When Eternity Lies In The BalanceBy Jericho TGF
Chapter Six
Spike clutched at the shaking earth beneath him and trembled from the force of the storm above.
Look at the bright side, mate. Could be worse, could be sunshine beamin' down on you in a nice, fatal way.
The thought did nothing to ease his mind. In fact, he peered anxiously up at the sky, just to make sure his thoughts hadn't been read as an invitation to up the stakes of the deadly game he was playing with the realm. Spike couldn't bring himself to even think about it as heaven.
Fortunately, the ground beneath him stopped quaking and he was able to finally pull himself to his feet, crouching a bit to stay out of the way of the lightning bolts that were still blazing their righteous fury down on him. He didn't think he had much time before something equally hideous was thrown up in his path.
The skin on his hands, neck, and face burned hotly from the exposure to the steam that was even now reaching out tendrils of scalding menace toward his exposed flesh. If his hands were any indication - he could see they were raw, chapped, and seeping - it was probably a good thing that he couldn't see his face.
Didn't matter though, something told him it would get worse before it got better, a lot worse.
The only way he could see to get out of the harsh terrain he was stuck in was to go over the fissures. It would take too much time and was too risky to try to go around. If the earth started again with the shaking, he might not be so lucky next time and he might fall in. Plus, a moving target was a difficult target to hit, and those lightning bolts were getting closer and closer. He was out of options.
With that bleak thought still knocking around in his noggin, Spike started to move. Really move. He headed in a mostly straight line, leaping fissures and being blistered by their venomous vapor as he went. When a crack was too wide to jump safely he veered off slightly, taking the shortest, yet safest possible route to the other side.
With malicious intent, the storm grew in ferocity, whipping up gales of strong wind and hurling hailstones the size of golf balls down on him and the surrounding area. The hailstones pummeled his body like icy bullets and the wind pushed against him, trying to slow him down. He couldn't let it.
Over the banshee wail of air and the cracks of thunder and the drum roll of hailstones hitting the earth, Spike thought he heard an inhuman howl. A sharp, keening cry of agony rose above the din of heaven's wrath. It took him a few minutes to realize the sound was coming from him.
Borne from the depths of his soulless body, he was screaming out against the furies of fate and circumstance. Bellowing out his pain and his hatred of the job he was doing and the reason he was doing it. As he leapt and swerved and flew and dodged, the sound grew to a mindless snarl. Feral and intense, hot and heavy, it hung in the air around him.
Never ending torment was in that sound, as was the deeply passionate desire for things he could never have. The woman he could never have. Buffy was in that cry.
Billowing out behind him like ink black wings, his leather duster flapped wildly against the monstrous tempest. With his face set in a ghastly grimace, teeth bared and jaws clenched against the pain, he went airborne again. Flying over another fissure like an avenging angel of misery, he landed hard and rolled to absorb the shock to his body.
Going with the momentum, he was back on his feet and running again a mere blink of time after he landed.
Suddenly, silence slammed down on the damaged landscape. At first Spike didn't notice the difference; he was too busy focusing on trying to cut off the sound coming from his own throat. When he finally caught on that he wasn't being pummeled by hailstones or threatened by lightning he jogged to a stop and looked around. The storm was gone. Not receding, not lessening, just gone - as if it never was. A clear, blood red sky was all he could see. Not one single cloud. Behind him, the earth was an unblemished wasteland of hot desert-like compacted sand. The fissures and steam were gone as well.
For some reason, he didn't feel comforted.
"Now, why do I think this may just fall under the category of not boding well for Spike?"
He was under no illusion that he had succeeded in winning against this realm, the prickly 'God's got his eye on you' feeling was still there. And it was stronger than before, driving him quietly and effectively toward the edge of insanity.
Longing to strip the skin from his own body for relief, he knew that whatever was on its way was going to be bad. He didn't bother with arrogance. This was far from over.
Spike figured the brief respite would be better spent on the move.
As he ran, he pictured Buffy in his mind. It comforted him, soothed the prickly feelings under his skin slightly. The fire in her eyes when she got her temper up, the way she'd tilt her head in aggravation with her hands fisted at her hips when he annoyed her. The gentleness in her caress when she brushed her hand over Niblet's hair, the sweetness in her smile when she saw Willow and Tara together or Xander and Anya. It was a sweetness that was tinged with envy, though she'd stake him if she knew he had seen that. And the way she fought. Oh, the way she moved when she fought. That was poetry in motion. Pure unadulterated poetry.
Fluidity and grace hid the steel beneath the petite frame but nothing could hide it from Spike. He had seen it, had been on the receiving end of it more times than he'd like to remember, and it was one of the things he admired most about her. Because the steel didn't make her hard and the grace didn't make her soft. It was balance and it was beautiful. It was Buffy.
Spike didn't notice, but his game face had melted away for the first time since entering the realm as he ran, as he thought about the Slayer, as he smiled at his thoughts.
He was actually surprised when he got to the base of the mountain. It had looked much farther away while he was approaching but suddenly it was looming above him. Except there was one tiny problem. It wasn't a mountain, at least not in the classic sense of the word. It was a tremendous pile of shale - loose rock - sharp shards of ton upon ton of the stuff.
His mouth opened slightly and he cursed under his breath. This was going to be a bitch to climb and he knew it. Looking up to the top of the pile, he figured it was a good thousand feet high. Not large by mountain standards, little more than a hill, really, but there would be no firm ground under his feet. And even vampires had limits to their endurance. He cursed again. Someone certainly wasn't making this little trek any easier, that's for sure.
Sighing deeply for emotions sake he muttered, "It's not likely to be gettin' any smaller with you standin' at the bottom of it, you sod. Go on, up and over."
Because of the steep slope, he had to use his hands and his feet to scramble up the surface. After less than a hundred feet, his hands - already damaged earlier - were cut and bleeding badly. His grip grew slippery and less secure. The muscles in his legs, fighting doubly hard against the soft surface, started to complain at the workout they were getting but he didn't stop. He pushed on.
Every once and a while he would slide backwards a little, and he snarled each time in annoyance. Like trying to climb out of bloody quicksand.
He kept the picture of Buffy in his head. It wouldn't let him stop. He had to get to her. She had to go back. He knew he wasn't going to be leaving this realm, and if Buffy didn't go back, there would be no one to protect Dawn. No way was he going to let that happen, even if he had to kick that firm bottom of hers out of there himself.
The nearly vertical, torturous climb stretched on.
Almost three quarters of the way to the top, Spike had to rest. His legs were no longer complaining, they were screaming at him. And his poor hands were sliced to ribbons. Sitting gingerly on one of the rare level spots, he checked out the damage to his digits. He used the corner of his shirt to gently pat them dry. He didn't want to risk giving in to his nature in this realm. Licking the blood off probably wouldn't be the brightest of ideas.
He was relieved to see the damage wasn't as bad as he thought. Mostly superficial with only a few deep gouges, it was the pain that was the worst of it. They'd heal. Well, they would if he had time for them to heal, anyway.
Leaning back against the shale, staring out into the great expanse of tortured earth, he wondered what the realm would throw up at him next. He shouldn't have.
Spike didn't notice it at first but it didn't really matter. It noticed him.
Staring off to the right, Spike scratched at his prickly skin unconsciously. Whatever was affecting him was growing stronger, but he just didn't have the energy to continue on quite yet. He leaned over and picked up a piece of shale and sent it skipping down the side of the mountain. When he bent to pick up another, he noticed the piece he was reaching for was vibrating slightly against the others. He frowned, not quite getting why it would be doing that. It wasn't another earthquake, Spike didn't feel any vibrations coming from below, and on the pile he was sitting on, he would.
He spun around and looked up at the top of the peak...and breathed a real sigh of relief. Not a rockslide. That would be tops on his list of things not to go through today. So, no earthquake, no rockslide...what then?
He scanned the horizon from right to left. When he focused his re-emerged game-faced eyesight across the mountain range of stones off to his left he almost fell off his perch in shock.
"Oh, BLOODY HELL!"
Unlike the other things he'd faced since entering this realm, there was nothing even remotely natural about what he saw. Suddenly, whether or not he had the energy to continue mattered not in the least. Spike leapt to his feet and started dragging himself frantically up the last distance to the top.
Quickly gaining on his position was a shimmering wall of some kind of energy that stretched from the ground to the sky, and it was, well, bulldozing might be the best way to describe it, its way through each and every pile of stone on his left and heading his way. As it came in contact with the large piles, they virtually exploded, sending razor-sharp, deadly stone projectiles in every direction.
Spike reached the peak and gathered his duster around him. If anything could provide some marginal protection against what he was going to do next, it would be the leather.
Too afraid of what was coming to think about the plan he had, he jumped off of the top of the pile of shale and fell. The pitched grade on this side was less severe than the other, so he hit hard about ten feet from the top. Sliding in a free fall, the loose stone beneath him gathered momentum as he slid and he hurtled to the bottom of the hill.
The last thing he remembered was thinking he just might make it before he was hit with the pyroclastic blast from the displaced air. Unlike the hailstones, the flying shale missile's that were caught up in the blast of pressure didn't just pummel him, they sliced into him, embedding themselves into his skin in several places.
Spike howled briefly in pain and then, blessedly, felt nothing. Everything went black. He lost consciousness just as the bulldozer of shimmering energy blasted apart the hill he was on.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"Got anything yet, Willow?" Dawn asked, as she pushed open the door to the Magic Box and moved to toss her book bag on the table.
For a full week it was the same question every time.
For a full week she got the same answer from the redheaded witch. "Not yet, Dawnie, but we're still working on it."
Dawn's quest to find and return Spike had become a haunting obsession, invading her dreams and lurking in the back of her mind - whispering to her - all day. Not that she had slipped on her schoolwork. If anything, it had improved. As had her attendance, Giles had seen to that.
The Watcher's council had worked their own brand of Gestapo-esque magic on the US government and plowed through a surprisingly large amount of red tape like a hot knife through butter to acquire citizenship for Giles. They had gotten the news just two days ago.
Yesterday the gang had celebrated the official custodial rights of one Rupert Giles over one Dawn Summers. The gang had pitched in to get a rather ostentatious bundle of balloons for the Watcher, several of which proclaimed to God and everyone, "It's a Girl!"
Even Giles managed to find the amusement in that.
"Any homework today, Dawn?" Giles asked as he came out from the stockroom with a box of inventory in his hands.
"Of course," Dawn rolled her eyes at Tara. Giles was great, but he was a stickler for all things studious. And as much as she groused, she didn't really mind. He loved her and that was his rather staunchly British way of showing it. But she wouldn't be a teenager if she didn't complain and generally work to make his life as frantic as possible. She may have found a new maturity and purpose, but some things NEVER change.
"My English teacher, who I am convinced is a escaped Nazi war criminal - we should really investigate her - decided we weren't fully appreciating 'To Kill A Mockingbird', so we have to write a 500 word essay that summarizes its main theme." Dawn turned dramatically tragic, pleading eyes to Willow, who grinned at the teen's ploy. "Willow, tell me you've read the book and will help me!"
Giles just shook his head at the girl, happy to see that she was showing signs of bouncing back from the tragedy ten days ago. Now, if he could just get her mind off Spike.
Giles hadn't discussed his theory with anyone, but he was afraid that Dawn was transferring the loss of her sister onto the missing vampire, and if she didn't let it go - or Spike wasn't returned - it would destroy her.
"Hey, guys," Tara's voice pulled Giles' thoughts away from his ward. "I think I may have found another one."
At Dawn's insistence, the witches had been pouring through the extremely extensive collection of Giles' spell books, trying out each and every locater spell they found in case it got them further than they had before. So far, they always ended up at the same spot, the spot that Spike's energy trail, or aura trail, whatever you want to call it, just cut off.
Now they had one more to try. As soon as Dawn heard Tara, she dropped the teen angst routine like a bad habit and put on her 'all work, no play' face. As quick as turning on a light, the aggrieved schoolgirl was gone and in her place, a determined young woman.
"Right. Tara, you get the supplies. I'll help Willow set up in the back room. When that's done, I'll hang out here and start on my paper. Let me know what you find out."
Willow, still not used to seeing the transformation from carefree teen to intense leader in Dawn - in Buffy, sure, but in Dawn? - reached out and touched Dawn's hand with a supportive squeeze. "We will. You'll be the first to know...well, okay, small fib. We'll be the first to know, but you will definitely be second."
Dawn grinned and led the way into the back room to set up the circle her friends would need.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"Ow, Christ that hurts!"
Spike tried to move but his body protested violently. He opened his eyes and stared at the sky, it had changed. No longer the angry blood red color, it was more of a dark maroon. Of course, it didn't really matter what color it was, it's not like Spike knew if that was an indication night was falling - or even if there was a night in this realm. He couldn't even tell how long he'd been out.
"Well, surprise, surprise," he muttered to himself. "You're still alive, mate. A little less proper than you were before, but you know what they say about beggars. They taste funny and get stuck in your teeth." He tried to laugh at his own sick humor but was seized by a coughing fit. It felt like he swallowed the hill of shale instead of just being ripped apart by it and he was pretty sure several of his ribs were broken.
Very gently, so he didn't hurt something that wouldn't heal so fast, he turned his head to check out the fallout of his plunge and the blast. There was nothing. No scattered stones, no remnants of hills, just barren, dessert-like hard packed earth. Same as the disappearing storm and fissures.
Rolling over slowly, he winced when he felt the bite of several slashes in his side and down his right leg. Cautiously feeling his way down, he gasped as his fingers found the first of what was to be many pieces of shale firmly imbedded in his skin. He plucked them out one by one, biting back the cry of pain that each removal caused. When he was finished, there were about twelve bloody pieces scattered around his body. Solid proof that whatever was playing mountain lion and mouse with him was real. And Spike didn't feel like playing anymore.
He managed to get to his knees and sheer force of will had him tottering on his feet soon after. Bloody, bruised, cut, and exhausted, he staggered on. That soft brush of feeling he had been counting on to lead him to Buffy was still there, and in the growing darkness he headed off to follow his instincts.
Hell, he was too damn stubborn to do anything else.
Spike didn't know how long he stumbled through the darkness. He didn't know how far he had come. What he did know was there was something up ahead of him, he didn't know what exactly, but he was desperately hoping it wasn't going to be another 'bash the Spike' thing.
As he got within feet of it, he could see it was square and hanging a few feet off the ground. No, that's not quite right. It was a sign. It had posts sticking into the hard surface of earth. Shuffling forward, curiosity getting the better of him, he tried to see what it said.
It was out of place. Since entering the realm he'd seen absolutely no evidence of any inhabitants, but signs weren't put up where no one would see it. That didn't make sense.
When he finally got close enough to make out the writing Spike just stared in dazed amazement. "You have got to be kiddin' me."
No way. No bloody way.
He called out in anger to whatever was responsible for the ever-present feeling of eyes on him. "What's this all about, eh? This some kind of soddin' joke?! Oh yeah, mate, you're real funny, ya know?"
And suddenly, everything he had been through since he got dragged down into this twisted version of Alice's rabbit hole in the sharp, talon-tipped grasp of the Dialetylth DID seem funny. Very funny. Riotously funny. Spike started laughing and he honestly had no idea if he could stop. He sunk to his knees and gripped his sides, practically howling in amusement and giving in to what was fast becoming hysteria.
And every time he started to calm down, he peeked at the sign and it started all over again.
So, Spike, here you are. Workin' on savin' the world...again. What's this, the second? Nope - the third time. That's got to be some bleedin' record for a soulless vampire, ya know? Maybe you should tell the little chippy to let Guinness know when all's said and done. Wonder how 'William the Bloody' would look in that damn book. Or maybe just 'Spike' - well, we'll just let the girl decide for herself. Then again, maybe not. Wouldn't want it to read 'William the Bloody pain in the ass' now, would we? Nope, that wouldn't do at all.
His thoughts did nothing to settle him down. It was all just so tragically amusing. Except for this time, this time to save the world he had to take away something precious and well deserved from the woman he loved more than he loved his own undead life. He had to send her back to the fray. But why?
Why was he here? Why should he force Buffy to give up her peace? Spike had seen what would happen without the Chosen One, but so what? He'd die? Well, it wasn't like he was going to be getting out of heaven in one undead piece, the Oracles had been bloody well clear on that. And if he wasn't going to be there anyway, what did he care if the world and all of its inhabitants - who he couldn't even feed off of anymore, by the way - went straight to the fiery gates of Hell?
Well, there was Dawn. She was one reason. And, if Spike was really honest to himself, there were also the merry misfits. They were another reason. But they only count as one! I'm not givin' 'em each a reason of their own!
Strangly, though, those reasons hadn't been why he chose to do this unthinkable thing. He hadn't really been thinking of Dawn, or of the Slayerettes, when he had seen the pit of carnage that the world would become.
With a flash of insight he finally put his finger on it. And suddenly there was nothing amusing about any of this any more. Spike knew why he was here. He remembered why he had said he'd follow through with this abomination.
Because it was the right thing to do.
He got up off his knees and stared at the sign, head tilted slightly and one eyebrow lifted. No. There was no funny to be had. With a cold purpose, he stepped up to the sign and kicked at the posts to loosen them from the ground, then bent down and pulled.
It didn't take much. When he had the sign in his hands, he raised it over his head and yelled at the eyes under his skin. "I'm doin' what I bloody well have to do! I'm doin' the right thing for the right bloody reasons! This isn't what I want, ya know? I don't want to take her from here any more than you want to let her go! There's no other way! I have no choice! And neither do you! You know why? Because if you don't let her go, don't let me get to her and let her make her choice, then this is the only realm every soul left on that miserable rock will have to find any peace at all. And they will all die gettin' here!"
With a frustrated grunt of effort, Spike threw the sign away from him, then headed on in the direction he now knew Buffy to be.
The sign landed with a slap and a thud several feet away from the retreating back of the vampire. Despite the unbroken darkness, the letters were lit with a ghostly luminescence for brief seconds before fading out. Just long enough for the casual observer to see what was written there, what had set Spike off on his fit of hysterics and self-discovery.
'Welcome to Sunnydale'