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Chapter 5
Bath
Taking a well-deserved break, Willow and Giles wandered through the countryside with no particular destination in mind. An unexpected warm spell had arrived; the temperature was nearly 60 degrees, and Giles had needed very little urging to take advantage of the chance for a long ramble. Between his Council duties and snatching every spare moment to work on the Solomon Codex, he had nearly forgotten the joys of tramping through the countryside with no pressing duties in sight.
He and Willow had been walking in companionable silence for nearly an hour, when she turned to look at him, then glanced away. When she had done this a second time, Giles spotted a large rock with a fairly flat surface and went to sit on it, patting the space beside him in invitation.
“Is there something on your mind, Willow?” he asked mildly.
“Giles, what's happening to us—to all of us?” Willow burst out. “We used to be so close—all through high school and beyond, well beyond, the time when superficial school friends drift apart. We were a cohesive unit; we had a purpose. We knew that no matter what happened, we had each others' backs. Now, it feels like it's all gone. I don't know if it's just physical distance . . . we saw each other every day when we were all in Sunnydale and that gave us a shared foundation that we don't have anymore. I don't know, Giles . . . we all seem so much harder . . . colder . . . I can't figure out if this is a problem that needs to be addressed , or just a natural progression. The mission's changed. We're not the ones in the direct line of fire every night. We're sort of . . . advisers.
“And we hardly ever see each other anymore. I mean, Xander's been my best friend since kindergarten! I had thought we'd always be inseparable, no matter what happened in our lives, but I haven't even seen him in over a year, and I don't even think about him all that much. Is this normal? Is this what happens when you grow up? Or should we be trying to do something to fix it? I just don't know . . .”
Giles was silent while he considered Willow's words.
“I think, perhaps, it's a bit of both. Your experiences as, er, Scoobies were unique. It gave you—all of you—a bond not only of comrades in arms, but a knowledge and responsibility far beyond your years. You were a support system for the Slayer, and that hadn't been done before. It gave you all a rather covert cohesiveness that one is unlikely to find elsewhere in life. But also, as circumstances change; people change. Sometimes in unexpected ways.”
Giles removed his glasses, took out a handkerchief and began polishing them while he gathered his thoughts. Replacing them on his face, he continued.
“When I left Sunnydale, after Buffy's rather extraordinary, er, resurrection, I had thought I was doing the right thing for her growth and development, both as a person and as the Slayer. I am no longer sure it was the right decision, but that's neither here nor there. I removed myself from your daily existences. You continued to grow, to make decisions, to live your lives, without me there to see the day-to-day changes.
“When I returned, you were all completely different people. That isn't a value judgment; it's simply a statement of fact.”
Willow nodded and replied, “Whenever I think about any of you guys, it's always as I saw you last. It's like I imagine time just stands still for everyone else and when we do get together, it'll be just like it was. But that's not possible. People change. It just seems more drastic when you're not there to see the progression leading up to the change.”
She gave Giles a startled look. “That's why you haven't done anything about Buffy, isn't it? You're not sure what to do.”
Giles removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“I used to think I knew her, Willow. It felt like we were close; she was like a favored niece. She always held strong opinions, but she sought and accepted my guidance and I could count on her ultimately choosing to do the right thing, even when she railed against the injustice of being the Slayer.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips.
Unable to sit still any longer, Giles rose, pulled Willow to her feet, and resumed walking.
“I don't know her any longer!” The words seemed torn from him. “I don't know how she thinks, how she feels, whom she loves . . . During the, admittedly rocky, course of her relationship with Angel, she shared her hopes, her fears . . . her innermost feelings with me, and in turn, I believe I was able to provide support and . . . comfort . . . to her. I knew how she felt about him, how difficult were some of the decisions she was forced to make. But, I know nothing about her relationship with Spike. What did he really mean to her? Did she love him? She's never told me.
“I . . . made a bad decision in regards to Spike, although it seemed very clear at the time. I had thought I was protecting her from her inability to see the 'big picture', but she viewed it—perhaps rightly—as a betrayal, and our relationship has never really recovered.
“She hasn't . . . let me in . . . to her life over the past few years. I'm unsure what to do, if anything, about the present situation. My first impulse, when I hadn't heard from her, was to send in the cavalry. But would that be providing support, or unwelcome interference? I no longer know her well enough to judge.”
Willow tucked her arm through his.
“We know she's alive. Let's give her a little more time. I'm sure she'll call if she needs us . . . won't she?”
**********
New Orleans
The dark and silent streets of the Garden District were so different from the French Quarter that Drusilla could almost believe she was in a different world. The District streets were uninhabited by the living, and her wraith-like presence went unnoticed by the human occupants. Her feelings of being insubstantial—not connected to anything—increased.
The French Quarter was still jumping, even though Mardi Gras was over and the city had settled into the staid season that was Lent. Drusilla had stood outside a Catholic church at sunset on Ash Wednesday and she had felt a terrible desire to enter and receive the priest's mark of blessing on her forehead.
It had been so long since she had worn ashes . . . sackcloth and ashes . . . that was for mourning, and if anyone deserved to mourn, it was she. She existed now in a kind of existential loneliness. Everyone she had ever known or loved was gone. She had lost her family and her connection to her God when Angelus had sired her. And now Daddy was gone, too. As was Grandmama and her dark prince.
Oh, she had temporarily lost him to the Slayer, but that would not last forever. In less than fifty years, the Slayer would be dead and then she'd have her Spike back. But now that wasn't possible. He was dead—they were all dead. Only she remained.
Drusilla sighed. She was so alone—she'd thought she'd make a new playmate. It had seemed like such a good idea. She'd find the lady that wrote all those books about vampires and give her immortality. But Drusilla had wandered all over the Garden District and couldn't find her.
New Orleans wasn't fun anymore. She was tired of being alone. She needed family around her now!
Drusilla turned to return to the French Quarter, her search for the vampire writer forgotten. She'd just remembered that she wasn't completely bereft of family. She felt much better—even a bit peckish. She'd dine in the Quarter tonight, and tomorrow she'd begin the journey to Cleveland to visit her 'brother' Roger!
**********
Quebec
Lucien sent out his preternatural senses to check for intruders. His private space had gone undiscovered for yet another day. With a quiet word of thanks for the provision of shelter, Lucien turned to mist and floated up and out of the replica of a crusader tomb.
The New World was so . . . raw. Yet, the French and English who settled here retained a desire to connect to their own history. How else to explain this place?
In the late 1800's, a financier claiming direct linage from a Templar lay brother had created an homage to the Order here. His ancestor's identical twin had been one of the Templars burned at stake during the Purge of 1307-14. He had transported a 13th century chapel, piece by piece, across the ocean from France. He reassembled it, restored it and added an underground crypt, complete with the cast-bronze effigy of a Templar on a bier, adorning the marble tomb.
The financier's progeny had apparently lost interest in the project, and the path to the chapel in the woods had become overgrown with years of disuse. No one ever came here anymore. Upon his arrival in this area, Lucien had been drawn to the small, private chapel. It was like a beacon of light, calling to him.
At last! Here was something familiar to him. He felt a rush of longing for the world as it had used to be.
The chapel was devoid of any scent of human occupation; no one had been here for years. Lucien formed into mist and slipped under the door, not wanting to disturb the uninhabited appearance of the chapel.
Reforming, his eyes were drawn to the mural behind the altar. A Templar knight stood on a hill, a rendition of the Holy City of Jerusalem in the background. Lucien fancied he saw a brotherly welcome in those painted eyes.
Lucien could move in perfect silence when he chose; right now, he made a different choice. Boots ringing on the stone floor, as if deliberately calling attention to his presence, he strode to the altar. Dropping to one knee, his head bowed, he thrust his hands out in the well-remembered position, as if supporting a sword, point down in front of him, symbolically making the sword into a cross.
Lucien's voice rang out in the small, abandoned chapel in Quebec, speaking the words that had not been said on this earthly plane in centuries.
“Domine, non nobis sed nomini tuo da glorium.”
Not to us, Lord, not to us but to Thy Name give the glory.
Touching his forehead, chest and both shoulders in the sign of the cross, Lucien fell to the floor, weeping tears of gratitude. God hadn't rejected him. He was finally home.
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Author's Note: Although Joss Whedon's vampires are canonically soulless creatures, and his version can definitely be found in this story, I also wanted to explore a different kind of vampire. Dracula, as created by Bram Stoker, while adversely affected by crosses, stakes and communion wafers, was never actually designated as soulless and the fear of religious objects could be learned behavior. The rendition of Dracula as seen in episode 5x01 Buffy vs. Dracula, had powers and attributes not evidenced by Joss' “regular vampires”. Dracula's abilities were explained away by Spike as showy, gypsy tricks, but during the episode, he was definitely staked by Buffy, but managed to shapeshift and return . . . twice!I have also followed, with interest, threads on various message boards discussing whether or not the cross would be a deterrent to vampires who had actively practiced Judaism, Hinduism, or other world religions during their lifetimes. Is the cross only effective against vampires who held a prior belief in Christianity?
What if there was a vampire, not of the Whedon oeuvre, who had no knowledge of what characteristics vampires were supposed to have, prior to being turned? What if this vampire had been deeply religious in life, with an unshakable faith in God? What if he believed himself damned, not by the loss of his soul, but by his inability to enter Heaven because he remained tied to his body after death? These questions have long fascinated me, and I've taken the opportunity to explore them through the creation of Lucien.
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