Fragments and echoes.

Remembering what it was to wake, and know what had been done. Recalling the pain and the terror and the taint of it.

Hours weeping, silently, into the pristine white sheets on which he’d been laid; huddling into himself, rocking, clawing at open wounds so that pain might overwhelm the inescapable contamination. And finally, exhausted, numbed and chilled to the bone, dragging himself up to crawl, unheeding into the lure of the fire.

Salamiel had been there to snatch him up, to peel away the scorched and blood stained sheets; to bathe his wounds and soothe the fever of his skin. Gentle touches, from which he shrank and shivered, each one unbearable, searing the surface of his soul.

Long, endless nights of it; with the change writhing in his bones and the demon endlessly whispering into his ear. Promises of death, of power and of pain. Taunts of things to come, of the terrors he would wreak and the lives he would destroy. Graphic descriptions, painted like excrement across his mind, eating at him like cankers as he fought to stay sane, to cling to his heart and defend his bleeding spirit.

He sought refuge in his dreams, and the Grigori followed him there, enacting promised madness, binding his will and making him watch his friends suffer and die. Buffy, staked and bleeding, endlessly ravaged by vampires and pleading with him to make them stop. Willow, entangled in a savage wilderness, her skin ripped and her body broken, begging him to help her as the vines entwined her face and the thorns pierced her eyes. Xander, crucified on a cross of white hot metal, screaming his name over and over as his flesh burnt down to the bone. Dawn, beaten, and humiliated, chained like a slave to Salamiel’s will, offering him her body, selling her soul just to stay alive …

He’d wake in terror and denial; wake to continual night, to ice and fever, and the agony of transformation. Lying in the dark, feeling shivers of distress stab through him again and again, feeling the blades take shape, slashing at him from the inside, cutting through his flesh until the blood ran free.

For some of the time, Salamiel would be there, his solicitous attentions as torturous as the mutation he had inspired. His touch was anathema, and yet the chill of it would soothe the agony, even if just for a little while. He would crave it and hate it, hate himself for wanting it, steel himself to refuse it – and die a little more inside, each time his defiance fuelled the look of pleasure in his destroyer’s eyes.

And then there were the hours of his absence; hours filled with terrored anticipation of his return. He’d listen to the screams of terror and pain that echoed through the fortress walls, feeling them rip through his heart, knowing that there had been others brought to this place – innocents and children, the runaways, the abused and the lost, dragged down to hell, to feed the appetites of a monster.

The monster he was going to become …

Three times he managed to drag himself back to the brink; the first an agonised crawl towards tumbled walls and the enticement of a long drop to the ground beneath. Salamiel had seized him, the moment before the fall, and lifted him away, laughing. After that, he’d been chained, with long heavy loops of bitter cold steel. The second such attempted escape came to no better end; afterwards the fountain lay silent and dry and the only liquid he was allowed to drink was the thick salt sweet potions that the demon forced down his throat.

It was those that nearly broke him, knowing what they were, where they came from. He woke, one day, some hour of darkness between then and forever, wrestling with the constant consternation of his dreams, to find the Incandescent standing over him, watching his struggles with an satisfied eye.

And with him, there had been a naked child.

A young child, no more than five or six at a guess, her hair a tangle of corn gold locks in which a single ribbon lingered, like a stray flower. She was thin, so thin that flesh barely outlined her bones – and her body was covered in bruises, the pattern of them livid, like fire.

"This is Marie Ann," Salamiel had said, crouching down beside her and stroking her, as is she were a treasured pet. The child had suppressed a flinch that cut through Giles like a knife. Her eyes – wide and haunted – were empty, bleak, and old beyond her years. "She’s here to help you. Help you grow strong."

He’d held out his hand and she put her own into it, shivering, holding in a sob of fear. There had been the sound of old metal against metal – and the caught back cry of a tortured child as the demon gently slid the point of a wrist blade down the length of her arm. "There is nothing sweeter than this," he’d whispered, twisting her hand so that the blood ran over it, down into the chalice that he'd placed for just that purpose. Marie Ann had whimpered, her body held rigid, but her eyes seeking refuge and finding none. Instead they met the horrifed gaze of her fellow victim; Giles was weak and he was wracked with pain, but he launched himself forward, tearing her from the demon’s grasp and gathering her in as best he could. He knew he couldn’t protect her, but nor could he lie there and watch her abused like that; Salamiel had simply laughed.

"She’ll keep," he’d said, picking up the chalice and flavouring its contents with a rivulet of his own dark blood. "They season better over time. Here – drink this. Drink it," he ordered, holding out the carved cup with one hand – and tipping back the child’s head with the point of a blade from the other. "Or she will …"

He’d taken the cup, knowing he had no choice but to obey – but he’d glared at his tormentor with a fury that briefly overwhelmed all other considerations, seriously contemplating throwing its contents in the monster’s face. The Grigori had watched him expectantly, the tip of his blade caressing the youngster’s throat and she’d whimpered a second time, and soiled herself, making the demon smile.

"Damn you," Giles had muttered and downed the abhorrent stuff, gagging on the thick sweetness of it, on the cloying scent and the salt taste it left in his mouth.

"Too late," the demon had laughed, snatching back the cup and licking out the dregs with deliberate pleasure. "I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Take very good care of her, Rupert. She’s going to take very good care of you."

He’d left with a light step, abandoning the man and the child to the dark. She’d stood in the protective curl of his arm and shivered, too fearful to move, too distraught to speak, and too abused to understand that – for one, brief moment in the life that remained to her – she had found a place of sanctuary.

There wasn’t much Giles could do for her: he’d ripped a little of one sheet away - using the tip of an emerging blade, bloody and painful under the pressure – and cleaned her up as best he could. Then he’d wrapped her in the rest of it and lifted her, unresisting, into his lap. He’d have lain down, to cradle and comfort her, but his back was patterned with burgeoning agony and the chains which secured him snaked in among the bloodied cushions like tendrils of ice. Instead he’d gently enfolded her in his arms, tilting the deadly points of his pain away from her tender skin, and rocked her, holding her to his heart until she slowly relaxed, and closed her eyes with the softest sigh he’d ever heard.

Darkness and damnation. The memory of a bruised and battered body, of the faint warmth of her curled close against him, the echo of her life sweet and bitter on his tongue; he’d sat there forever, considering fate and weeping for the both of them, slow, unendurable tears. And finally – when she’d drifted into sleep, when he knew that he couldn’t bear to let this innocent creature face another day of torture - not even another hour of fear – he’d slid his hand up, with loving gentleness … and given her the peace they both desired.

Time had passed like a slow, sucking tide, dragging away her warmth, no matter how tightly he clung to her. She grew cold and so did he, inside and out, feeling the creeping darkness encroach on his soul. When Salamiel came back, it was to a man tortured – not by his hands, but by his own deed, weighted down by death and the wretched, bitter end of innocence.

The Grigori had been furious.

He’d ripped the dead child away like a paper doll, leaving her sprawled in a broken, silent heap beside the fire – and he’d snatched up her murderer by his throat, his long, narrow fingers pressing in like talons, breaking skin and letting the blood well up. The blades on his other hand had snickted out; for one long, longed for moment, agony sank into the space above the desperate man’s heart – and then the demon had realised what he was doing and pulled back with a gasp of surprise.

"Rupert," he’d exclaimed, letting his victim drop like a stone – back into his nest of pain. "So close …" He’d began to laugh, softly, with bitter delight. "Cunning. Very cunning, my friend. But no. No. You will not escape me by my hand. Any more than you will by your own."

Fragments and echoes.

Darkness and damnation.

The battle for his body was over. A lost battle, the combat fierce and the ground relinquished inch by bloodied inch. The final outcome had never been in doubt.

But the battle for his soul had just begun …

"..so then I said ‘only if you want me throw up afterwards’ which was, like this total put down. And he said …" Dawn’s bright chatter was a warm contrast to the afternoon, which was darkly threatening rain. It had been over-clouded all day, a match to Buffy’s mood, which had been unsettled ever since she’d woken up that morning. The news report had mentioned yet another missing child – not an unusual occurrence in Sunnydale, but a worrying one, nonetheless. She was still struggling to come to terms with day to day domesticity, finding little pleasure in the dull ordinary events of her life while her heart was filled with echoes of the light, and her thoughts were preoccupied with the denizens of the dark. Her friends were still cautiously anxious around her, treating her with supportive care, unaware of the truth that lay behind her return. Only Spike understood what she wrestled with, and his solution to her difficulty adjusting back to her life was to offer hot raunchy sex as a mind numbing distraction.

It worked pretty well, sometimes …

"… and I was, like so mortified … "

Willow smiled knowingly at Tara behind Dawn’s back, the teenager obliviously unaware that everyone had stopped listening to her a good ten minutes ago. Tara smiled back conspiratorially. They had plans for the evening, once Buffy had gone on patrol. It was Xander and Anya’s turn to watch the bus station, and they were intending to sneak away to try a new spell they’d been working on together.

"That’s odd." Buffy pulled them all to a halt, nodding across the road towards the Magic Box. "Giles didn’t say he was shutting early today, did he?"

The shop was clearly not open for business; the window shutters were closed and the ‘come back later’ sign dangled in front of the blind at the door.

"Maybe he popped out for something," Willow suggested. "It’s Anya’s day off, remember? Xander took her to Cliffe Gardens. You know," she added at Buffy’s slightly blank look, "the ‘fun rides and monster rollercoaster’ place?"

"Oh. Oh." Buffy nodded. "Yes. Of course. He’s been talking about it for weeks. That was today?"

"That was today," Willow affirmed, glancing down the road to make sure it was safe to cross. "If Giles had to go to the bank or anything, he’d have had to close up."

"Course he would." The Slayer led the way across the tarmac, dismissing the momentary shiver of unease that had caught at her heart. "And Thursday’s always a slow day, anyway. We might need to go in round the back – " She’d pushed at the door on the off chance, knowing that Giles was occasionally absent minded enough to maybe forget to take his keys. Still, she was surprised when it instantly swung open; she hadn’t really expected him to have forgotten to secure the door behind him when he’d left.

"Brr," Dawn reacted as a wave of cold spilled out onto the street. "Did he leave the fridge door open?"

"I don’t think so," Buffy said, waving at her to stay back. That odd sense of unease had returned full force. It might have been gloomy all day, but this was California. The temperature drifting out of the shop was closer to arctic. "Giles?" she called, stepping cautiously into the building and peering into the dimness of the interior. The place had an empty, abandoned feel – and there was a vague scent, lingering in the cold air.

The scent of brimstone …

"Giles, are you here?" Another step, and she tripped into the unexpected length of a sword lying on the floor, hilt towards the street and its blade –

"- bent?" she queried, picking up the weapon and staring at it. It was the heavy, ceremonial sword that usually occupied the scabbard hanging by the bookcase. Last time she’d seen it drawn it had been perfectly straight. Now the blade was twisted askew, something that would have taken incredible strength to achieve.

"Giles?" she called, vague unease becoming full fledged premonitionary terror. "Giles!" She let the sword tumble from her hand and flew deeper into the shop, ducking into empty rooms and out again, searching for its owner with desperate panic. There was no sign of him – and no sign he’d even been there that day, the weapon cupboards in the back still locked, the basement door still latched, and the till open and empty … "Giles!"

No-one answered. No-one stepped out to see what she wanted, no-one peered down from the balcony to give her one of those patent, patient ‘put upon’ looks. She made on last frantic guess, diving down into the basement in case, perhaps, he’d tripped and fallen, to lie hurt and helpless in the dark. The lower store was as deserted as the upper spaces and she climbed back up the stairs with slow, heavy steps.

Tara had sought out the lights, spilling warmth into the bitterness of the room. Willow was standing by the table in the corner, staring down at the papers which occupied it.

"Did you – find him?" she asked, looking up expectantly as Buffy reappeared from below. The Slayer shook her head.

"Not a sign," she admitted bleakly. "Is there a note, or something?"

Willow grimaced unhappily, pointing at the piles of books and the scattered paperwork. "I don’t think he had time for a note," she said. Buffy and Tara both moved closer. There was a pen, dropped in among the scribbled annotations – and a soft gleam from familiar glasses, which were lying right beside it.

Buffy’s heart sank. Cold horror clasped itself to her spine - and her slayer’s instincts went into overdrive.

Please, God, not Giles …

"Giles wouldn’t leave his glasses," Dawn protested anxiously, creeping in far enough to see what they were staring at. "Not if was going to the bank. Would he? Maybe he got called away …"

"Yes," Tara nodded, grasping at the hope of simple sense and everyday emergencies. "That’s it. Someone called, he went to the phone – Xander’s car broke down, or something …" She tailed off. Buffy had stalked to the middle of the shop floor and was staring round with taut, anxious eyes. "Someone called, alright," she said, spotting the lingering patches of ice which slicked the polished wood of the floor. "But it wasn’t Xander. There were Malumbra here. I can smell them – feel them. This happened last night," she realised with bleak comprehension. She glanced at the abandoned sword, trying to make sense of what might have happened. "They came in – they took him by surprise … he tried to defend himself, and - ." Her eyes swept up to meet Willow’s, meeting a reflection of her own fearful realisation.

"They took him," Willow breathed, her hand lifting to her mouth in horror. "Oh god, Buffy. They took him. Why would they – what would they – how did they –"

"I don’t know," Buffy shivered. It had nothing to do with the cold. " I just don’t know …"

Long Sea Crossing- Chapter One. Part Five. Disclaimer:This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by anyone - Universal, Pacific Rennaisance, or any other holders of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys or Buffy the Vampire slayer trademarks or copyrights.
© 2003. Written by Pythia. Reproduced by Penelope Hill