AUTHOR'S NOTE: The feature film "The Ghost and the Darkness" mentioned here. The film is based on actual events that happened in Tsavo, Africa at the turn of the 20th century. Thought I'd have a little fun with it. Also, a scene from the "Buffy" episode "Dead Things" is mentioned. I think you'll know which one.
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LONDON, ENGLAND-

Quentin Travers sighed in frustration. The Scrolls of the Unhesines were crucial to staving off oblivion, and a team of linguists had been working around the clock for eight years to translate them and had only managed to decipher a tenth of the text.

At this pace, all of existence could be in the midst of an avoidable fate, made unavoidable because the people given the duties to protect the world from the unknown had been less than vigilant.

Quentin set his eyeglasses atop the scrolls and sighed. He tried to knead the knotted muscles in his neck, trying to force the tension out with his fingers. He knew the reason he was tense. He was tense because he was closing in on his target.

He knew Lydia was lying to him when she told him she did not know the whereabouts of “William the Bloody.” He was expecting her to. It was of no consequence.

There were other avenues that led to the information, and the outcome, desired.

Quentin was shaken from his musings when the telephone rang.

He carefully set aside the scrolls, putting them, temporarily, in a drawer of his office desk and then locking the drawer with the only key, and answered the telephone, “Quentin Travers,” he identified himself.

As he listened to the voice on the other end of the wire, a slow smile of satisfaction crossed his lips, “I see. No, the boy’s curiosity can be worked to our advantage,” he shook his head, obviously displeased by what he was hearing, “No. Patience is what’s needed here,” he said, “If you move in haste, all could be lost. You’ll know when the time is right. Keep me apprised of the situation,” he listened and nodded, “Yes, and tell me if anything changes. Thank you. Your report has been very informative.”
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KENYA, AFRICA-

“Buffy, please…I didn’t…know…no. Please…no…Buffy…please…no…Buffy…don’t…God…I didn’t…don’t.”

Panya was concerned by what he was hearing. Whatever it was Simba was reliving in the night, it must have been a horrible experience.

He looked at his friend, as he slept on the cool sand floor, and noticed the gauntness of him. He was very concerned that Simba wouldn’t be strong enough for what may come if he did not eat. Carefully going over the rations he’d left them, he should have been surprised by what he saw, but he was not. Simba was strong willed, this he knew.

He’d prepared the box himself, and although he was not surprised when the supply of plasma had not been depleted at all in the two days since he had left it, he was troubled by it.

Panya picked up one of the still untouched pouches of blood, and walked over to where Simba lie, sat on his haunches, patted his shoulder through the thin cotton blanket he had drawn around him, and said softly, “Simba, la tafadhali.”

His only response was to grumble in displeasure and turn away from the annoyance, “Don’t think so, Mouse. Leave me be.”

Panya shook his head, undaunted, “Chopa tafadhali?” he asked, this time tugging at the blanket Spike was using as a shield against the world.

The insistent, pleading tone in the boy’s voice tugged at his soul even more incessantly then the boy could ever hope to pull at the blanket that shrouded him. It made him cringe as he tried to ignore the boy’s pleas. Oh Mouse, do you know what you’re doing to me? How do you do it? The soul’s pulling me in a thousand different directions. I’m its slave. It’s tearing me apart. How do you do it, day after day? It’s so heavy.

Spike rolled over and sighed. The concerned look on the boy’s face melted what little resolve he had. And even though the very sight of the vital fluid made his stomach turn inside out, he reluctantly took the nourishment offered him. That’s how he had to think of it now, as nourishment. If he thought of it as blood, he would begin to wonder what had given its life so that he could continue. And, that was something he didn’t want to think about.

His own sins were heavy enough; he did not need the extra burden of the sins of others.

Avoiding Panya’s concerned gaze, he sighed. It took so much of his energy to respond. So much, and he was too exhausted. Even forming words was an incredible feat, “Ebee,” he murmured.

“No!” the vehemence of Panya’s reply forced Spike to look up into the young man’s eyes. What he saw was a strange mix of sadness and indignation, “You, my friend,” his voice calmed a little, “…Simba, you are not a slave. Do not answer as one.”

Spike blinked. That confident tone in his voice, the strength of it, buoyed him and made him smile. Small mercies. At least I’m sure of you. You are the only thing that makes any sense these days. “You’re right. Thank you, Mouse,” he said as he pulled himself to a sitting position, leaning wearily against the ancient stone wall.

Panya smiled warmly, “You are very welcome.”

Trying to distract Panya as he tore at the baggie’s corner, Spike asked him, “How old are you, Mouse?”

Spike almost laughed when he saw Panya’s chest puff out a little, and his eyes light up. He seems so light and unencumbered. Not brought down yet. Not old, and that’s good. Was this what Buffy looked like before Hellmouths and vampires? Before…me?

“I am fifteen, Simba,” he said proudly.

Spike raised an eyebrow, “Fifteen. That makes you a man then, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Panya said firmly, “it does.”

Spike’s eyes were downcast as he whispered, “You’ve seen things? Things that…could frighten a child?”

Panya inclined his head, studying his friend carefully, then his face softened as he realized what he was being asked. Smiling, he said gently, and with an affection that only someone young could muster, “Simba,” he said, as he looked into eyes that were as clear as the morning sky, “You will not frighten me. I know what you are.”

Spike smiled a little at that, “Do you, now?”

Panya nodded, confident, “Yes. I know you are marehemu.”

Spike could feel an unreasonable dread begin to come into his heart. He tried to shake it off, “Still…that doesn’t mean you…”

“You were overcome by it when I first discovered you here. Do you not remember?”

His heart seized. It would explain things. The almost docile acceptance of…God, “Mouse…turn your head for me, would you?”

He did so, without complaint. And, that only worried Spike more. He first turned his head to one side, then slowly to the other. Spike looked closely, but there were no marks.

Spike closed his eyes and sighed with relief. He hadn’t hurt him, “Then why?”

Panya smiled. There was the glint of secret discovery in his eyes as he said, “You are marehemu, that is true. But you are also, ‘Giza.’”

Spike’s eyes widened in appreciation. “The Darkness.” It’s been over a century since I’ve heard that title, “So, I’ve stumbled across a history scholar, have I?” Spike’s voice took on a whimsical air, “ ‘Njozi,’ she was a bit upset; especially after the film came out. Lions took all the glory, she said,” his voice lost all its joyful, nostalgic tone and he shook his head in sadness, “Poor beasts. Dru and I did more damage here than those lions, and they got the blame. Why? Because, they were an easy explanation for what was happening. Even though the people knew that lions, even diseased ones, don’t behave in that way, they still hunted them down and killed them because they took advantage of a ready food source. They were just making use of the carrion we left behind, of our castoffs!” he didn’t know how it was possible, but something in him felt pain. A pain he’d never had before, and never considered having, “They killed the lions because they were different. Because they behaved outside the norm…”

His voice stopped. He stopped thinking. He knew he had to stop this train of thought before it ran him over. Before it demolished him. If he thought any more on this, it would lead to a place he did not want to go, so he stopped thinking.

Panya saw the stricken look in his friend’s eye, and placed a hand on the vampire’s knee, in a show of support, “You are not that creature now, Simba. I am not frightened.”

Spike’s brows knitted together as he whispered to himself, “Well, I am,” his eyes narrowed at Panya, “Maybe you should be too,” he said, his voice giving a hint of warning to the boy.

Panya nodded, “I am not afraid,” he said again, “But I have a respect for you. As I am certain that you have a respect for me.”

Spike nodded gratefully, “Smart lad,” he looked at Panya skeptically, “You’re sure?”

The young man nodded slowly, his eyes widening in rapt fascination as he watched a man become a demon.
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The eight and a half hour flight from England had given Buffy time to think. There really wasn’t anything else to do.

She thought about so many things. Things she had never thought about before. Giles would be proud of her. She thought about what it would take to make a demon, who was quite happy to be a demon, want to change everything he was.

Could it be because of love? No. No, that wasn’t possible. Or was it? Hadn’t Drusilla said that demons could love? Didn’t Spike prove that, first with Dru, and then with…me?

If that was true, then why had Angel been so cruel to me? Why did he leave?

And why did Spike stay even after…he didn’t have to? Why was he the only place I felt any warmth at all after I came back? Why did he love me? How could he love me, when I was so cruel?

And, she could be so cruel, sadistic in fact.

This last year, she’d wanted everything, and everyone in her world to suffer the kind of pain she felt after Willow brought her back, after she’d been taken from the only peace she knew she’d ever know.

Spike is a demon. He revels in misery. He enjoys it. He can’t be happy if I’m in pain. I have to make him hurt. I have to make him cry. We’re not the same. I have to make him cry.

That’s how she thought at the time. Now, as she thought of the one, and only, time she had seen him cry because of what she’d done, she could remember feeling a sense of power. And the power made her hurt a little less.

Remembering it now though, that is what made her cry:

She could feel him trembling beneath her, and that was good. She wanted him to tremble.

“Buffy, please Love, you don’t need to…I love you.”

She heard him make the declaration, but she didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to hear him talk, “I said shut up,” she hissed, pressing her body and her stake, closer to his chest.

Spike let out an involuntary yelp, and turned his head to the side, away from her gaze, “Buffy, no!” and then surrender, “Buffy please…no.”

From above him, she could see him quaking, struggling to remain quiet and passive under her heat. She could see his throat desperately trying to keep the tears in. He was desperate to do as she asked, desperate to stay quiet and still, desperate to keep the stake from his heart.

It wasn’t working. She could hear the gasps as they strangled in his throat.

He was crying, and it wasn’t from passion. His tears were falling because he feared her.

That was good. He knew his place again, and it made her feel powerful.

Then, she felt powerful. Weakening him to the point where the only thing he could do was cry had helped her claim back some of her power when she’d been powerless against the world of pain she was in. Now though, as she looked back on what she’d done to him, she just felt weak. How could she have been so cruel? Was that even me? She hated herself.

Could it be because of hate? No, that wasn’t hate I saw in his eyes the last time I saw him. That was…oh God…I broke him.

What if he’s too crushed to fix? What if he’s…oh God! I did it. I finally did it.

I killed the “Slayer of Slayers.” I killed Spike.

She searched frantically through the sea of faces in the airport. She had to find Giles. Maybe he would know what happened to Spike.

The more she thought about what could have happened, and if it did, it happened because of me, the tighter her throat became. The more she thought about how much she needed him and how blind she had been, how cruel and unfeeling, the more her eyes stung.

They stung and blurred so much that she barely recognized Giles until he was hugging her.

“Buffy, it’s good to see you,” Giles breathed as he held her in a strong embrace.

Buffy returned the embrace, and felt the fatigue in Giles’s grasp. She pulled back to look at him and was shocked by how old and tired he seemed to be, “Giles,” her eyes searched his face and found only sadness, “what is it? Did you find him?” the alarm she felt in her heart was climbing steadily into her voice the longer he stayed silent before her. And, the look in his eyes told her that something awful, something life altering, had happened to him, and to her.

Giles sighed, his bones finally feeling all that had happened in the past week. With downcast eyes, he murmured, “Yes Buffy, I’ve found him.”

The tone in his voice chilled her through, “Giles…what?”

Giles raised his eyes to hers and hated to see the worry in them. But he was just as worried as she, “Buffy, he’s four hours from here. Someone will take us to him. Transportation has been arranged. I only have one question. Do you want to see him?”

Her heart clenched in her chest, “How can you ask me that? Of course I want to see him. Is he…is he all right?”

“I need to prepare you for what you’re going to see, Buffy.”

Buffy’s tone told Giles to dispense with the preamble, as he felt a firm hand on his elbow, “Okay, enough of this. You said there was a ride?”

He nodded, not the least bit fazed as his Slayer turn him, bodily, toward the airport exit, “Good,” she said, “We’ll talk on the way.”

In the crush of people milling about the airport, neither Giles nor Buffy took notice of the man who cautiously and quietly, followed then out.
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Panya couldn’t help himself. His curiosity got the better of him, “But Simba, why did you do such a thing as this?”

Spike was a bit taken aback by the bluntness of his question, “Kwa bibie,” he said, resigned to the fact that he would always be her slave.

Panya’s eyes glinted triumphantly, “I knew it was for a woman,” his voice held a slight smugness.

The pain he saw in Simba’s eyes as he looked up at him humbled him, “Not just any woman, Mouse. Her. “Miye mtina. Miye hawa ini.”

The truth he saw in Simba’s eyes took his breath away, “Oh, Simba…does she love you as you do her? Are you her heart?”

Spike tried to fight the sadness he felt rising in his chest. The emptiness was almost overwhelming, “No, she can’t,” he whispered, “And, I don’t expect her to. Ever.”

Just then, a small voice came from the mouth of the cave. The words were so softly spoken that Spike almost missed them, as they hid under his sorrowful heart.

The words were small, and filled with so much emotion that he had to see her, “Oh, Spike.”

He looked. Blinked. He knew he was hallucinating. He had to be, because there she stood, the edges of the grotto’s opening framing her. She was a vision.

A vision in leather. His leather coat.

“Slayer,” he breathed.
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