The Prodigal

By Kitt

In a quiet dark corner behind some crates, Spike curled beneath a tattered blanket. It had taken him ten days to walk the nearly one hundred miles from the small village near Lake George, to the outskirts of Kampala. When he had gone in search of his soul, the same journey had been made in a single night, stowed away in the back of a truck. But, for some reason, he had not been able to bring himself to do it again for the trip back. Hiding and stealing a ride would have been wrong. He hadn't felt worthy of help by anyone, and the long hours of walking each night had been beset by the torments of his restored soul.

He had sought it in a desperate, vain attempt to be worthy of Buffy. So that, when he closed his eyes, he could see something other than the disgust on her face, and hear anything other than the words she had told him the last time he had seen her. But now, not only did thoughts of Buffy torture him, every kill he had ever made, every time he had fed, swam back into his memory like a thousand blades to tear at him.

The sun was climbing high in the sky now. He had had little sleep and no peace for ten days, and, as he huddled exhausted beneath his blanket, he would have traded his entire unlife for a few hours of dreamless sleep.

* * * * * *

The dream seemed to start almost simultaneously as Spike closed his eyes. Suddenly he was William again, walking across a smoky, cratered battlefield with his mother by his side. In the distance, he could hear shells falling and screams and, looking over his shoulder, he saw Dru draining a WW1 Tommie.

He felt a tug on his sleeve.

"Honestly William, I do wish you'd pay more attention to what I'm saying," his mother said. "Your head has always been in the clouds."

"Yes mother, I'm sorry," he replied, reflexively.

"You don't belong here," she said. "I don't know what you ever saw in that vile woman. She's quite the lunatic, you know."

Looking over his shoulder again, he saw Dru now dancing with Miss Edith. Faintly, he heard her sing,

"The king of cups, the king of cups, it is his birthday and he shall have his party."

He sighed. No, he didn't belong here. That was his first unforgivable sin, when he had failed that night to return home to his mother. One more tile to add to his mosaic of regret.

"William, you need to go home."

His mother stopped now, and placing a hand on his arm, looked into his eyes.

"You need to go home and be where you are supposed to be. Where you belong. You are going home, aren't you?"

He looked at her, and felt the weight of his failure and guilt bearing down on him once again. Tears began to roll down his face, and he nodded.

"Yes, Mother, I'm finally coming home."

A fresh wind sprang up over the fields, blowing the smoke away from the battlefield. In the far distance, he saw row after row of bloody corpses marching towards him like an army. At their head were the two Slayers he had killed. Sinking to his knees, sobs overtook him.

* * * * * *

Spike's eyes flew open.

Instead of the few minutes it had felt like, he had slept for several hours and now the sun was starting to set. Standing, he stretched his cold limbs and then his neck, listening to the vertebrae pop. He heard his Mother's voice in his head again.

"You need to go home and be where you are supposed to be."

He was supposed to be in his grave, in a cemetery on the outskirts of London, long dead and gone. What was he doing in Africa? This wasn't right. None of the last hundred and twenty-two years had been right. He could never repair the wrongs he had committed, he was dead and evil and unworthy.

For the first time in ten long days, a sense of resolution came over him. He would go back to where he was supposed to be. He would go to his own grave, and wait there for the sun to rise. Then, he could finally be where he belonged.

* * * * * *

As the sun set, Spike got out of the back of a truck and waved his thanks to the driver, who honked and drove off. The trip from Kampala had taken only a few days, far less time than the first leg of his journey. His dream had given him a goal and a purpose; his mind had latched onto it like a terrier with a rat, and would not let it go, compelling him to accept aid for which he was unworthy. The echoes of the past in his memory still haunted him, leaving him sleepless and unable to feed, but now he accepted all this and more, as proper penance for his sins. It would all end soon, he would be where he was supposed to be. This thought ran through his head over and over again, and he took a small cold comfort in it. He wasn't a man, he was a monster; that was an inescapable fact that he could see clearly now.

One last demon to slay for Buffy, and then he could rest.

Spike looked at the church across the road. He hadn't seen it in over a century, but it didn't appear to have changed much. Some of the trees seemed to have moved, and of course there were now houses crowded all around the wall of the cemetery, but the small white church still stood surrounded by graves like congregation. He noticed a sign in front that said St. Wilfrid's, and listed the church service times. Although it was new to him, it looked like it had seen better days. He watched as the doors opened, and saw a few parishioners trickle in, then took a deep breath and started across the street, heading for his grave.

As he mounted the curb in front of the church, a plump, gray-haired vicar came around from the side of the church. Stopping, he stared at Spike for a long moment.

"My word, when was the last time you had a decent meal, son?" he asked.

Spike bobbed his head respectfully, ashamed of his disheveled appearance. Try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to meet the priest's eyes.

" 'Salright, Father, I just came by to pay respects to some relatives."

The priest shook his head.

"Nonsense, you look like you've come a long way. Your grandmother will still be there later, young man. Come into the church. Evening services are always short, and afterwards my wife will have a nice hot supper waiting in the rectory."

Spike started to shake his head, but the priest ignored him.

"Now, I won't take no for an answer. Besides, you'll be doing me a favour. I can't resist my wife's steak and kidney pie, and the doctor seems to think I should eat less. Come on, you'll be saving me from myself."

He extended his hand to Spike, a grin on his face and a warm twinkle in his eyes.

"First, some food for the soul, and then some for the body, yes?"

Spike sighed, and gazed up at the church doors. The last time he had been to church, it had been this one, a hundred and twenty-two years ago. He closed his eyes and could see his mother sitting beside him dressed in her Sunday best, hear her voice singing the hymns. Looking to the west, he could see the final brilliant pink of the sunset. There were hours before the sun would rise, and mother had always believed that a journey was best begun from the door of the church. He could almost hear her say,

"Now, William, the nice Father has offered you a meal. It would be rude to refuse him."

Finally Spike met the priest's warm brown eyes,

"Yes sir, that's very kind of you."

The priest smiled again, and patted Spike on the back. Then, guiding him through the doors, he encouraged him to take a seat in one of the pews, then turned to prepare for the service.

Spike sat in the back, trying to put some space between himself and the dozen or so elderly people who had gathered for the service. He saw a middle-aged woman sitting behind the organ, and a few moments later saw her nod at the vicar. As she played the opening bars of the first hymn, Spike stood with the rest of the congregation and sang. It was a familiar hymn, and reminded him of being in this same church as a child, serving at the altar as an acolyte. After his older brother had left for India with the army, his mother had gotten it into her head that he had a religious calling, and had set her heart on her William going into the priesthood. He remembered going to the old vicar, Father Wells, and pleading with him to intervene on his behalf, and the Father gently telling his mother that "if William has a calling, he's a good, sensible boy and will listen. And if he doesn't, then it would be very wrong of us to try and push him into it, now wouldn't it, dear?". Then the good Father had sent him off to Oxford with his best wishes, and a copy of Tennyson's The Holy Grail.

The hymn ended, and he heard the priest begin the service. The correct response came from him automatically, and for a moment he was surprised to realize he still knew it after all this time. Then he heard the Father's next prayer, and his heart sank:

"Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid: Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love thee, and worthily magnify thy holy Name; through Christ our Lord. Amen."

He could hide nothing here; he was an evil monster, unclean, unworthy. He sank back down on the pew, longing for the dawn and an end to it all.

Hanging his head, he let the Gloria, the lessons, and the second hymn washed over him, barely registering in his sadness. Then he heard the vicar say,

"The holy Gospel of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, according to St. Luke."

Spike rose, and paid respectful attention.

"And he said, a man had two sons: and the younger of them said to his father, Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me. And not many days after the younger son gathered all together, and took his into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living. And when he had spent all, there arose a famine in that land; and he began to be in want."

"And when he came to himself, he said, How many servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy servants."

For a moment, Spike remembered what it had felt like just after he had been chipped and was starving. He remembered the desperation that had led him to seek help from the Slayer and her Watcher.

"And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.

The lesson washed over him like a warm wave.

"But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet: and bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry: for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found. And they began to be merry."

Tears began to escape his eyes. He sagged back into the pew and put his head into his hands.

Years later, when asked, all Spike could say for certain was that the sermon was on the text. But that night, as the words of love, compassion and forgiveness poured over him, he felt as though a merciful God had reached down to cradle him, bruised and bleeding, in his gentle hands. He cried silently, harder than he had since the terrible night Buffy had died. He felt his pain begin to seep away, and for the first time since he had fled her house in horror, disgusted with himself, he felt hope.

The sermon ended, and the priest returned to his place beside the altar. The congregation stood, and began to recite the creed.

"We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven an earth, of all that is, seen and unseen."

Again, Spike felt a comforting sense of familiarity. More than a hundred years, and not so much as a syllable had changed. Listening, he realized something else as well. He believed.

"In one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, of one. Being with the Father. Through him all things were made."

Druscilla, death, and over a hundred years living in the shadows, had changed what he believed about himself, but it hadn't had the slightest effect on what he believed about Christ. Spike remained kneeling, silent, and, as the realization of his rediscovered faith reverberated through his restored soul, new sentences pushed through to his consciousness.

"Ye who do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins, and intend to lead a new life, following the commandments of God, and walking from henceforth in his holy ways: Draw near and make your humble confession to Almighty God, devoutly kneeling."

The thought of his sins again bore down upon him. He knew evil intimately, he had lived it. He felt his sins unforgivable, and yet felt compelled to recite the confession, and truly meant every word.

"Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, maker of all things, judge of all men: We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness. We do earnestly repent, and are heartily sorry for these our misdoings; the remembrance of them is grievous unto us, the burden of them is intolerable. Have mercy upon us, most merciful Father; for thy Son our Lord Jesus Christ's sake, forgive us all that is past; and grant that we may ever hereafter serve and please thee in newness of life, to the honor and glory of thy Name; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

As it ended, he began to shake and tears flowed down. His guilt pained him again. He had no right to ask for forgiveness. No penance would be adequate for what he had done, there was no way he could make amends. As despair again threatened to overwhelm him, the priest's absolution suddenly broke over him like the dawn:

"Our heavenly Father, who of his great mercy hath promised forgiveness of sins to all those who with hearty repentance and true faith turn unto him, have mercy upon you, pardon and deliver you from all your sins, confirm and strengthen you in all goodness, and bring you to everlasting life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. Hear the Word of God to all who truly turn to him. Come unto me, all ye that travail and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you. If any man sin, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous; and he is the perfect offering for our sins, and not for ours only, but for the sins of the whole world."

Spike passed the rest of the service in a daze, alternating between intense despair at the thoughts of his past, and an almost ecstatic hope that someone, anyone might forgive him. He had no expectation that Buffy or anyone in Sunnydale might forgive all the evil he had done there. He was convinced that he was unworthy, and that there was no way he could ever be good enough in their eyes. But in the same breath, he was almost giddy with the vision of God's forgiveness, so close that he could smell it. The perfect offering for the sins of the whole world: even for a monster like himself.

He watched the parishioners going forward to take communion, and wished he dared to join them. As the service ended and everyone else filed out of the church, Spike sat, lost in thought. Unnoticed, the priest slid into the pew next to him and, reaching out gently, he touched the vampire on the shoulder. Spike turned to him, his eyes still bright with tears.

"Thank you." The vicar said.

Spike goggled at the older man a moment.

"Oh, forgive me. I never did properly introduce myself, did I? I'm Charles Chandler."

He again extended a hand for Spike to shake, and he stared at it for a minute absolutely bewildered.

"My, I seem to have caught you quite off-guard...." the Reverend Chandler began, but Spike broke in.

"Why are you thanking me? I haven't done anything, nothing good, I'm...evil. But you...here...tonight..."

Spike broke down once again, covering his face with his hands as a fresh wave of tears overcame him. The vicar smiled, and patted him on the back.

"I try hard to say something important every time I preach. Sometimes
it seems as though no one hears what I have to say. But sometimes," he said, looking directly into his eyes, "I score a goal."

Looking down, Spike stared at his own hand, clasped in the priest's.

"I didn't get your name, my son." the vicar said, quietly.

"William."

"Well, William, the wife's waiting. Now, we wouldn't want dinner to get cold, would we?"

They rose, and walked around the church to the rectory behind.

Part 2

When they entered the kitchen of the rectory, a middle-aged, salt-and-pepper haired woman stood glaring at them.

"What took you so long Charles? Eleanor told me about your stray lamb, what are you doing making the poor boy wait for his dinner?"

The warm twinkle in her eye belied her severe manner. She put a hand on her hip and looked him up and down, shaking her head slightly.

"Well, young man, I'm quiet sure your Mother wouldn't have you coming to dinner like that. Come on, we'll get you cleaned up."

Taking him by the shoulder, she almost dragged a bemused Spike down a hall and opened the door to a modest bathroom. Towels were already laid out on the counter.

"Now, young man, you clean up. It looks as though you haven't had a bath in a fortnight."

If he could have, Spike would have blushed. In actual fact, he hadn't had the opportunity to bathe since he left Sunnydale. Now he showered, and, finding a disposable razor, shaved off the stubble that had built up over the past days. Shampooing his hair, he tried to see if his roots were showing, but after a few moments gave up. There was nothing he could do about it anyway.

When he got out of the shower he saw his old clothes were gone, and some others were piled on the closed toilet, with a note attached.

"I've put your things into the washer, these are clean. I hope they fit."

Gratefully, he dressed himself in the white T- shirt, boxers, and soft gray sweatpants. As he pulled the drawstring, he realized how thin he had become, and found himself worrying briefly where he might find some blood. He hoped there was a butcher's shop nearby.

When he returned to the kitchen, he saw that the small table had had three places set on it. Mrs. Chandler was bustling near the sink, and when he entered she turned,

"Oh good. You certainly look better for the wash. Come on and sit down. Charles, dinner!"

She sat, and the vicar quickly joined them at the table.

"Dear lord, for what we are about to receive, we are thankful. Bless this food to our use and us to thy service. Amen," he said.

Spike murmured,

"Amen," and began to eat.

His appetite wasn't good, however, and he only picked at his dinner. He hadn't eaten any actual food since he'd left California. Now he found that it tugged at memories of his human life, and similar meals in a home that wasn't far away. However, dinner passed with polite amounts of light chatter, mostly on the part of Mrs. Chandler. Spike recognized that she was trying to make him comfortable, discussing sports, movies, and other unimportant subjects, and steering the conversation in another direction whenever he seemed uncomfortable. Spike found William's manners slipping on easily, and felt grateful that this woman would extend herself so to make a stranger comfortable.

Then, she fussed at him, clucking like a mother hen and saying,

"Now, young man, I know there's nothing wrong with your dinner, and you look as though you've missed far too many meals of late. What would your Mother say if she saw you like this?"

That hit a nerve. Spike froze, and tightly closed his eyes. What would his Mother say if she knew what had become of him? He had abandoned her, forced her to bury her youngest son, and not until he got his soul, had he ever looked back. The tears began again, and he put his head in his hands.

"Oh, my..." said Mrs. Chandler, rising and gently patting him on the back. "There, there, William. I'm sure your Mother is...very proud of you."

"Would she be? Look at me, look at what I've become, what I've done. I'm a monster, I'm not supposed to be here, I should be dead."

Tears poured from him freely and, after a moment or two, Reverend Chandler took his wife gently by the arm and drew her to the other side of the room. They talked in low whispers for a moment, then Mrs. Chandler left the kitchen and the vicar returned to the table. Sitting down, he rested a hand on Spike's arm and, when he had managed to calm himself enough to meet his gaze, spoke quietly to him.

"You said you were here to pay your respects in the cemetery. Would you care to join me in a walk? We can go see them now if you like."

Spike nodded and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. He hadn't cried this much since last summer. Rising, they walked out the door and started down the path through the cemetery. A minute or so passed, before Reverend Chandler broke the silence of their walk.

"Sometimes, you can't keep something that's bothering you bottled up, no matter how hard you try. Why don't you tell me what's troubling you, William?"

Spike sighed, and tried to think of what to say. He didn't want to lie to this man. Priest or no, he had been kind, and was trying to help. He remembered the last time he had encountered a man of the cloth, when that demon's spell had forced him to sing to Buffy, laying his own heart bare when he knew she wasn't ready to hear what he had to say. `And that went SO well,' he thought sarcastically.

"You wouldn't believe the half of it, Reverend." He said at last.

"Oh, any evening I ask a vampire with a soul into my kitchen for dinner, I expect to have to believe at least two impossible things before I go to bed. But then again, I've never had a vampire with a soul in my kitchen before, so of course I'm speaking theoretically."

Spike stopped dead in his tracks. He was the classic picture of shock, and completely incapable of conscious thought. The sound of crickets echoed through his brain, and he suddenly felt as though he'd just been struck on the head by Buffy, using a two-by-four at full Slayer-strength. Walking on a few more steps, the vicar paused before looking back at him.

"Well, do you have some specific family here in mind, or are we just wandering? I think I can find most of the old family plots, I know most of the prominent names. I've wandered around out here for years, it's very peaceful."

Spike shuddered.

"Beringar." He said

He was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that the priest knew what he was, let alone how or why Father Chandler had accepted the whole matter so calmly. He watched, as the vicar nodded and set off again, this time with more determination in his step. Spike stood a few seconds longer, then collected his scattered wits and followed him.

They stopped at the bottom of a small rise. A large oak tree, with a circular bench surrounding it, stood near a cluster of three graves. Stopping, Reverend Chandler said,

"Here we are, Beringar. Your...?"

"Parents. And my grave, too." Spike said, softly.

He settled down on his haunches, and looked intently at the graves. James Hugh Beringar, Beloved Father and Husband, 1825-1870. Emily Elizabeth Beringar, Beloved Wife and Mother, 1828-1889. And William Ellis Beringar, Beloved Son, 1855-1880.

He stood, inclining his head toward his grave.

"That's where I'm supposed to be."

The Reverand Chandler sat on the bench.

"Hmmm, this is a lovely spot. Quite peaceful. I would think they're very comfortable here. Let me see, you had a sister, didn't you?"

"Vicar, I'm going to give up being surprised by anything you say anymore." Spike said, going over to join him on the bench. "Yeah, Anne. I don't know what happened to her. I never went back after...I was turned."

"She's over there." The vicar said, pointing toward another cluster of graves, not far away. "Married, had children. She was a remarkable woman. She used to come out here three or four times a year and bring all her grandchildren to tend the cemetery."

He smiled,

"She was very active in the church. She always told me that this was her home more than the family house, and that it was always good to come home. So, when Mrs. Chandler and I heard that St. Wilfrid's was in need of a vicar, I thought it would be good to come home and be around the family. Grandmother always did like to have us children around to keep her company."

Glowering at the man in exasperation, Spike stood again,

"All right, that's it! One too many, Vicar. How? How did you know about me? And what in all blazing hell is going on here?"

"I'm a priest. Pays to know the enemy. You were awfully cold that first time I patted you on the back, and you didn't come to communion. The window beside where you were sitting usually shows a reflection, but none was there tonight. The soul was, I admit, an educated guess. I've heard of one other, but last I knew he was in America. You seem to be carrying far too much guilt not to have a soul. And as for Grandmother, well, that was sheer coincidence. I grew up here, and I've come back to get ready to retire. Grandmother did sincerely mourn for you the rest of her days, William. She used to tell stories about you. How you always seemed to be reading."

Shrugging, Spike sat back down.

"I wish I was there, in that grave. Wouldn't hurt so much then."

He sighed, and suddenly, he found the words beginning to tumble out of him. Reverand Chandler listened patiently as the whole story came out, from Cecily's rejection to the night he had sex with Anya. The hours wore on, and Spike found he was surprised when the vicar eventually said,

"I think we better continue this inside, William. It's going to be dawn soon."

Spike stood, and looked into the far distance. The sky was just beginning to lighten. He considered for a moment, then said,

"I came here to do this. I belong here. This is where I'm supposed to be."

He took a few steps, and sat down on his grave.

"What? Come, it'll be light soon, you can't stay out here."

"Yes, I can. This is where I'm supposed to be. I had a dream. Mother told me I needed to come home."

"Heavens." Reverend Chandler said, with a hint of disgust. "Now William, you may think you are supposed to be here, but is this really your home? This Sunnydale, in California, sounds a lot closer to your heart than England."

"Can't go back there. Couldn't face her. It's better this way."

"Now, William, I'm sure that..."

Looking east, he could just see pink beginning on the horizon.

"No."

For the first time, the priest grew flustered. He thought he heard a muttered, "Bollocks!" before Reverend Chandler took a deep breath and said,

"See here, I said it earlier, this grave will still be here tomorrow if you are so determined. But come on to the house with me and let's talk some more. A good nights...days...some sleep will do us both a world of good. You'll think more clearly when you're rested. Besides..."

the priest’s eyes lit up,

"I have some of Grandmama's things at the house. Diaries, pictures - you could take a look at them, see what became of her."

Spike shook his head, and then smiled a little. His nephew was right, his grave would still be here tomorrow. One more day for his sake couldn't hurt.

* * * * * * *

He woke in the dimly lit guestroom several hours later. His dreams had been a strange: depressing and accusatory, interspersed with moments where he was lifted up, cradled in warmth and love. It had not been exactly peaceful, but he had awoken feeling more rested than he had in weeks. Sitting up, he stretched and looked over at the window. Heavy curtains had been drawn across, and thin bars of light shone from between the cracks. Turning to the other side of the bed, he saw a thermos flask and a note on the bedside table;

"I got this from the butcher's. Hope you like beef. C. C."

Spike unscrewed the top, and then began to salivate as the rich odor of fresh blood reached his nostrils. Without thinking, he poured and downed two mugfuls. A rush of power radiated through him, and he sighed with satisfaction, before looking down and realizing what he had just done. He was a vampire. He was evil and unworthy, and immediately he felt his improved mood sinking back to the blackness he had felt ever since he had gotten his soul back.

Resigned, Spike looked around and saw his jeans draped over a chair. Getting dressed, he walked into the bathroom next door and washed his face, before unconsciously standing to look into the mirror over the sink. Another reminder that he wasn't supposed to be there. Shaking his head, he promised himself that today at dawn, he was finally going to go through with his plan. A hundred and twenty-two years was more than enough time. It had to end.

Walking into the kitchen, he found Mrs. Chandler sewing the torn hem of his black T-shirt.

"There you are," she said, "I wondered how long you'd sleep. It was awful of Charles to have kept you up so late last night. Would you like a cup of tea, William?"

"Yes, please," Spike said.

He watched her filling the kettle, and remembered Joyce making cocoa in a similar fashion. The ensuing stab of grief annoyed him. `Bloody wanker I'm becoming,' he thought. `Starting to brood like the Great Poof himself. Time to put a stop to all of this.' Aloud, he asked,

"Where's the Vicar?"

"Oh, he went over to the church to do some work." Mrs. Chandler said, cheerfully, "Tea's almost ready. Would you like to take him some? He said you might want to talk when you got up."

Spike looked around, and saw by the clock that it was late afternoon. He glanced out the window. The path went around the east side of the church, and there were a number of tall trees shading the walkway.

"Yes. That'd be nice."

Five minutes later, with a thermos and two cups in hand, he entered the church. It was empty except for the Reverend Chandler, who was standing at the lectern shuffling some papers. When he saw him, he looked up,

"Ah, William, you look better today. Sleep well?"

"Yes. And no. Been having these dreams ever since..."

"I can understand. You have a lot to work through. You didn't get to finish your story last night as I recall."

The vicar sat on one of the pews, and motioned him over.

"Care to share the tea...and the story?"

Spike stood still for a moment. He looked up at the crucifix above the altar, depicting a risen Christ with outstretched hands, and then back at the Vicar.

"Can I...I mean....Vicar, I need to make a confession."

Nodding mildly, the Reverend Chandler looked back at him. Spike frowned,

"No, you don't understand. I need to make a...a formal confession. I need to get some stuff settled, straighten some stuff out before I go."

The Vicar raised an eyebrow, and then nodded again. As he reached for a prayer book, he said,

"You know, I don't do this very often. Most Anglicans never have been big on formal confession for some reason. Seems to make the Catholics feel a world better though."

Spike thought fleetingly of Dru and her horror stories of before she was turned, and nodded.

"Feels right now though," he said. "Necessary."

Handing him a prayer book open to the appropriate page, the Vicar motioned Spike to sit next to him. He opened a second prayer book, and said,

"We start together, and then you just follow along the text, all right? Here we go."

Together, they recited,

"Have mercy on me, O God, in your great compassion blot out my offences. Wash me through and through from my wickedness, and cleanse me from my sin. For I know my transgressions only too well, and my sin is ever before me. Holy God, Holy and Mighty, Holy Immortal One, have mercy upon us."

Spike continued,

"Pray for me, a sinner."

"May God in his love enlighten your heart, that you may remember in truth all your sins and his unfailing mercy. Amen. Hear the Word of God to all who truly turn to him. If any man sin, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous; and he is the perfect offering for our sins, and not for ours only, but for the sins of the whole world. Now, in the presence of Christ, and of me, his minister, confess your sins with a humble and obedient heart to Almighty God, our Creator and our Redeemer."

Spike closed his eyes, trying to settle his roiling emotions enough so that he could continue. He had never done anything like this before, and it was hard. But he had never felt this broken, this worthless before, not even when he had failed on the tower. The promise of forgiveness, born out of a newly rediscovered faith, was overwhelming.

"Holy God, heavenly Father, you formed me from the dust in your image and likeness, and redeemed me from sin and death by the cross of your Son Jesus Christ. But I have squandered the inheritance of your saints, and have wandered far in a land that is waste."

He paused, then took a deep breath and continued,

"Especially, I confess to you and to the Church... The night after I slept with Anya, I went to Buffy's house. I wanted to apologize. The Bit said I'd hurt her, and I never, never wanted to hurt Buffy. I love Buffy. She was my sunshine. I didn't want to hurt her, but she kept pushing me away and it hurt so much... I tried to talk with her, she wouldn't listen to me, I wasn't listening to her, and...and I..."

Spike choked up, and the tears, which had been threatening since they had begun the confession started to trace paths, down his face.

"I wanted her to see me, to see how much I love her. I wanted to make her love me. I hurt her, I tried to force her, and she pushed me away, I couldn't stand myself after that. Went back to my place, started to drink, but I couldn't get it out of my head, couldn't close my eyes and not see what I had done... Oh, sweet God, I didn't mean it, I hurt her, I'm so sorry..."

His prayer book fell from his hands and he dissolved into tears.

The warmth of Reverend Chandler's hand seeped through Spike's shirt, as he comforted the distraught vampire. After a few moments, his crying slowed, and the vicar said,

"Finish when you're ready."

"Not much left to tell," Spike snuffled. "Knew I couldn't go on like that anymore. Thought that if I could get my soul back, that would make it all right with her. Bollixed that right up. Least I know now why she'll never want to have anything to do with me. Got to make it right, the only way I know how."

Reverend Chandler frowned, then said,

"You're not still thinking..."

" 'S the only thing left for me to do, Vicar. Only way I've got of making it right."

Pursing his lips, the Vicar appeared to be deep in thought for a moment. Then he said,

"Well, for now, let's finish this."

"Right." Spike picked up the book again and read, "Therefore, O Lord, from these and all other sins I cannot now remember, I turn to you in sorrow and repentance. Receive me again into the arms of your mercy, and restore me to the blessed company of your faithful people; through him in whom you have redeemed the world, your Son our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen."

After looking down for a minute more, Reverend Chandler met his gaze with a twinkle in his eye.

"I'm supposed to offer comfort and counsel here. But I'm going to take a leaf out of the Catholic's book, and give you some penance to do. Nothing impossible, don't worry, William. Just what's necessary. You wouldn't be here if you weren't concerned about the prospects for your soul, now, and deliberately walking into the sun is NOT the way to solve your problems. Therefore, William Ellis Beringar, I give you this as an act of penance. You must return to Sunnydale. You say this young woman is the Vampire Slayer? If she feels it is her duty to stake you, that's her decision, but you may not end your own existence. Has it occurred to you that there may be a higher purpose to all this? At any rate, you made a promise to this young woman if I remember correctly, and I think you need to live up to that promise, William. Do I have your word?"

Spike sagged back into the pew and closed his eyes. The priest had trapped him, as surely as if he had used a cross and holy water instead of Spike's own words.

"Yes."

He sighed. He would go home to Sunnydale, and with that thought came a realization. However familiar, this place was no longer his home, Sunnydale was. He wondered if that was what the dream had meant all along.

"Will you turn again to Christ as your Lord?"

Reverend Chandler continued the service

"I will."

"Do you, then, forgive those who have sinned against you?"

Images flashed through Spike's mind: Xander, hitting him; Riley, staking him with a plastic stake; Dru, betraying him with a Chaos Demon; Angelus, beating him. He had forgiven Buffy for everything, even before she landed the first punch. Now he found himself putting aside these things as well. He had carried the hate in his heart long enough, and to simply let go of that burden removed a tremendous weight from his soul.

"I forgive them."

Reverend Chandler laid his hands on Spike's bowed head.

"May Almighty God in mercy receive your confession of sorrow and of faith, strengthen you in all goodness, and by the power of the Holy Spirit keep you in eternal life. Amen. Our Lord Jesus Christ, who offered himself to be sacrificed for us to the Father, and who conferred power on his Church to forgive sins, absolve you through my ministry by the grace of the Holy Spirit, and restore you in the perfect peace of the Church. Amen."

The vicar sat up, and looked Spike in the eye.

"Now there is rejoicing in heaven; for you were lost, and are found; you were dead, and are now alive in Christ Jesus our Lord. Go in peace. The Lord has put away all your sins."

Spike shuddered. Just as had happened the day before, he felt himself suddenly surrounded and cradled with warmth and love. Only this time, he opened himself and felt compassion and forgiveness pour through him, like a balm over his wounded heart. Now he knew where he was supposed to be.

He would go home, to Sunnydale, and to her.

~Fin~

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