Journey to Destiny - Chapter 1
Dec. 4th, 2003 12:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
psubratAuthor: PSUbrat
Rating: PG-13 Some language and violence
Disclaimer and spoiler warning: All characters, except Geoffrey, Garrick and Bronwyn, belong to Joss Whedon and whomever else he sells them to...I’m just borrowing them for a while. This story is based upon the alternate universe I created in Reset.
Summary: Spike begins to deal with the ramifications stemming from completing his trials...
Timeframe: Immediately following "The Journey Begins"
Slowly, and padding softly, one of the villagers entered the cave, a torch lighting her way. She was amazed at the site of the prone figure on the dirt floor. None of them had expected him to last the trials, let alone still be alive after several days without food and water. Quietly, she placed a bowl of fresh fruit on the ground beside him, along with a pouch of water. She knew that once he woke up, once he let his demons pass, he would be thirsty and ravenous. After making sure that he would find their gifts upon wakening, she removed a couple of crude brushes and some ink from her bag and quickly began to draw on the wall, telling the man’s story. It was a story of hope and courage and she had been chosen by the village to relay that message to any who might venture forth in the future seeking the beast. Once she completed her task, she quickly left the cave, leaving her torch behind and never looking back at the man who was still lying motionless on the ground.
Spike heard the woman’s foot falls fade into the distance. Once he was certain she was gone, he allowed himself to writhe in agony, waves of pain crashing over his battered body. Sobs escaped from his dry, cracked lips as the soreness became too much for him to bear. He wasn’t sure if it had been only hours or days that he lay unconscious on the dirt ground, aware only of the pain and the darkness. Death had been elusive no matter how much he had wished for it to come and take him away, away from the guilt that was eating at his being. The pain he could handle, but the guilt; that was a different story, especially since he didn’t know who he was, let alone what he had done to be feeling this way.
Bit by bit he began to return to his senses, not that he wanted to but because his body was screaming out in hunger. Eventually, he mustered the energy to roll himself onto his side, wincing as his ribs yelled in protest of the action. That’s when he saw the bowl of fruit and the pouch of water. Immediately, all thoughts of guilt and pain were swept away by the sight of the nourishment. Greedily, he grabbed the pouch and began taking large gulps of the cool liquid, ignoring the resistance of his throat to swallow it down. He began coughing uncontrollably as his body refused to work the way he demanded it to, his sides and chest throbbing in response. Once the coughing subsided, and he was able to at least wet his lips and mouth, he put the pouch down and reached for the fruit. He wasn’t sure what he was eating, but it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted in his life.
After he had consumed as much of the fruit as his stomach would accept, he struggled into a sitting position. Obviously he could use a bit more time to recover from his wounds but his instincts told him that he needed to leave the cave as soon as possible so that he wouldn’t become demon food. Demon food? Now why would he think...oh, right. The trials. He vaguely remembered something about fighting demons. That should have been a very frightening thought; the existence of demons, but something was very familiar about it. Well, now it was time for fight or flight. He decided to choose flight since he was certain his fighting abilities were a bit sub standard at the moment.
Confident that he could make it out of the cave despite his wounds; he used the walls to steady himself as he tried to stand. Immediately he felt dizzy and nauseous. This was turning into much more of an effort than he originally planned, every part of his body was crying out in agony. What exactly had happened to him?
Before he could answer his own question, he lurched his body forward, trying desperately to make it out of the cave. Something was off. There was something about him that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
"Bloody hell!" He growled, as he tripped over a rock and went sprawling, causing new waves of pain to rush through his body. The more he pushed himself, the weaker he became. Well, one thing was certain, he seemed to be British.
"Gotta keep movin’ or you’ll be tonight’s supper," he whispered to himself as he willed his body to get up again. Finally, his feet started moving as if his brain had finally reconnected to the rest of his body.
"’Bout bloody time you got your wits about you, you stupid git." He paused. Now he was talking to himself? Brilliant...! Nothing better than an amnesiac British bloke yammering to himself. Maybe if he was lucky, someone would call the professionals and he would be whisked off to the asylum. That would be a blessing.
Several minutes later, he rounded a corner and caught sight of the mouth of the cave. Adrenalin pumped through his body, giving him that extra rush to keep moving forward. He stumbled along the last few feet, his body unable to keep its balance, yet he was still determined to push on. Between the adrenaline rush and his desire to get as far away as possible from whatever it was that had done this to him, he wasn’t really paying attention to where he was going. His already aching body was thrown forward with his momentum as he stepped into a deep fissure. He was unable to brace himself in time for the fall and as a result, his head smacked down on the side of a boulder with a sickening thud. Everything went black.
The first thing that he was aware of as he began to flitter back to consciousness was the pounding ache on the left side of head. Without opening his eyes, he tentatively reached up to touch the wound. It felt sticky so it had been bleeding, but it seemed to have stopped for the moment. Great! Just bloody great! If it wasn’t one thing, it was always another. He felt even weaker than before, if that was possible. "Must be a concussion," he muttered to himself, still keeping his eyes tightly shut. The blow to his head certainly hadn’t helped his memories return.
Sighing, he tried to move his body into a more comfortable position until he could muster up the strength to continue yet again. That’s when he noticed it, the warmth. It covered him from head to toe, as if someone had taken pity on him and wrapped him in a warm woolen blanket. It was comforting...soothing, like nothing he had felt in years. As his brain began to process the information, his eyes flew open and he screamed. Scrambling backwards on his hands, he threw himself into the shadows of the cave. Why was he acting this way? He felt delusional.
Standing on wobbly legs and gripping the trunk of a tree for support, he began to take an internal inventory of himself, hoping that it would jog his memory. Other than the bump on his head and the aches and pains throughout his body, his heart was still beating and his lungs were still drawing air, both being of the good, so he had no idea as to why he would be screaming at the touch of the sun. However, something was tugging at the edges of his mind, telling him that he should be frightened for his welfare.
"Do you not like your gift?" A man asked in broken English as he appeared out of nowhere.
Frightened by the man’s sudden appearance, he yelped and stumbled backwards, falling to the ground yet again. "Gift?" He asked, trying to regain his composure.
"Yes. You have been given a tremendous gift, vampire. You are the prophesied one."
"What are you talking about? What prophesy? And why did you call me a vampire?" His mind was reeling. Had the man really just called him a vampire?
"Come," the man said gently, extending his hand to assist Spike to his feet. "I will show you."
"Show me?" He asked, allowing the man to help him to his feet. "Can’t you just paint me a picture, maybe show me a photograph?"
"You have nothing to fear from me, vampire. I am not your enemy but you will soon have many."
For about half an hour, Spike trailed after the mystery man as he wound his way through several groupings of huts in the village, finally coming to a stop outside of a dilapidated building. The man motioned for him to follow as he entered the building, which seemed to serve as some sort of hotel.
"You clean up now. I will come back for you soon."
"I don’t think I follow you, mate," Spike replied, a little confused as to why the man was leaving him off here of all places.
"Go to your room and clean up. Bandage your wounds. I will come back for you shortly."
Spike frowned. "Look, I don’t have a room..."
"Check your pocket."
Reaching into the front pocket of his jeans, his fingers brushed the coolness of metal. A key. Pulling it out of his pocket, he looked at it in awe. Obviously he had been here before. "Right. I’ll just clean up then..." He started softly but heard no answer. Looking around, he noticed that the man had already disappeared. "Bloody hell!"
Looking at the key again, he hoped to find his room number engraved on it. Sure enough, the number was crudely etched into the head of the key. Running his hand though his hair and taking a deep breath, he limped over to the front desk and rang the bell. A young woman stepped out of the back room, eyeing him curiously.
"It’s you," she gasped as she lowered her eyes and tried not to look him in the face again.
"Yeah, it’s me. Would you be a love and send some water and bandages to room," he looked back down at the key to tell her the right number, "three?"
The girl nodded her reply without looking up.
Frowning, he thanked her for her help and then headed to his room.
Silently, he let himself into the room that his key said belonged to him. The room was small and had recently been cleaned; it smelled of vanilla and roses. He ambled over to the bed and sat down on the edge, letting the scents wash over him. The smells triggered images in his mind, of a beautiful, blonde woman. Frustration and then love were the emotions that enveloped his being as he allowed the images to flash through his psyche. However, as he allowed the perfume-like scent to caress his senses, his conscience began to scream out at him, showing him flashes of violence instead.
"My god, what have I done?" He whispered as he buried his face in his hands. The guilt was staggering. He had done something to this woman, the woman he supposedly loved more than life itself. How could he? What kind of man was he?
A knock at the door startled him. It took him a few moments for his mind to swim back to the present before he could answer. "Come in," he croaked as he tried to wipe away the tears that had welled up in his eyes.
The young woman from the front desk shuffled in, carrying a large tray. Quietly, and without ever glancing his way, she set the tray down in the corner and retreated to the hall, closing the door behind her.
She was gone before he could thank her. Slowly he stood and made his way over to the tray. He was pleasantly surprised to see that the girl had included towels and food with the water and bandages. Suddenly feeling the need for a shower, he grabbed the towels and set off in search of the bathroom.
After half an hour in a hot, soothing bath, he returned to his room, a towel wrapped about his waist and his filthy jeans tucked under his arm. He hadn’t thought about a change of clothes before cleaning up, but now he hoped that somewhere in his room, there might be something else for him to wear since the thought of putting the grimy jeans back on his now dirt free body repulsed him. Before he could search the closet for new clothing, he noticed that someone had already done that for him while he had been out.
Quickly he scanned the room to make sure he was alone. It was silent and empty; the only movement came from the curtains in the open widow, fluttering slightly in the breeze. He tossed the dirty jeans into a corner and began to dress in the jeans that had been left on the bed for him. He even found a pair of boots, in his size, placed neatly next to the nightstand.
Walking over to what he assumed was the closet; he opened the door and found a jacket and a few other shirts hanging inside. Were these his things? Nothing looked familiar to him but they were all in his size so either he had brought them here from wherever it was he came from, or someone went out and bought him clothing. Figuring it wasn’t the second option and noticing a bag on the floor of the closet, he guessed that everything must belong to him.
Before he could bend down to pick up the bag, he caught sight of the full-length mirror hanging on the inside of the door. Tilting his head to the side, he took a good look at the image before him. So this was what he looked like? Average height. Thin. Quite handsome despite the bruises to his face and what was this? Bleached blonde hair? Horrified, he reached up and ran his hand through his hair, quirking an eyebrow in response. What kind of ponce was he, dying his hair this ungodly shade of blonde? Silly, really... From this point on, he decided, he would let the blonde grow out. Good thing too, he didn’t want anyone thinking he was some kind of Nancy boy!
After taking one last glance in the mirror, he grabbed one of the shirts, threw it on the bed and then headed towards the tray that the girl had left behind. Grabbing the gauze, tape and the cup of smelly ointment, he walked back over to the mirror so that he could see what he was doing. He decided to let the head wound go since he had cleaned it thoroughly in the bath, plus it was no longer bleeding. The wounds that concerned him most were the burns on his chest. Carefully, he applied some of the ointment and then covered and taped each wound. He was surprised at how soothing the salve was on his skin, making it tingle, but in a good way.
Once he finished applying the bandages, he bent down into the bottom of the closet and took out the bag. Hoping to find something that would tell him who he was, he took the bag over to the bed and unzipped it. There wasn’t much inside except some cigarettes, a book and a couple of pictures. He took the pictures out and sat down on the floor, carefully looking them over. The first was of a young girl whom he guessed couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old. She had long brown hair and a pretty smile. Frowning, he flipped it over, hoping to find something to tell him who she was. Written on the back, in perfect penmanship, was one word, Dawn. Was that the girl’s name? He knew he should know her, feel something for her, but he still couldn’t grasp those memories.
"Nice to meet you, Dawn," he said to himself as he turned the picture back over. Was she his daughter? No, he wasn’t old enough; at least he didn’t think he was. Maybe she was his sister? He stared at the picture for several minutes but nothing came to him. Sighing, he picked up the next picture. He gasped and almost dropped the photo to the floor when he recognized the woman as the one from earlier, the one that he had loved and hurt. He choked back a sob as the guilt washed over him once again. Who was she and what had he done to her? Obviously she had meant a great deal to him, but had he meant anything to her?
His hands trembled as he slowly turned the picture over, hoping to find her name written on the back as he had with Dawn’s but there was nothing. Not even a hint of who she might be. Tears filled his eyes and threatened to spill down his cheeks as he began to trace every feature of the woman in the photo with a shaking finger. She was blonde, petite and breathtakingly beautiful. His body ached to hold her, to tell her how ashamed he was for whatever it was he did to her. She was his home and wherever she was, that’s where he wanted to be, where he ached to be.
"Who are you?" He whispered softly to the picture. "Please tell me who you are. Help me remember who I am."
"She is your soul mate," a voice replied from the doorway. "The one you must save from the coming darkness."
Spike’s head whipped around in shock as he glared at the man from earlier in the day. He thought he had been alone. "I’m gonna put a bell on your bleedin’ neck, mate."
"I did not mean to startle you. I said that I would come by later to pick you up. It is now later."
"Right," he replied, wiping his eyes and trying to regain his manliness. "So then, you know who she is?"
"Yes."
"And?" He demanded when the man didn’t respond. Rolling his eyes and sighing, he shoved the picture of the woman out in front of him. "Who is she?"
"I’ve already told you. She is your soul mate."
"Right, got that part. How about a name?"
"She is the Slayer."
"The Slayer? Isn’t that a group?"
The man stood silently, waiting patiently for Spike to process the information.
"You’re not going to tell me anything else, are you?"
"No. It is not my place."
"Fine then. Do you have a name? Be nice to be able to call you something other than the word that I’m thinking at the moment."
"I am Zareb..."
"Means protector. Wait, how did I know that?"
"You understand many things, vampire."
Spike growled in frustration. "Why do you keep calling me that? I’m no vampire. My heart beats; I breathe; I even have a reflection. How can I be a vampire?"
The man smiled in response.
"Okay then. One more question. "Who am I, besides someone you think is a bleedin’ vampire?"
"You are the prophesied one. The one who will save the world and help bring the end of darkness."
Crossing his arms over his chest, he quirked an eyebrow in question. "Uh huh. Sure. But do I have a name?"
"You do."
"Brilliant. Let’s have it then." He was growing impatient with the games. All he wanted was to remember who he was and why he was here.
The man cast his eyes downward, bowing his head before he spoke. "You are William the Bloody, One quarter the Scourge of Europe, Slayer of Slayers, Destructor of Demons and in the end, Bringer of Life."
Spike stood, staring at the man, mouth agape. "That’s quite a resume I’ve got, mate. What does it all mean?"
"All in time, vampire. All in time."
Go to chapter two...
Rating: PG-13 Some language and violence
Disclaimer and spoiler warning: All characters, except Geoffrey, Garrick and Bronwyn, belong to Joss Whedon and whomever else he sells them to...I’m just borrowing them for a while. This story is based upon the alternate universe I created in Reset.
Summary: Spike begins to deal with the ramifications stemming from completing his trials...
Timeframe: Immediately following "The Journey Begins"
- 1 -
Gift With Purchase
Gift With Purchase
Slowly, and padding softly, one of the villagers entered the cave, a torch lighting her way. She was amazed at the site of the prone figure on the dirt floor. None of them had expected him to last the trials, let alone still be alive after several days without food and water. Quietly, she placed a bowl of fresh fruit on the ground beside him, along with a pouch of water. She knew that once he woke up, once he let his demons pass, he would be thirsty and ravenous. After making sure that he would find their gifts upon wakening, she removed a couple of crude brushes and some ink from her bag and quickly began to draw on the wall, telling the man’s story. It was a story of hope and courage and she had been chosen by the village to relay that message to any who might venture forth in the future seeking the beast. Once she completed her task, she quickly left the cave, leaving her torch behind and never looking back at the man who was still lying motionless on the ground.
Spike heard the woman’s foot falls fade into the distance. Once he was certain she was gone, he allowed himself to writhe in agony, waves of pain crashing over his battered body. Sobs escaped from his dry, cracked lips as the soreness became too much for him to bear. He wasn’t sure if it had been only hours or days that he lay unconscious on the dirt ground, aware only of the pain and the darkness. Death had been elusive no matter how much he had wished for it to come and take him away, away from the guilt that was eating at his being. The pain he could handle, but the guilt; that was a different story, especially since he didn’t know who he was, let alone what he had done to be feeling this way.
Bit by bit he began to return to his senses, not that he wanted to but because his body was screaming out in hunger. Eventually, he mustered the energy to roll himself onto his side, wincing as his ribs yelled in protest of the action. That’s when he saw the bowl of fruit and the pouch of water. Immediately, all thoughts of guilt and pain were swept away by the sight of the nourishment. Greedily, he grabbed the pouch and began taking large gulps of the cool liquid, ignoring the resistance of his throat to swallow it down. He began coughing uncontrollably as his body refused to work the way he demanded it to, his sides and chest throbbing in response. Once the coughing subsided, and he was able to at least wet his lips and mouth, he put the pouch down and reached for the fruit. He wasn’t sure what he was eating, but it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted in his life.
After he had consumed as much of the fruit as his stomach would accept, he struggled into a sitting position. Obviously he could use a bit more time to recover from his wounds but his instincts told him that he needed to leave the cave as soon as possible so that he wouldn’t become demon food. Demon food? Now why would he think...oh, right. The trials. He vaguely remembered something about fighting demons. That should have been a very frightening thought; the existence of demons, but something was very familiar about it. Well, now it was time for fight or flight. He decided to choose flight since he was certain his fighting abilities were a bit sub standard at the moment.
Confident that he could make it out of the cave despite his wounds; he used the walls to steady himself as he tried to stand. Immediately he felt dizzy and nauseous. This was turning into much more of an effort than he originally planned, every part of his body was crying out in agony. What exactly had happened to him?
Before he could answer his own question, he lurched his body forward, trying desperately to make it out of the cave. Something was off. There was something about him that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
"Bloody hell!" He growled, as he tripped over a rock and went sprawling, causing new waves of pain to rush through his body. The more he pushed himself, the weaker he became. Well, one thing was certain, he seemed to be British.
"Gotta keep movin’ or you’ll be tonight’s supper," he whispered to himself as he willed his body to get up again. Finally, his feet started moving as if his brain had finally reconnected to the rest of his body.
"’Bout bloody time you got your wits about you, you stupid git." He paused. Now he was talking to himself? Brilliant...! Nothing better than an amnesiac British bloke yammering to himself. Maybe if he was lucky, someone would call the professionals and he would be whisked off to the asylum. That would be a blessing.
Several minutes later, he rounded a corner and caught sight of the mouth of the cave. Adrenalin pumped through his body, giving him that extra rush to keep moving forward. He stumbled along the last few feet, his body unable to keep its balance, yet he was still determined to push on. Between the adrenaline rush and his desire to get as far away as possible from whatever it was that had done this to him, he wasn’t really paying attention to where he was going. His already aching body was thrown forward with his momentum as he stepped into a deep fissure. He was unable to brace himself in time for the fall and as a result, his head smacked down on the side of a boulder with a sickening thud. Everything went black.
******
The first thing that he was aware of as he began to flitter back to consciousness was the pounding ache on the left side of head. Without opening his eyes, he tentatively reached up to touch the wound. It felt sticky so it had been bleeding, but it seemed to have stopped for the moment. Great! Just bloody great! If it wasn’t one thing, it was always another. He felt even weaker than before, if that was possible. "Must be a concussion," he muttered to himself, still keeping his eyes tightly shut. The blow to his head certainly hadn’t helped his memories return.
Sighing, he tried to move his body into a more comfortable position until he could muster up the strength to continue yet again. That’s when he noticed it, the warmth. It covered him from head to toe, as if someone had taken pity on him and wrapped him in a warm woolen blanket. It was comforting...soothing, like nothing he had felt in years. As his brain began to process the information, his eyes flew open and he screamed. Scrambling backwards on his hands, he threw himself into the shadows of the cave. Why was he acting this way? He felt delusional.
Standing on wobbly legs and gripping the trunk of a tree for support, he began to take an internal inventory of himself, hoping that it would jog his memory. Other than the bump on his head and the aches and pains throughout his body, his heart was still beating and his lungs were still drawing air, both being of the good, so he had no idea as to why he would be screaming at the touch of the sun. However, something was tugging at the edges of his mind, telling him that he should be frightened for his welfare.
"Do you not like your gift?" A man asked in broken English as he appeared out of nowhere.
Frightened by the man’s sudden appearance, he yelped and stumbled backwards, falling to the ground yet again. "Gift?" He asked, trying to regain his composure.
"Yes. You have been given a tremendous gift, vampire. You are the prophesied one."
"What are you talking about? What prophesy? And why did you call me a vampire?" His mind was reeling. Had the man really just called him a vampire?
"Come," the man said gently, extending his hand to assist Spike to his feet. "I will show you."
"Show me?" He asked, allowing the man to help him to his feet. "Can’t you just paint me a picture, maybe show me a photograph?"
"You have nothing to fear from me, vampire. I am not your enemy but you will soon have many."
******
For about half an hour, Spike trailed after the mystery man as he wound his way through several groupings of huts in the village, finally coming to a stop outside of a dilapidated building. The man motioned for him to follow as he entered the building, which seemed to serve as some sort of hotel.
"You clean up now. I will come back for you soon."
"I don’t think I follow you, mate," Spike replied, a little confused as to why the man was leaving him off here of all places.
"Go to your room and clean up. Bandage your wounds. I will come back for you shortly."
Spike frowned. "Look, I don’t have a room..."
"Check your pocket."
Reaching into the front pocket of his jeans, his fingers brushed the coolness of metal. A key. Pulling it out of his pocket, he looked at it in awe. Obviously he had been here before. "Right. I’ll just clean up then..." He started softly but heard no answer. Looking around, he noticed that the man had already disappeared. "Bloody hell!"
Looking at the key again, he hoped to find his room number engraved on it. Sure enough, the number was crudely etched into the head of the key. Running his hand though his hair and taking a deep breath, he limped over to the front desk and rang the bell. A young woman stepped out of the back room, eyeing him curiously.
"It’s you," she gasped as she lowered her eyes and tried not to look him in the face again.
"Yeah, it’s me. Would you be a love and send some water and bandages to room," he looked back down at the key to tell her the right number, "three?"
The girl nodded her reply without looking up.
Frowning, he thanked her for her help and then headed to his room.
******
Silently, he let himself into the room that his key said belonged to him. The room was small and had recently been cleaned; it smelled of vanilla and roses. He ambled over to the bed and sat down on the edge, letting the scents wash over him. The smells triggered images in his mind, of a beautiful, blonde woman. Frustration and then love were the emotions that enveloped his being as he allowed the images to flash through his psyche. However, as he allowed the perfume-like scent to caress his senses, his conscience began to scream out at him, showing him flashes of violence instead.
"My god, what have I done?" He whispered as he buried his face in his hands. The guilt was staggering. He had done something to this woman, the woman he supposedly loved more than life itself. How could he? What kind of man was he?
A knock at the door startled him. It took him a few moments for his mind to swim back to the present before he could answer. "Come in," he croaked as he tried to wipe away the tears that had welled up in his eyes.
The young woman from the front desk shuffled in, carrying a large tray. Quietly, and without ever glancing his way, she set the tray down in the corner and retreated to the hall, closing the door behind her.
She was gone before he could thank her. Slowly he stood and made his way over to the tray. He was pleasantly surprised to see that the girl had included towels and food with the water and bandages. Suddenly feeling the need for a shower, he grabbed the towels and set off in search of the bathroom.
******
After half an hour in a hot, soothing bath, he returned to his room, a towel wrapped about his waist and his filthy jeans tucked under his arm. He hadn’t thought about a change of clothes before cleaning up, but now he hoped that somewhere in his room, there might be something else for him to wear since the thought of putting the grimy jeans back on his now dirt free body repulsed him. Before he could search the closet for new clothing, he noticed that someone had already done that for him while he had been out.
Quickly he scanned the room to make sure he was alone. It was silent and empty; the only movement came from the curtains in the open widow, fluttering slightly in the breeze. He tossed the dirty jeans into a corner and began to dress in the jeans that had been left on the bed for him. He even found a pair of boots, in his size, placed neatly next to the nightstand.
Walking over to what he assumed was the closet; he opened the door and found a jacket and a few other shirts hanging inside. Were these his things? Nothing looked familiar to him but they were all in his size so either he had brought them here from wherever it was he came from, or someone went out and bought him clothing. Figuring it wasn’t the second option and noticing a bag on the floor of the closet, he guessed that everything must belong to him.
Before he could bend down to pick up the bag, he caught sight of the full-length mirror hanging on the inside of the door. Tilting his head to the side, he took a good look at the image before him. So this was what he looked like? Average height. Thin. Quite handsome despite the bruises to his face and what was this? Bleached blonde hair? Horrified, he reached up and ran his hand through his hair, quirking an eyebrow in response. What kind of ponce was he, dying his hair this ungodly shade of blonde? Silly, really... From this point on, he decided, he would let the blonde grow out. Good thing too, he didn’t want anyone thinking he was some kind of Nancy boy!
After taking one last glance in the mirror, he grabbed one of the shirts, threw it on the bed and then headed towards the tray that the girl had left behind. Grabbing the gauze, tape and the cup of smelly ointment, he walked back over to the mirror so that he could see what he was doing. He decided to let the head wound go since he had cleaned it thoroughly in the bath, plus it was no longer bleeding. The wounds that concerned him most were the burns on his chest. Carefully, he applied some of the ointment and then covered and taped each wound. He was surprised at how soothing the salve was on his skin, making it tingle, but in a good way.
Once he finished applying the bandages, he bent down into the bottom of the closet and took out the bag. Hoping to find something that would tell him who he was, he took the bag over to the bed and unzipped it. There wasn’t much inside except some cigarettes, a book and a couple of pictures. He took the pictures out and sat down on the floor, carefully looking them over. The first was of a young girl whom he guessed couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old. She had long brown hair and a pretty smile. Frowning, he flipped it over, hoping to find something to tell him who she was. Written on the back, in perfect penmanship, was one word, Dawn. Was that the girl’s name? He knew he should know her, feel something for her, but he still couldn’t grasp those memories.
"Nice to meet you, Dawn," he said to himself as he turned the picture back over. Was she his daughter? No, he wasn’t old enough; at least he didn’t think he was. Maybe she was his sister? He stared at the picture for several minutes but nothing came to him. Sighing, he picked up the next picture. He gasped and almost dropped the photo to the floor when he recognized the woman as the one from earlier, the one that he had loved and hurt. He choked back a sob as the guilt washed over him once again. Who was she and what had he done to her? Obviously she had meant a great deal to him, but had he meant anything to her?
His hands trembled as he slowly turned the picture over, hoping to find her name written on the back as he had with Dawn’s but there was nothing. Not even a hint of who she might be. Tears filled his eyes and threatened to spill down his cheeks as he began to trace every feature of the woman in the photo with a shaking finger. She was blonde, petite and breathtakingly beautiful. His body ached to hold her, to tell her how ashamed he was for whatever it was he did to her. She was his home and wherever she was, that’s where he wanted to be, where he ached to be.
"Who are you?" He whispered softly to the picture. "Please tell me who you are. Help me remember who I am."
"She is your soul mate," a voice replied from the doorway. "The one you must save from the coming darkness."
Spike’s head whipped around in shock as he glared at the man from earlier in the day. He thought he had been alone. "I’m gonna put a bell on your bleedin’ neck, mate."
"I did not mean to startle you. I said that I would come by later to pick you up. It is now later."
"Right," he replied, wiping his eyes and trying to regain his manliness. "So then, you know who she is?"
"Yes."
"And?" He demanded when the man didn’t respond. Rolling his eyes and sighing, he shoved the picture of the woman out in front of him. "Who is she?"
"I’ve already told you. She is your soul mate."
"Right, got that part. How about a name?"
"She is the Slayer."
"The Slayer? Isn’t that a group?"
The man stood silently, waiting patiently for Spike to process the information.
"You’re not going to tell me anything else, are you?"
"No. It is not my place."
"Fine then. Do you have a name? Be nice to be able to call you something other than the word that I’m thinking at the moment."
"I am Zareb..."
"Means protector. Wait, how did I know that?"
"You understand many things, vampire."
Spike growled in frustration. "Why do you keep calling me that? I’m no vampire. My heart beats; I breathe; I even have a reflection. How can I be a vampire?"
The man smiled in response.
"Okay then. One more question. "Who am I, besides someone you think is a bleedin’ vampire?"
"You are the prophesied one. The one who will save the world and help bring the end of darkness."
Crossing his arms over his chest, he quirked an eyebrow in question. "Uh huh. Sure. But do I have a name?"
"You do."
"Brilliant. Let’s have it then." He was growing impatient with the games. All he wanted was to remember who he was and why he was here.
The man cast his eyes downward, bowing his head before he spoke. "You are William the Bloody, One quarter the Scourge of Europe, Slayer of Slayers, Destructor of Demons and in the end, Bringer of Life."
Spike stood, staring at the man, mouth agape. "That’s quite a resume I’ve got, mate. What does it all mean?"
"All in time, vampire. All in time."
Go to chapter two...
