- FIC: Riders PG-13 (1/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (2/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (3/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (4/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (5/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (6/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (7/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (8/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (9/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (10/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (11/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (12/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (13/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (14/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (15/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (16/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (17/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (18/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (19/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (20/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (21/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (22/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (23/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (24/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (25/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (26/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (27/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (28/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (29/30)
- FIC: Riders PG-13 (30/30)
Chapter 11 Impossible if Possible
I’ve been waiting.
I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life
but its not quite right.
And the real, it’s impossible if possible
at who’s blind word so unclear but so unheard.
-Silver Sun Pickups
Spike anxiously paced around the little bedroom where he had placed Buffy. Celeste had looked her over, left and returned with a poultice for her fever and some cold water for them both. She hadn’t requested any explanation for the bandage on Buffy’s arm and Spike hadn’t offered one other than to say he wasn’t sure what had actually caused the wound.
When Celeste left the room, Spike could finally redress Buffy’s arm. When he removed the gauze, he was shocked at the wound’s condition. Her arm, bloated from her wrist to her elbow, had long thin fingers of red that spread across the entire arm and up into her shoulder.
Spike carefully cleaned the wound using medicine from their first aid kit and redressed it with clean bandages. Now there was nothing else he could do but wait and pace.
Buffy murmured in her delirium.
Spike took a cloth from the basin of cool water Celeste had provided and wiped Buffy’s face and brow. He spoke softly. “Come on Slayer, it’s time to rest so you can heal.” He wiped her neck and shoulders tenderly.
The Slayer murmured louder, moving restlessly on the bed. Spike could hear her heartbeat quicken and her pulse race. Her fever had begun to climb again. He realized he needed to keep her from thrashing and possibly hurting herself further. Used to taking care of Drusilla during her less lucid bouts, he knew what to do; he climbed in bed beside Buffy, reached over, grabbed her wrists and held on tightly while he spoke in a soothing voice. “Buffy, pet, everything’s fine, you just need to rest now. I’m here watching and I won’t let anythin’ hurt you.”
The fever continued to rise.
The Diamond Saloon was winding down for the night. The miners from second shift had gone home to their wives and their beds. Third shift had left for the mine, walking into a night much lighter than the darkness where they would spend their next ten hours.
The only customers left for Verda to serve were the men from the posse. Having located and captured their prey, they came in, every man jack of ‘em except for one. Grip wasn’t with them. Verda found it comforting to know that she didn’t have to wait on the sheriff.
Sitting four foamy mugs of beer on the table, she smiled widely. “Well, boys, here’s your next round.” She handed the beer around and winked at fat Turner. He was known to be partial to her and he tipped well. “So, where’s the Sheriff tonight? He have a woman to bed?”
Turner belched. “Here ya go Verda, honey”. He threw her a coin for the beer and an extra for herself. “I dunno where he is. We was just about back to jail when he suddenly stopped, wheeled his horse around and started off agin.” He shook his head. “Ain’t no tellin’ with him, he kin be silent as the grave.” He leered at her blearily. “What about you? You got a man to bed tonight?”
Verda just smiled sweetly and sashayed away. She knew it wouldn’t be too long until Turner passed out and one of his friends carted him home. He was no trouble at all to handle. Not like the Sheriff. Now there was a man who was real trouble.
The rider reined in the black horse and dropped lightly from its back. He had felt a powerful presence in the desert earlier and had placed a spell on the wound he had sensed. The powerful being’s anguish and pain would be very strong by now. This would enable him to locate the presence again.
He removed a small triangular crystal from his saddlebag. Carrying the crystal, he opened the wooden door to the empty mining office. This was his sanctuary during the late night hours, when he needed solitude and an escape from the primitive creatures of this dimension.
He closed the door and plunged the room into darkness, easily moving within the enclosed space. His vision extended beyond the concepts of darkness or light. Within this puny body, he could still control a little of his former power, but only at night beneath the moon.
The darkened office was perfect for his quest; he needed complete solitude to concentrate. Holding the crystal in his hand, he touched it while focusing on the pain. He would summon the powerful being and capture her power for himself. He stared into the crystal, opened his mind and called to her.
Buffy stood on the windswept desert. Bright moonlight allowed her to watch the dust as it rose on the plain.
Tumbleweeds sailed past as the wind blew stronger. She paid no heed. Instinctively she knew the time had drawn near.
Her arm felt heavy. Looking down she realized she held her sword. The sharp blade gleamed in the reflected moonlight.
She gripped the hilt.
Her ears filled with the sound of beating hooves.
He had arrived.
Astride the enormous horse, the dark rider was magnificent.
Silently, she stared toward him.
“I have been waiting for you, Slayer.”
His voice was as she expected. Resonant, menacing, yet full of promise.
Her grasp shifted and tightened on the sword’s hilt.
She felt unafraid.
“I’ve been waiting for you, too.”
Hearing her voice, the horse shifted uneasily.
The rider appeared not to notice. His eyes were intent upon her. He had ridden here for her alone.
She knew this. She had felt his presence before. Now it was finally time for their dance.
“You’re mine Slayer. I have summoned and you have answered.”
His black clad arm stretched down from the horse. He reached toward her.
She took a deliberate step back. “No.”
She raised her sword.
He beckoned to her. “It is too late. You are mine. I have already claimed you.”
He pointed to her arm.
Her eyes shifted downward. The wound had worsened. Her arm from shoulder to wrist reddened. The wound gaped widely. Blood beaded and fell. It stained her skirt.
She watched transfixed. The crimson flow continued. It splashed over her bare feet and began to puddle around her. It crept sinuously across the sand. She stared at the relentlessly growing stain.
It was her blood. Powerful blood. Slayer blood.
The rider spoke insistently. “Come to me, Slayer. It is time. Take my hand.”
The moon vanished behind a cloud.
She took a hesitant step forward.
The desert wind howled.
Her arm grew heavy. The sword dropped to her side.
The next step was confident.
The dance was over.
Her sword clattered to the ground.
The horse and rider surged forward.
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/186709.html