they don't age, get sick or stay hurt for any length of time. Matter-of-fact, I probably heal faster than you do. The only way Immortals can die is by beheading." She stopped and laughed—her voice cold and harsh with cynicism. "Which wouldn't be such a big deal—I mean how many beheadings do you really hear about? But Immortals can't just let it be—they can sense on one another—different, but like a slayers senses vampires—and this all good and well, because it helps you hunt one another.

"You see—our life-force, not unlike a vampire's demon or a human's soul and blood—can be transferred to another Immortal if they're the ones that do the beheading. It's called a Quickening and within that Quickening lies not only your Quickening, but also every other Immortal's Quickenings that you've killed. And you can't just say—I don't want to fight, because headhunters don't care what you want or don't want. They want your Quickening, because sometime soon, no more Immortals will be born and the winner—or the one that has all the Quickenings of every Immortal born—will win the Prize."

After taking the last hit off my cigarette, I tossed it aside and inwardly sighed. "What prize, love?"

Her laughter bounced off the brick walls of the alley as she turned and faced me. I sucked in an unneeded breath when I saw the manic light reflected off her eyes. "That's the best thing, Spike. No one knows for sure. We just run around cutting one another's heads off—not even knowing for sure if there's going to be a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Hell, it could just as well be madness, with all those personalities scrambling for dominance in your mind and heart. Or it may be the ultimate loneliness, because all of your kind is gone—just leaving a lone Immortal to live out an eternity with no one to share it with. But, legend, make sure you understand I'm stressing the word 'legend'—has it that the winner will not only gain mortality, but the ability to have children and to hear and feel every human's thoughts and feelings in the world. And with that power, he or she could rule the world—either with darkness or with honor."

"Is there any way to avoid the Game?"

She nodded. "There are rules. Holy Ground is sanctuary. It doesn't matter what religion—as along as it's holy. No one that is still alive has dared to break that rule. Rumor has it the last time Immortals fought on Holy Ground, Mt. Vesuvius went up in a plume of smoke. Also, Immortals have to fight one on one. No ganging up—it's not honorable. But other than that, anything goes."

I knew now where that darkness in her eyes came from. "How many Willow?"

Tears flooded her eyes as her chest heaved. "Ten, Spike. Ten…"

I did the only thing I could do; I took her in my arms and held her as she cried for the lost innocence of her soul.

Willow

Even though I knew somewhere inside of me, that he, like Angel, would accept this, to feel his arms around me—holding me, comforting me as I sobbed my eyes out—gave me the absolution I so needed.

Mac never understood why this bothered me so much. Oh sure, he thought he did. He compared my feelings about this to his distaste of killing mortals. Although similar, they were nothing alike.

How could I explain to him that it was much more than just fight or die kind of situation? Before I became Immortal, I faced death countless times and managed to only dust a handful of vampires—despite five years of being a demon hunter.

Five at the most. And they were demons—and yet, late at night, I would lay in bed and think of Jesse and Angel and wonder if I had just killed a possible life or soul. It tore at me—enough so, that at the end, I chose to concentrate my talents in the magic and research areas—desperately trying to remain outside of the fighting.

That's the irony of my first death. I was walking home with Spike and Oz. Oz's van was in the shop and Spike rarely drove his car around town, so after a relaxing evening at the Bronze, Spike was escorting us back to Oz's dorm room—where I had practically moved in to, when we were ambushed. To this day, I don't know why, but I do know, it was that night, that I slayed my fifth vampire. And the possible sixth, yanked the stake out of my hand and in a blink of an eye, had staked me.

I didn't even have a chance to cry out.

The last thing I heard was Oz howling into the night, tears running freely down his face as he held my head in his lap.

The last thing I saw was the light in Spike's eyes, go out.

Sometimes, late at night, I wonder if my punishment for going against my soul was Immortality—because for me, killing another being is just as damning as selling my soul to a demon.

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