Idylls

Idylls
By Melissa (dettiot@yahoo.com)

Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I'm just playing with Joss's toys. But we've all got his permission, so I don't think he's going to come after me for this story.

Written for

thedeadlyhook as part of the William ficathon. The request was for William/Buffy angst with some bittersweet romance, including mentions of Dru, dreams, and William's day job. Hopefully, this story fits the bill, and doesn't seem too much like Buffy interfering in the past or William falling for Buffy at first sight. Enjoy!

Attribution and inspirations to be found in the author's note at the end.

William knew that he must be dreaming. He had never seen a place like this--lush trees and flowering shrubs ringed three sides of the meadow he stood in. A small yet fast-moving river flowed by the edge of the field, and he could even see a castle in the distance.

"What is this place?" he asked out loud, not expecting a response.

"It is a land more real than the one you truly live in."

William whirled around in surprise. He had been alone but a moment ago, but now he was joined by a young lady. He knew that this woman was a stranger to him, yet there was something familiar about her . . .

She was slim and petite, with an etheral air about her. Her long white dress swept the ground, and a belt of rubies encircled her waist. Hair the color of sunshine hung in curls about her shoulders, and a small wreath of flowers sat on the crown of her head. Her beauty was striking, yes, but it was her expression that captured his attention. A smile graced her lips, yet a deep, permanent sadness was easily seen within her eyes.

He suddenly realized that he had been staring, and he began stuttering out some kind of remark. She interrupted him with a smile, saying lightly, "It is usually I who stand silent and staring in the verses. This change is a sweet opportunity for a rest."

William shook his head. "I fear I do not understand you, fair lady, but then, when has a man ever understood a woman, especially a beautiful one?"

As soon as he finished speaking, he felt his eyes widen in surprise. Why could he not call such fancies to his control when in the presence of his angel?

The lady's smile suddenly vanished. "Be wary, noble lord. Vivien approaches, mingling love and fear and hate--she is born from death!" The lady gasped and took a step backwards.

William looked around him, and for a second caught a flash of dark hair and pale skin. Yet when he completed his revolution, he found that just the two of them shared the field. But now, the lady sat on a small stool, looking towards the river. A large shield leaned against her legs, and she was sewing some large piece of cloth.

"Miss . . ." He paused, and finally settled for commonplaces. "What is your name?"

She looked at him solemnly. "The light damages the shield, I must cover it up, or else my lord Lancelot will return and reject me." She bit her lip. "There is no rest for me . . . The curse is come upon me."

William shook his head. "Wait--is this place Camelot?"

Instead of replying, the maiden looked up, and her face was radiant with joy. William turned and saw a male figure behind him, too far away for him to distinguish his features other than he was clothed in black.

Yet the lady knew who he was. She dropped her work and stood up, moving towards the stranger. As she passed him, though, she took his arm, and searched his face for a moment. Then, she sighed deeply. "More I cannot tell you. Remember what I have said about Vivien." She looked at him for a long moment, then said, "I cannot tarry--my barge awaits, for I have left the loom and now must sing my song."

She began moving, not towards the man, but towards the river. She was walking to a small, flat-bottomed boat that was tied to a willow. And as she walked away, he heard her start singing, lifting her thin, high voice.

Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in vain;
And sweet is death who puts an end to pain.
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be.
Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.
O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die.

Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away;
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay;
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

I fain would follow love, if that could be;
I needs must follow death, who calls for me;
Call and I follow, I follow! let me die.

William jerked awake from his strange dream, his eyes wide. After a moment, he relaxed back against the pillows, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "What a strange dream," he said out loud.

Much as he would have preferred ruminating on the meaning of the dream, a glance at the small clock on his nightstand made him realize he had to prepare for the day.

As he washed, shaved, brushed his hair and put on his suit, William wished that he didn't have to go to the bank. It had been his mother's suggestion that he take a position with the Bank of England; she had said she wanted him to have friends, as well as a way to occupy his days. Sadly, neither goal had been fulfilled in the fashion that his mother had hoped for. The other men at the bank were loud and brash, much too boasting for William's comfort. And he often found himself daydreaming at his desk, pondering his latest composition.

William sighed as he went downstairs. A quiet breakfast digesting eggs and today's copy of the Times over, he was on his way to work. The city streets were crowded with working men of all classes, women doing their shopping for the day, and dirty urchins. He moved through the throng, avoiding eye contact as he considered his dream. Soon, he reached Threadneedle Street and entered the bank.

The knot of men clustered near his desk made him pause, but William tried to square his shoulders and move forward. He turned on his lamp, put down his briefcase, and sat down, feeling relieved that he had escaped notice. Then, a beefy hand clapped him on his shoulder.

"So, William, on time for once! Obviously couldn't have been out on the town last night!"

The brassy, commanding voice made him cringe inside. David Howard delighted in mocking him, and everyone knew it. How many times, after being ridiculed, had he later come up with the perfect rebuke, a crushing reply that would put Howard in his place? William had lost count many months ago.

But, since it was expected of him, he just nodded at the other men, and then said, "I spent the evening reading to my mother."

The men grinned broadly, and Howard clapped his hands. "Now, why didn't I think of that? Certainly dear old Mum isn't quite as attractive as other birds, but in the long term, it'd be bound to pay off!"

William tried not to sigh as the other men laughed raucously. Howard hitched his hip up on the edge of William's desk, and leaned towards him. "So, Willie," he said with a leer, "what were you reading to Mum?"

He felt his face flush, but managed to somehow speak without stammering. "Mother wished to hear the poems of Mr. Longfellow."

The other men exchanged looks, and then returned their gazes to Willaim and Howard. William braced himself for Howard's reply, knowing it would probably be utterly humiliating or unspeakably crude. And he wasn't disappointed.

"You know, William, like you I've recently become entranced with rhymes. In fact, I heard the most inspiring couplet the other day--perhaps you've heard of it?" Howard paused, and then with a mocking grin, began to recite. "There once was a lady of Ealing . . ."

William felt his flush deepen, and before Howard could finish the limerick, he jumped from his chair. "You will excuse me, gentlemen--I have to speak with Mr. Hollowell." He quickly hurried away, hearing the catcalls and laughter of the other men.

He felt his shoulders slump as he walked down the hallway, coming to a standstill in a doorway that opened onto the public area of the bank. He sighed as he took in the people in front of him, not one who seemed uncomfortable or out of place. And once again, he felt the burning desire to belong, to be wanted--to be loved.

"William, are you all right?"

William turned his head and saw his father's friend, Mr. Hollowell. Ever since the death of William's father, Mr. Hollowell's loyalty to William's family had been steadfast and true. William knew that it was only through Mr. Hollowell's influence that he retained his position.

"Oh--it is kind of you--things are fine, sir," he managed to say.

Mr. Hollowell smiled. "Good, good. I was curious about your thoughts about this business in Africa, with the Boers--it can only mean conflict."

William nodded. "Unfortunately so, I agree, sir. Human history is full of conflict between conqueror and conquered--it is inevitable that such tension occasionally erupts. I am sure, though, that Mr. Gladstone will lead us effectively in this matter. Yet my hope is for a peaceful resolution; life is too precious to be squandered in squabbles such as those between the Boers and our government."

Mr. Hollowell shook his head. "William, you're a smart young man, but too naive. Aye, but you're young yet!"

William smiled faintly and turned to head back to his desk. But he nearly jumped in surprise as, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of long blonde hair and a white dress. He wheeled about, but if he had seen such a woman, she must have just exited the building.

He shook his head, feeling foolish. For a moment, he had thought . . . no, it was impossible! There was no chance that the dream maiden actually existed.

William returned home after another long, dismal day. The only bright spot had been Fred Browning's reminder of the party being hosted by the Underwoods. He felt his heart speed up at the thought of Cecily Underwood--his goddess, his muse. He had spent the afternoon composing a new poem to her, in fact.

He entered the parlor, bending to kiss his mother on the cheek. "Hello, Mother. Did you have a pleasant day?"

"Very much so, dear," his mother said, looking up from her embroidery. "I hope you can say the same."

He smiled instead of answering, not wanting to distress her with the truth. "I spent it looking forward to this moment."

She laughed and said, "Might you read to me for a few moments before dinner?"

William nodded and picked up one of the many volumes that rested by his chair. Seating himself, he opened the book at random and began reading.

I scorn the doubts and cares that hurt
The world and all its mockeries,
My only care is now to squirt
The ferns among my rockeries.

In early youth and later life
I've seen an up and seen a down,
And now I have a loving wife
To help me peg verbena down.

He read the poem through, his voice stumbling in his excitement. When he reached the end, he couldn't help a happy sigh.

"You enjoyed that poem, son?" his mother asked.

"Oh, yes!" he said, nodding his head. "It reminds me of something I wrote today--" He stopped, realizing that he didn't want to share this poem--this strange feeling--with his mother. But she asked so earnestly for him to read it that he was unable to deny her wish. He pulled the small bit of paper from his pocket, and rose from his chair.

Yet her smell, it doth linger
Painting pictures in my mind.
Her eyes, balls of honey.
Angel's harps her laugh.

Oh, lark! Grant a sign
If crook'd be Cupid's shaft.
Hark, the lark, her name
It hath spake.
"Cecily" it discharges
From twixt its wee beak.

His mother's kind words couldn't convince him of its worth. It was not likely that Cecily returned his affections . . . but he couldn't help hoping. Couldn't help seeking her attention. Perhaps this evening, in fact, he might finally reveal his heart to her . . .

William stepped down from the coach in front of the Underwood home. He straightened his suit, pausing for a moment to gaze up at the house. This edifice sheltered his beloved--how could he not admire and respect such a house? His hand went to his pocket, checking for the paper he had slipped there as he left his house. He should write a poem to Cecily--one full of light and love, something suitable for a maiden of such loveliness.

With a smile, he approached the stairs to the front door. Out of habit, he glanced up and down the sidewalk, then paused in disbelief as he saw the profile of his dream maiden at the far end of the street. For a split second, he considered whether he should chase after her. But before he could decide, she vanished amongst a crowd turning down the cross street.

William stood looking down the street, knowing he must appear deprived of his wits. Yet he didn't understand why he kept seeing her. What did it mean? He had been inclined to think the dream had been inspired out of some poem he must have read too close to bedtime. But perhaps it wasn't all in his mind . . . perhaps it was some kind of message?

A bump to his shoulder, as a couple walked past him up the stairs, pulled him from his thoughts. William felt a flush of embarrassment, then shook his head and headed into the house. There were butterflies in his stomach, and his hands trembled, and his heart pounded. He had the feeling that his life was going to be changed tonight.

He stumbled down the stairs to the street, his eyes blinded by tears. He couldn't believe that such pain existed. His heart seemed to have stopped beating, and he didn't know if he'd ever be able to recover from this. Cecily thought he was beneath her? Such a simple phrase had completely crushed him. At first, he had felt numb, followed by a sadness that he'd never experienced before. But now that he was out of that stifling, musty house, he felt a bubble of anger pop within him.

He wasn't good enough for her? That might be the case . . . but what right did she have to inflict that knowledge upon him? To use that as a club to destroy his love? What kind of lady did Cecily think she was, when such rudeness was acceptable?

William stomped down the street, before being knocked aside by a large, hulking man, causing him to drop the papers from his hands. All the insults he had taken that day--from Howard at work, from those fools at the party, from Cecily--made him snarl to the brute, "Watch where you're going!"

He scooped up the papers and crossed the street, meaning to walk home. But he stopped short when, only half a block ahead of him, stood the dream girl.

To say he was surprised would be underestimating the depth of his feelings. Here she was, appearing as a column of light in the dark, dirty street. She smiled at him, and gave him a small wave. Not knowing what else to do, he waved back. He looked around, noticing in confusion that no one seemed to see this strange woman. When he looked back at her, she was entering what looked to be a small alley.

Without thinking how insane this was, he started running down the street. He turned into the alley, nearly running into the wall on one side. And he was shocked to find she was still there.

Seeing her there, she was even more beautiful than he had remembered from his dream. Her dress was not the same as in the dream--shorter and more in keeping with current fashions, but also more simple than other ladies' fashions. But her hair was still the same, flowing loose about her. And her eyes were the same.

"I--I dreamed about you," he found himself saying.

She smiled at him. "Me, too. Maybe we're both dreaming now."

"I felt like I kept seeing you all day today. I thought I was imagining it, but now I find myself wondering if perhaps there is some reason for your presence now in my life."

Her smile faded. "Not in this life, actually."

"What?"

She shook her head. "It's nothing." She paused, then stepped closer to him. "You've been crying?"

He stood up straighter, knowing that wiping at the tearstains on his cheeks would make him look even weaker. "It's nothing," he said, echoing her statement.

"It's not nothing!" she exclaimed.

"Miss," he said in exasperation, "today has been full of people trampling on my feelings because they thought it was more important that I know how truly insignificant I am. Please forgive me if I don't want to be reminded of this, especially by one of the most lovely women I've ever seen?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, and then said, "I'm lovely?"

William let out a small groan and took a seat on a crate, not even caring about the breach of etiquette. "Once again, I find myself saying more than I mean."

"I'm sorry for being so pushy," the girl said. "I just hate seeing anyone miserable." She bit her lip and lowered her eyes. "Especially you."

"Me?" he asked in shock. "How do you know me?"

The girl took a deep breath. "It's . . . it's a long story." She sat down on a nearby crate, and clasped her hands in her lap.

She didn't speak, so William tried to make her feel more comfortable with small talk. "You do not seem to be British, miss."

She shook her head. "No, I'm American. From Cali--from the West."

"Indeed?" William asked in interest. "I've heard it's an untamed wilderness. Do you find such to be the case?"

She smiled slightly. "It would seem wild to you, I'm sure, when you live in a city like this. My . . . tutor always said that London was the height of civilization, and from what I've seen, I can see what he meant."

William reflected for a moment. "True, London is a great city. But I do not know if it is any more civilized than your home. Sometimes, it seems like even the mightiest of empires is peopled with savages and the uncouth."

She looked thoughtful, and then smiled. "That's true, I guess."

Encouraged by her smile, William tried to continue entertaining her for as long as she was willing to stay and listen to him talk. "So what would a lovely girl from the untamed West of America be called?"

She wrinkled her nose. "You'll laugh. Or think I'm strange."

"Not at all!" he said quickly. "A gentleman would never do such things. And, although it doesn't mean much in this day and age, William Ashbury-Smythe is a gentleman."

"Well, you've certainly got a gentleman's name," she said, but she seemed a touch distracted. William felt his heart sink slightly. At first, his interest in this girl had been stoked by her similiarity to the dream maiden. But he was finding, with each moment that passed, that she was an intriguing contradiction wrapped in a beautiful package. In short, he hated the thought that she was already bored with him, already preparing some kind of excuse to remove herself from his presence.

"Miss?"

"Buffy--my name is Buffy," she said, her words falling over themselves.

"Buffy?" he said, rolling the strange combination of letters around in his mouth. "A unique name for a unique girl."

She let loose with a small giggle, apparently pleased by his reaction. "Thank you, William."

"So!" he said, feeling a rise in his confidence. "You are named Buffy, and I do not think you are strange at all. But I am interested in knowing more of your story, and how you happen to know me in some way."

"Well . . ." she said, taking time to choose her words. "I . . ." She broke off, and then said in sadness, "I don't know how to tell you. I don't think I should tell you." She looked at him with pleading eyes. "Could I please just sit here with you, and talk a bit, and listen? You remind me of someone I lost recently, and . . ." Her voice trailed off, and then she whispered, "I miss him so much--more than anyone knows."

Without thought, he rose and kneeled by Buffy. "Are you sure that is wise?" he found himself asking, even as he touched her hands lightly. "Would it not be a false comfort?"

She shrugged one graceful shoulder. "I'll take the pain."

William looked at her for a long moment, taking in the hunched shoulders, the tear-filled eyes, and remembered the sad girl from his dream. The likeness between the two women--one real, one dream--had never been so apparent. He nodded slowly. "Yes, I believe you have. Far be it from me to deny you some pleasure." He patted her hands, and then resumed his place on his crate.

She sniffed, and then squared her shoulders defiantly. "So, tell me something about yourself. How do you spend your days?"

William started speaking, telling Buffy about his work and his mother. He found himself talking about the books he had read, his worries about his mother's health, his wish for friends. To his surprise, she didn't seem bored. Her opinion of him hadn't changed as she learned more about him. In fact, she seemed truly interested.

She listened attentively, occasionally asking questions but revealing little about herself. He found himself wondering more and more about her as he talked about himself. Finally, he wrapped up his talking, and let silence settle between the two of them.

Buffy sighed. "Thank you, William."

"You're welcome, Buffy." He looked over at her, seeing how she perched on the edge of her seat, her arms by her sides as she stared off into space. "Might you talk a bit about yourself? About anything you'd like to share?"

Buffy turned and smiled at him, and opened her mouth to reply. But then a small noise distracted her. "Oh, that's her!" She jumped up from her seat, turning to him as she did so. "I'm sorry, William--I have to go. I wish I could explain everything to you, but I can't." She started moving away from him, her hair waving behind her like a banner.

"Wait!" he said, rising from his seat. He took two steps after her, but stumbled on a piece of debris. He looked at his feet, and when he looked up, she was gone. He stood in place, feeling completely confused. The interlude with Buffy had distracted him from the events of tonight. But now that she was gone, he was left with unanswered questions and unresolved feelings.

He went back to the crate and slumped down on it. He realized that through his whole conversation with Buffy, he had kept his poem clutched in his hands. With a grimace, he started ripping the paper to shreds.

Suddenly, a woman's voice made him pause in mid-rip. He looked up and beheld an awe-inspiring woman. He felt a fog settle over him at her presence, and he found himself confused by his surroundings and his recent past. He felt a small niggle of confusion as he dazedly thought that there had been another beautiful woman today, very different from this raven-haired beauty. But this dark goddess seemed to obliterate all thought of other women. And her words made her seem even more entrancing.

"And I wonder . . . what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?"

End.

Author's Note

This fic is inspired in part by two authors' works: eurydice72's Legions of True Hearts, who created the idea of Buffy and William meeting in a dream, and ladyanne04's Lancelot and Guinevere, a fic where Buffy and Spike take the roles of the two doomed lovers of Camelot. I hope these authors accept the small tribute that is this fic. Thanks are also owed to cindermom for the great beta job.

The dream features allusions and quotes from Tennyson's poems Merlin and Vivien, Lancelot and Elaine, and The Lady of Shalott.

The limerick that David Howard (another inspiration from Eurydice) recites is well-known, and while I don't know if it's contemporary, it was too good not to use. :-) I first heard it in the movie of Bridget Jones's Diary.

The first poem that William reads to his mother is A Garden Song, by George R. Sims, written in 1879. And of course, the poem that William writes and reads to his mother is from Lies My Parents Told Me, written by David Fury and Drew Goddard.

Thank you for reading! Feedback is greatly appreciated.