Chapter 14
She had installed him in the basement when they had reached her house, both hesitant and nervous that where they wanted to go would require time and patience, not the mad passion they had shared before. But as she entered her room, she couldn’t resist one final token before sleep claimed her.
Ever since she had found the poem in one of Willow’s anthologies from her British lit classes, she’d known that Spike would understand the words and that there was no better way to begin again. She looked one final time at the poem she had copied, then tucked it in the pale cream envelope, from the same stationary as that first note those many months ago. Quietly, she crept down the stairs and slid the envelope under the door and onto the top step leading to the basement.
Spike raised his head at the soft slithering sound and immediately was up the stairs to investigate. He spied the envelope laying on the step and drew in an unnecessary breath. She had written him a note. On the same paper as the one which introduced the game that had driven him to get a soul, to be worthy of her. He plucked it off the step and hastily opened it.
Guinevere To Lancelot
H. C. C.
The night is here, and thou art with me still, Loved one, although beyond the reach of hands Eager to clasp thee; and I long to fill Again this soul more dry than desert sands Now thou art gone, with the deep-flowing streams Of thy most gracious presence. Soon it will Return all life-like in the land of dreams.
How shall our struggling hearts, so many years As may perchance be thine and mine, sweet Love, Out-face this ceaseless storm of hopes and fears, For aye within us, round, below, above?Oh ask me not; for whether joy or tears Remain for us, we must bear silently,
Dearest, and with a love that cannot die. How do the angels reason of our love?
And those blest spirits that are gone before, Who, now rejoicing in their place above, Walked with us on this melancholy shore
Of life, years, years ago; will they forgive In us such earth-born folly? Or once more Could we with such as they are choose to live? Ah weary hearts, encrusted o’er with dross Caught up from this vile world Can we be sure, When of this lower life we suffer loss, They will beat freely in an air so pure, Fit for the souls who enter into light? Such dross is in the grain; it must endure Our own, unchanging still, in death’s despite.
But come what will, to the last agony,
My choice is made; I cannot yield thee up. Dross or pure gold, I give it all to thee. The pearls of all my life shall in thy cup Be thrown and melted; they are nought to me, Save as they make some bubbling sparkle rise To see itself one instant in thine eyes.
As Spike read the poem, and reread it, he paused briefly to consider the wisdom of his actions, then opened the basement door and quietly made his way to Buffy’s room. He started to knock, when she opened the door, framed by the soft glow of her bedside lamp and clothed in a simple tank top and pajama pants.
“Did you read it?”
“Yes, pet.”
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, my love.”
“Are we rushing things?”
“Probably.”
She opened the door wider and gently drew him in.
“Then just stay with me tonight. Hold me and we’ll face the rest tomorrow.”
He followed her in and sank down with her onto the bed, intertwining himself around her and silently holding her until they both drifted towards sleep.
“Goodnight, Spike, I love you.”
“Love you too, my sweetheart.”
The End.