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Of Light And Shadow by FetchingMadScientist
 
Living
 
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Quotes taken from, "Lovers' Walk, Once More, With Feeling," and, "Seeing Red." Also, please note, there are many words for "lion" in Swahili, but "Simba" also means "brave person." I thought I'd use it here. Please review.
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Spike watched as the desert sky lightened. The dawn was coming. His freedom was finally at hand; all he had to do was take it. The morning heralded an end to his misery. It promised the nothingness that should have been his long ago.

Maybe now that he understood, he could rest. Perhaps this one last act of penance would quiet the cacophonous din that thrummed in his brain. The nameless faces, all of one accord, demanded this one, final act: Go to Hell…go to hell.

Others had yet to awaken. They could not sense the veil of darkness as it was lifted, but he could. He could sense the earth coming alive, just as it did before he was and as it would do after he was gone.

Spike could feel the day coming. And he knew. He knew he did not belong with the ones in the light. As the light grew brighter and the darkness of night slowly became the pale grey of day, he heaved himself onto his hands and knees. He knew what he had to do. The salt that his lifeless body did not need spilled out onto the sand for her, and for the litany of others that demanded recompense. His body was wracked with pain and his spirit with the guilt of centuries of bloodshed, but he knew, as he plodded forward torturously, he was strong enough to give the tormented souls that cried out for his destruction some kind of peace.

The light would provide that. It would be his salvation. Perhaps he could rest. Perhaps he would find peace in the light.

He struggled to keep his eyes open as he crawled toward the dawn. He may be a monster, but in this last act he would not be a coward. He would face what awaited him with his eyes open. He would face his end like a man, even if he were not one.

As he struggled forward, out of the murkiness that surround him, the brightness overtook his vision. One voice raised itself above the demanding babel that ricocheted inside his skull. It started off like all the others. It was so painful. More than the rest, he wanted that voice to stop. He would do anything, including this, to make that voice stop.

His body shook with the effort and the pain of this. His mind was overwhelmed with the sound of their screams and with the horror of what he had done, and what he was about to do. But, even as he feared it, he knew his final rest was within reach. Even as caustic tears flowed, unable to purge the pain of the ethereal punishment he’d sought, he forced his body forward.

He knew that he would go to Hell, but at least it would be an end. There had to be an end to it.

This was what she wanted. He’d seen it in her eyes that night. She’d wanted an end to the pain and an end to him.

He could deny her nothing. He would not cower, would not flinch. This was the way to make it right. And, it was his to give. It was the only thing he could give.

If his end is what she needed, then he must oblige.

“Spike…please stop. Don’t do this, Spike. Please, stop.”

It became a deafening roar. He saw her eyes. He could still feel her and the way she wriggled under his grasp. He could still see the tears. In her eyes there was anger and fear, but there was a hope as well. A hope that he would realize what he was doing, and stop before it was too late. A hope that he had been too despondent to see, until now, “Please Spike…don’t do this! Don’t!”

But how could he be worth even an iota of pity. He was nothing.

Please Buffy, let me do this. Let me be a man. No one will miss me. Everything I was is gone. I’m a monster. I can’t be allowed to exist.

It was so close now. On his knees in the sand, his body was riddled with so much pain that the only way out was the light. He raised his head and saw the light that would end him creeping closer. He could feel the heat, and he began to wonder, as his fingers edged along the shadow that was rapidly dissipating with the day, what would his last thought be?

Would…could the angels, and his Mother…could they forgive him for all that he had done?

On the heels of that blasphemous notion, her voice sounded above the others, “You’re not famous for keeping your promises, Spike.”

I know that! Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I’m trying? I promised not to hurt you. But I’ll make it right. Just let me do this. Please?


It was then that he remembered. Like a flash and a rush, he remembered.

The weight of his failure forced him back into the shadows. He wasn’t a coward.

If this was what she needed, this was what he would give. He didn’t want mercy. That, he did not deserve.

Her words still rang in his head, ”The hardest thing in this world, is to live in it.” Then his own words to her, resounding from deep within him, “The pain that you feel-you only can heal-by living. You have to go on living.”

Even as his soul cried out and told him what a filthy thing he was, he would not flinch or look away. He would go on, for her.

As the full light of day shone down, he retreated into the shadows and wept. He wept for what he had become and he wept for her.

He wept for the lost souls that he hoped would find some peace.
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SUNNYDALE, CALIFORNIA-RESTFIELD CEMETERY

Buffy sighed deeply as she slowly got up from her knees and brushed the newly turned earth from her clothes. Her eyes still couldn’t focus on his name. She still couldn’t believe what Willow had done.

She kept her eyes down. The familiar, friendly tone of her voice was forced. It hurt when she tried to speak. She supposed it always would, “Well Xand, got to go. No rest for the wicked, you know. I still have to check on a few things. I’ll be by again tomorrow night, okay?”

Having made her rounds, she walked the short distance to Spike’s crypt.
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Buffy wasn’t sure why seeing Clem answer her knock, rather than Spike, still surprised her and gave her a funny feeling down in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t fear. She wasn’t afraid of Clem. In fact, she kind of liked him. Clem reminded her of a Sharpei. Granted, this Sharpei was a demon, but he was kind of cute.

So, why did it bother her to see him at this particular crypt? Perhaps, because he wasn’t…Spike.

“Hi Clem,” she said breezily, trying to mask the queasiness she felt, “had any news?”

He shook his head, “No. And, I’m starting to worry.”

Buffy hissed a breath in and winced, “Yeah,” she confessed, “me too.”
***************************************

LONDON, ENGLAND

Quentin Travers smiled at the news, “Thank you, Cheryl. That is most helpful, and most…informative.”

He looked up at the expectant eyes that gazed at him from across the desk, “Well, Lydia, it’s been confirmed. Rupert Giles has indeed boarded a flight bound for Kenya. The Council would expect you to follow. Your interest in this subject may prove useful. It must be taken,” he nodded slightly, to be certain she understood his meaning, “intact. Do you take my meaning?”

Lydia Chalmers nodded, “Yes. I believe I do, Sir. I will see to it right away. My papers are in order, I trust?” she asked as she turned to leave the office.

“Yes. And, Lydia,” Travers called after her.

She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him, “Yes, Sir?”

“The Council is depending on you.”
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KENYA, AFRICA-

Giles wiped the sweat from his face. The heat was oppressive, and the day had just begun. He silently prayed that Spike hadn’t developed a timid streak, as Angelus had when he was first ensouled, and so he would be easy to track.

He smiled in spite of himself. He sincerely hoped that, if Spike had survived, the soul would not alter him greatly. Because surprisingly, the idea of “William the Bloody” being, in any way faint-hearted was quite disconcerting to his mind.

He was also grateful that the Council’s file had included a photo of Spike, and that most of the people spoke English. His Swahili was atrocious, too long out of the field, he supposed.

Giles knew better than to go through Council contacts. They were not going to tell him what he needed to know. If anything, they would be more of a hindrance than a help.

No, he knew that the locals would be the pipeline that would lead him to Spike.

With this in mind, he began showing the photo to merchants in the shops and bazaars that were off the beaten path. Tourists’ spots would be of no use to him.

Almost immediately, the photo was recognized.

The young man smiled and his eyes flashed when he saw the photo of Spike, “I’m looking for him,” Giles said, encouraged by the boy’s reaction, “Have you seen him?”

Panya nodded. He had heard stories of the weeping man with the lion’s face. He had even explored the caves in the area where his cries could be heard at night. And, although Panya understood English perfectly, he decided to have a little fun with this stranger, “Simba Kilio,” he said.

“Pardon?” Giles knew his years in the States had eroded his language skills, and he cursed himself for the laxity of his training.

The boy just grinned, pointing at the photo, he stated again, “Simba Kilio.” To illustrate his point, the boy uttered a guttural sound.

Giles searched his mind for the words the boy had said, “Ah yes, ‘The Weeping Lion’?” Giles questioned the boy, pointing again to the photo of Spike, “Is this he?”

Panya nodded once again.

“Can you take me to him?” Giles asked slowly, again cursing his lack of skill.

Panya smiled, nodded and said, in perfect English, “Yes.”
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