The Darkest Ones

by paradocs

[reviews]

Pairing - B/W
Rating - R
Disclaimer � The wonderful world of �Buffy the Vampire Slayer� belongs to Joss Whedon etc. . .
Spoilers - None
Summary - Story occurs approximately a year and a half after Chosen.
A/N -- This is my first completed story, therefore my first Buffy fic. I needed to either post this part or burn it; needless to say, I�ll be happy if it�s read and not all too surprised if I burn.
Any and all feedback is welcome and, if you have the time, well received. simpsdb@hotmail.com (and thank you . . .)
A/N (2) � Many thanks to Rin for the Beta and feedback and to the people on the Wiffy Board who encouraged my efforts.


Come in, come in, come in, come in
from under these darling skies come in.
It's warm and it's safe here and almost harkening
off to a time and place now lost in our imagination .

Where you don't explain-but you still do
and you can complain-if you want to-complain .
Where you're real instrumental or supple
or sexy as hell.
Where you say I believe or say without shame
'I can't tell'

Where the wild are strong
and the strong are the darkest ones
and you're the darkest one.
O' and you're the darkest one
and if that's what you want
O' then you're the darkest one.

The Tragically Hip � The Darkest One --In Violet Light

The Darkest Ones -- Part 1

Lake Michigan is peaceful tonight; the ripples of water that chase each other up the shore are as quiet as a cat lapping the blood from a wound. A late summer breeze strokes my cheeks, and my lips, almost like the touch of a lover, �cept it�s warm.

On the beach, darkness has settled into the sand, behind the water smoothed curves of each stone and into every wrinkle that painfully reminds me of my own mortality; but the heavens are bright with stars, and the brilliance of a silver moon. It�s a strange night, which perfectly suits me, �cause right now I�m a strange Buffy.

I�m lying on the cooling beach dressed in worn jeans and an oversized oxford shirt. My knees are folded, sharp angles threatening the sky and my bare feet are nestled in the sand, seeking the cool dampness hidden beneath. My hands rest on my stomach, still for once � the only threats here are my own thoughts.

Here�s a thought for ya. . . �mortality.� Once upon a long time ago, I thought that death was one of those kinda permanent things � like bad TV sitcoms � or Twinkies. Huh. . . Guess you should never overlook the . . . devotion . . . of friends. And while we�re on the subject � mortality I mean, not Twinkies � three of my past lovers kinda dodged the whole �mortality clause�; kinda makes a girl think. I mean death is a word most people fear � even I feared it once � it is the final word, the final darkness and the one choice that is never ours. But when you surround yourself in it, make love to it, hunt and kill it . . . and return from it, death becomes petty and mortality becomes mundane.

I wasn�t born into darkness . . . I wasn�t. The first time I was born, it was into light and warmth and love. Before all of this, I was just Elizabeth Anne Summers, poster child for the typical snobbish, bitchy Cal� girl. I wore the best: clothes and boys; I determined the fates of the peons (think I heard Cordy say that once, so it must be something bad), and set the latest fashion trends.

I was bright eyed, tanned and � innocent.

But this story always converges in darkness . . .

There�s so much I�m missing, but I do remember that when the darkness rose, it wasn�t just about the demonic, or the eventuality of something tearing out my throat � the darkness was thick with the human stain: my parents colossal fights, punctuated by the sounds of smashing glass, cracking drywall, and acidic, unforgivable words . . . the accusations of infidelity and neglect . . . the separation . . .the eventual abandonment and betrayal of my father . . .the shock of my new destiny . . .my friends leaving me to hang . . .the death of Merrik . . .expulsion from school . . . and a barely tolerated acceptance to a new school in a new town � Sunnydale: home of the Hellmouth, the Master and a few people who would become my . . . best friends.

And that was the second time I was born � born from innocence to a bleak destiny that was intimate with the night and nightmares -- and death. Sometimes death was so imminent that I wanted to flee from my destiny; but even though death terrified me, I accepted my fate, for them � or maybe just for her � and I faced my enemy . . . and like a lamb I fell to the slaughter.

At the moment of my third birth, my lungs inhaled a desperate breath, as a warm mouth, pressed sensually to mine, filled me with new life -- my hero, my Xander � not the cool lips or impossible breath of my lover, since he was dead and all.

Now I fought for convention � a happy life: boyfriend, friends, dances, and dates, love . . . I didn�t realize how naive I was, but I learned quickly; and, as quickly, all of the failures, all of the guilt and loss began to eat at my resolve to pursue the violence and death � all in the name of humanity, again. That year, my fifth in Sunnydale, the last of me was devoured.

Dawn appeared, literally, and became part of the family � my goddamned sister! . . . My very human boyfriend left me for South America and the military . . . Glory, the Hell Bitch appeared . . .My mother died . . . my mother died . . . we buried my, our, mother . . . Fight and flight and blood and blood and grief . . . It didn�t stop. . . Until I stopped it and gave my life for Dawn�s, for all of them; a final act of love . . .
I ran down the plank, sad that I was leaving them but content that there was an end, finally an end. . . .

And I jumped, accepting death for the second time.

So . . . when I was born again.

There was no womb, no kindly watcher with sympathy and affectionate smiles, not the lips and loving breath of a friend. No, this time I woke in the cruelest darkness; my first smell: the stench of my own decay, my first breath: stale air, my first sensation: the tearing of my skin and nails, the breaking of my fingers as I clawed through cloth and wood, and finally earth, �til I was free of the wooden womb . . .
Born into the night; born into hell.

I can�t say that I was bitter, �cause to be bitter I would�ve had to be able to feel something beyond the coolness and fragility of porcelain, and that�s what I was �porcelain wrapped tentatively around an iconic rage and suffocating loss.

�Why?!�

My question echoed in the space I�d kept between myself and those who had brought me back. They had no words to heal the wounds that ached in my soul, bleeding tiny streams of light that were devoured by the encroaching darkness. So I accepted him, drawn to his death, seduced by his words promising me a place beside him in the abyss. I sold my body for a sensation, my sanity for the opportunity to live in the tomb that now validated my existence. But I wasn�t entirely consumed because I felt the faintest of flutters across my heart, and those flutters warned me of the dangers threatening the people I had promised to protect; and can I just say � late never counts.

I realize the validity of that sentiment even more now, as I lie here on the sand, spellbound by the shimmering sky and dark thoughts.

If I had ignored that flutter, the world would have suffered immeasurably � screw that, THEY would have suffered: my bliss, or their continued survival?

So I let the porcelain crack a little � and I let the pain and humanity creep out on unsteady feet, just for a while, even just for Dawn, �til I knew she�d be safe, and far away from Sunnyhell.

I included others, eventually, even Willow � though I still hadn�t forgiven her.

Of course, as soon as something resolves itself, even temporarily, some big assed bad just has to make its� introductions. And, of course, he/she/it � let�s use she since she was so damned fond of appearing in my body -- turned out to be the biggest (whore, slut, cun . . . ok, stopping now) -- bitch of evil that we�d encountered. So, there I was again, back to the violence, pain, grief, and guilt . . . How could I win against the mother of all Evil? Christ, I died saving them from a Hell God; the threat of the First �kinda topped anything Glory had threatened us with by like miles. I felt . . . helpless.

I was supposed to save them? I was expected to prevent the potentials from offing themselves, or being offed? I was supposed to protect my friends, and sister? I was expected to lead and command, and be morale girl?

Fuck . .

Who protected me when I got my little Buffy butt good and beaten by the Vamp �I should�ve died that night; if I hadn�t still felt the faint flutter of my compulsion to protect, I may have said �fuck it�, and let myself be taken back to the bliss of the afterlife. I didn�t; I returned, once again to a world of muted colors and catatonic emotions. But I wouldn�t be going back to the sunshine or innocence again � I finally recognized what I was -- let me finish this last fight and I would call it quits.

My dilemma was resolved to a course of action when my sister and family decided that someone else should play the general, and they kicked me out of the house and back into the night� alone. I realized that I�d always been alone in the darkness, doesn�t matter who may have been with me at the time � Willow, Xander, Angel, or god, even Spike. First Slayer Rule: the Slayer is solitary by nature � no friends, no family and no lovers. Second Slayer Rule: the Slayer is born to beat back the darkness. We, Buffy/Slayer, realized that we needed the darkness � it was our passion, our sustenance, and the perfect accompaniment to our purpose � to hunt and kill and screw; what else did we need?

It didn�t matter that my sister and friends attempted to reconcile their betrayal � I really didn�t care; I just wanted it to be over. And then it was.

Can you imagine . . . Never mind. You could never imagine the relief I felt when I realized that Buffy, no, Elizabeth Anne Summers, could finally lay down her pretty head, and rest. I was ecstatic; no more damned responsibilities to friends, family, or the world. Just me and a new possibility for freedom -- Rome. Yeah, ok, so Dawn came with me but we had a clearly spoken agreement to stay out of each others lives.

So off to Rome I� we went. No hugs and kisses from this Slayer; I was just too damned hyped with my freedom to give a shit about the proper etiquette of saying �bye-bye, been nice� to the people I had thought of as family for seven years. If they wanted to continue the �good fight,� well� happy trails.
I had my own trails to follow, and I planned on following them alone -- hunting, killing, screwing; I couldn�t really do the last without a playmate but that�s all they�d be: playmates, fun for Buffy.

Apocalypses? Mass uprisings of the demonic nature? Problems of the relationship type?

I didn�t care.

Really.

I was happy.

I was so damned happy; and then I met someone who challenged the limits of my happiness.
I met a man who rocked my world, hell, my universe. I found the memory of light and �it was good�; it was . . . all of it . . . I slayed when I felt like it; I partied and ate decadent food; Dawn was happy, socially and scholastically and (hiding my face now) romantically; even Andrews arrival was less of a stress than I thought it would�ve been.

But as I�ve already said, this story always converges in darkness . . .

This time there was no threat of death or apocalypse; this was all about the final defeat of Buffy and the domination of the Slayer. It began with Dana; I realized that when we�d given the power of the Slayer to all of the potentials in the world we had never considered the possibility that some of them might not be prepared or willing. I had forced this power on thousands of women, children for god sake, and not one of them had been asked if they wanted it � the responsibility; the potential threat to themselves and loved ones from those in the demon world who could sense them; the knowledge that they were now infected with the spirit of a demon. I had done to them what the Shadowmen had attempted to do to me and what they had done to the first innocent girl, so many lives ago; I hated myself.

Then came the news from LA � Spike and Angel had disappeared after some apocalyptic fight; Wes was dead; Cordelia was dead . . .

For a week all that I saw in my sub-conscious were the grainy colorless images of a graveyard devoted to all of the people I hadn�t saved � sometimes I wondered if that graveyard might choke on the irony of the death. Here I was, alive regardless of having died twice, and I couldn�t protect these . . . victims . . . no, heroes.

That�s when Buffy was beaten down and the Slayer emerged in all her violent and bloody gratuity. My memories from that period are vague, and for that I am thankful. What I do remember is a montage of scenes from slasher and bad porn movies. And blood; and screams; and flesh; and death. The world I was attempting to protect finally caught up to me � Dawn saw me in the bathroom, saw the blood streaking my thighs; this alone would have been excusable but when she saw the bruises and bites, she freaked. I quickly swore her to silence � she quickly rescinded her own promise. Didn�t matter . . . I wasn�t afraid � after all, I was the one giving most of the damage.

Somehow �Buffy� managed to resurface before the Slayer exorcised her completely from our body. Not long after we, I, sent Dawn and Andrew to Giles; I didn�t bother with explanations, I just told them not to come back to Rome. Ever. A few days after their departure Xander appeared for a visit. It was nice at first but the niceness quickly devolved into not-so- niceness and he left. That�s when the picture came.

The envelope was postmarked Rome so I figured it was probably some threat from one of the various Demon or Vamp clans I�d attempted to exterminate when I was psycho Slayer. When the photograph slipped from the envelope and tumbled lazily to the Formica countertop . . . the image screamed sadness to a world that had barely been touched by her everything . . . She lay on a steel gurney covered from her small breasts, down to her narrow feet, by a pale blue sheet that reminded me too much of a summer sky. She . . . I knew implicitly who this woman was. I would never forget the shape of her face, the contours of her body; the hue of her hair now dull and lusterless or the dark and light of her eyes now wide and lifeless.

Willow.

I lost two weeks of my life; the time between the moment I recognized the person in the photograph until the moment I regained some semblance of consciousness was gone. Bits and pieces have been filled in by Faith and Morgan who apparently rescued me from a group of rather unpleasant Demons who had been hired by an unknown source to �tame� the Slayer. I wanted to go back to them; I wanted them to end it. I was revolted by what I had become and what I had allowed myself to do � and what I had allowed to happen . . .

Willow . . .

And that�s when it all broke and fell in ruins across my cheeks. Everything swelled and erupted: all the bile, all the vitriol, all the guilt, all of the sadness and loneliness . . .And in this new, skewed, world Faith was there to hold and kiss and caress me; most important, she was there to keep me safe.

When I had regained some composure Faith explained to me the hows and whys of finding me. Apparently Dawn had called her in Cleveland frantic about my disappearance � I�m sure the memory of Insano-Buffy and blood in a bathroom didn�t help her state of mind. Faith asked Morgan, a Wicca who worked with the new Council and a friend of Faiths, if she could use magic to locate me. Morgan agreed to help and three days later they were in Rome; four days later they found the bloody mess that was me. An enraged Faith, four other slayers and a Wicca eliminated twelve of Rome�s demon and vampire elite that night.

From Rome we went to England, not to the Council but to a spacious cottage Morgans family owned. For the next month I studied meditation techniques with Morgan and worked on mental and physical control with Faith.

And I healed. . .

Faith surprised me. Whenever the memories rose from the darkness of my amnesia she was there to hold and comfort me; sometimes I would wake up and she would still have her arms wrapped around me like she would protect me from anything that dared to touch me. Morgan almost became the test subject of that theory when she dared to shake my shoulders in an effort to wake me � Faith had Morgan�s arm in one hand and the other poised to strike her throat before she realized who it was. In typical Faith fashion she brushed aside the attempted attack and the hyper protectiveness with brash words and a quick change of subject.

Three weeks into my rehab � that�s sorta what it felt like � Faith and Morgan sat me down and explained that they had received information about Willow. I think they were expecting a meltdown, the way they were all tensed and jittery at the same time. I surprised them, and myself, by remaining calm, more eager to hear any news � a possible resurrection? Hell they brought me back. They told me that they still hadn�t figured out who had sent me the photo, but through a contact of Morgans in the States they determined who had taken the original. They also found out that Willow was still alive, so to speak. Faith filled me in on the Councils plans and her own efforts to delay them while I went to find Willow. I was surprised when Faith told me who had agreed to help her . . . me I mean, especially with my history. Morgan gave me the name and location of her contact and explained certain circumstances to avoid any confrontation. Again I was surprised � by the nature of her contact and her contacts association with Willow. A week later I closed my bank account and entrusted the majority of the balance, in cash, to Faith. With thirty thousand in pocket, a new cell phone purchased under a false name and protected by some witchy charms courtesy of Morgan, I left for Heathrow and a long flight to Chicago.

Even though I knew what the likely resolution of our encounter would be, I still hoped -- this was Willow and I loved her.