[A/N: This is just a short story, no more than two chapters. The idea for this one came to me while I was lighting the September 11th memorial that’s in my hometown. I do it every Friday night, in memory of those who died that day. For those of you that don’t already know, I’m a native New York girl, born and bred – lived most of my life in the shadows of those towers. Politics and beliefs aside, I lost far too many people I knew that day – friends, former boyfriend, and family. So the idea for this was born one night in the moments of honoring those who are no more. Title is from a Carlos Santana/Everlast collaboration, with the lyrics by Everlast. Quotes are as attributed. Disclaimers prove that once again, I own nothing but the idea for the story; everything else belongs to ME and Whedon. ]
Leave Your Lights On
1. Hers
Hey now, all ya children
leave your lights on
Better leave your lights on
Cause there’s a monster, livin’ under my bed
Whispering in my ear
There’s an angel, with her hand on my head
She say I got nothing to fear
There’s a darkness, living deep in my soul
Still got a purpose to serve
So let your light shine, deep into my hole
God don't let me lose my nerve
Don't let me lose my nerve.
Hey now, all ya sinners
put your lights on
put your lights on
Hey now, all ya children
leave your lights on
Better leave your lights on
Cause there’s a monster, livin’ under my bed
Whispering in my ear
There an angel, With her hand on my head
She say I got nothing to fear
hey ya gotta
shine like a star
shine like a star
then fade away
Put your light on, Everlast and Carlos Santana
Bydd i ti ddychwelyd
There will be a returning for thee. . . .
He doesn’t remember precisely how it became a ritual – or exactly when, but he does remember vividly how it started. And why.
The why is something he’ll never forget. Never escape. His fault. His failing – his. . . .
He is consumed by his regrets for that night, swamped by them. By what he should have done and for what he’d failed to do.
The one promise he’d not been able to keep – and it had cost him – cost everyone.
A light had gone out that night. Extinguished because of his failure.
Spike gathered the items for his nightly ritual – votive candle, scented with vanilla and lavender, hints of frankincense. The lantern he’d nicked because it protected the flame. . . . . a single flower.
The flower was a recent addition to the ritual, but he thought it fitting – as fitting as the next item – a stake.
His fingers stroked over the wood, smoothing the rough splinters restlessly. The wood had softened in spots from so much constant handling, but he couldn’t help himself.
He paced from refrigerator to sarcophagus and back in an endless loop, rehashing that night. The look on her face as she stood in the darkened hallway, inviting him back in – and the grim reality of her request. Keep her safe. . . . .
He’d failed her so horribly.
Should have been faster. . . . stronger. . . smarter. . . less dismissive of the old demon. . . something. Anything.
Anything to save her.
His hand tightened around the stake, tiny pinprickly slivers of ash poking into his skin, bitter reminder of her calling.
Ashes to ashes. . . Dust to dust. . . .
The candle had been first – a light left on for her – for her soul.
Lantern to protect the light.
Spike pulled the candle out of his copious pocket, pressing his thumb hard into the wax.
From me to you, luv. . . . A prayer for your soul. . . . .
He’d long since resigned himself to the irony – a soulless demon lighting candles for the soul of the Slayer. Didn’t matter – he wasn’t doing it for anyone but her – and perhaps, in a small way, himself.
Some nights he merely counted off the paces between his crypt and her grave. Those were the easy nights. Those were damn few. Most nights he walked in cadence with his memories – never in any chronological order – although he generally started with his first sight of her.
But always, always, every single night . . . the last memory he replayed was the one he hated – was always the same.
Her lifeless eyes.
Dull hazel staring at him – the light behind them gone.
Spike dropped the candle back into his pocket, refusing to give in to the tears suddenly flooding his eyes. With his free hand, he pinched the bridge of his nose until he gained some control.
The late afternoon was quiet, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the far away whir of cars on the freeway. Restfield was the quietest spot in Sunnydale – another irony not lost on him.
His nightly sweeps started and ended here – at her side. He tended her marker – her plot – making sure it was . . .. Undisturbed.
Shadows danced over the cold stone of his crypt, lengthening as the sun finally dipped completely below the horizon, signaling his time.
Time to see her – to leave a light on – and then to fulfill his promise.
The crypt door banged shut behind him, its echo playing havoc with his memories. A light breeze rose softly from the west, carrying with it the faintest trace of the ocean and something elusive he couldn’t place.
Spike paused, cocking his head to the side as he tried to identify it. The scent eluded him, there one second, gone the next, like a fleeting memory of what never was. Scanning around for any mystical disturbance, he waited, then shrugged off the tickle at the back of his neck. Tightening his grip on the lantern and the flower, Spike resumed his pilgrimage.
Ah luv, one more bloody night. . . . without you.
His hand rested on the cool granite, brushing off imaginary dust. The trek between crypt and grave had been too short and he found himself avoiding the front.
Shouldn’t be in there. . . . . an’ its my fault you are.
He remembers doing this for his father, more than a hundred years gone. The hush of the silent church, echoes of countless prayers encased in medieval architecture. Sibilant whispers of his mother’s prayers – for her dead husband and children. The rustle of onion skin hymnals. The scent of beeswax and hallowed walls. Places and things forbidden to him now – and yet he draws the memories close, like a shroud.
It was those memories that had started his ritual – the dead honoring the dead. How the ritual of prayer and candle eased his mother’s pain.
A candle for the soul.
He couldn’t fight the prayers that sometimes surfaced in his head – prayers once recited merely by rote – no thought or emotion behind them. Now when prayers did him no good, the emotion was bottomless – a well of regret and despair and – yes – guilt. A great gaping maw of pain no prayers could ease.
She was gone.
Dead and buried.
And no amount of prayer from a demon was enough – would ever be enough – to change that.
But still. . . . still. . . . he lit a candle for her soul.
Two hundred ten steps from crypt to grave. One hundred forty-seven nights gone.
He fumbled for the lantern at his side, sliding the latch up and open. It was a pretty thing, dark wrought iron, almost Oriental looking, strong lines and thin metal, very much like her. . . . a flower, perhaps a lotus blossom etched in the glass encasing her light. Gently he placed it next to her headstone, sweeping away yesterday’s still fresh flower.
Stake – because it’s what you did, luv, the tool you used to save the world, night after bloody night. Spike gently placed the stake beneath her name – images of her fighting playing through his memory. A lopsided smile, one of wistful regret, flashed across his face and he squatted down, placing the stake just so.
Flower next – to remind everyone you weren’t just a bleedin’ hero, you were a gorgeous bird to boot. . . an’ ‘ve seen some beautiful women in my day, pet, but you topped ‘em all. . . . tonight it’s a rose, pet, a pretty red one. Meant eternal love, back in my human days. . . . an’ well. . . he stopped thinking, because the tears wouldn’t stop and Spike bowed his head. ‘ll always love you, pet.
Candle – for you. . . . For your soul. . . . .
So you can have peace.
His knees dropped to the earth, while his shaky hands fumbled for the candle and his lighter.
One hundred forty seven nights an’ this isn’t gettin’ any easier.
I miss you Buffy, every minute of every damn day. Niblet misses you somethin’ fierce. . . so bloody hard without you . . . I’m so sorry. My fault you had to. . . . all my fault.
Vision blurred, he flipped open the Zippo, touching fame to wick. Light flared and his heart lurched. Sending the only wish – he dare not call it a prayer – heavenward, he whispered, “Someday, luv, I hope you’ll forgive me.”
Rest in peace, luv . . . . here’s the candle for your soul. . . . .
Please take a moment and say a prayer for those lost that day. . . . and, if you’ve a mind, go here – http://www.putitaboveground.org For the NYC memorial. Thank you all.
[Reviews - 80]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story |
Chapter or Story | 
Chapter or Story
Has been viewed 7818 times
- Text Size +
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story |
Chapter or Story | Chapter or Story - Text Size +