"It's just…not fair," Dawn said, straightening the sheets on Rose's bed.


         
"You know they do make them for regular beds too," Willow said distracted by the lumps in her daughter's pillow.  She reached into the pillowcase and pulled out a handful of fluff, it almost looked like a nest.  She took the pillow out of the case and examined it but found no holes.  She dismissed the ball of fluff making a mental note to herself to check all of Rose's stuffed animals for tears later and threw it in the trash.


         
"What," Dawn asked puzzled at the ease with which Willow was distracted these days; motherhood really must addle your brain.  "Oh, no…not the sheets, they are cute…I meant Buffy.  She knows where we are.  Why doesn't she call?”


         
"She's still in L.A.," Willow said a little surprised that it came out more of a question than the reassurance she had intended it to be.


         
"I know," Dawn went on, "…but she could at least call, you know, let us know she's okay."


         
"I'm sure she's alright, Dawn…" Willow stopped short; she had almost called her 'Dawnie' as she used too in the old days. God, I am starting to feel old, she thought as she realized how much Dawn had matured while she was in Europe. Dawn was almost twenty-three, nearly a year older than Buffy was when they closed the Hellmouth in Sunnydale. She was almost model tall, having taken after Joyce where Buffy favored their father in height and her hair, while still incredibly long was lighter now than Buffy’s had ever been, almost closer to…



Willow could plainly see where Buffy got the ‘Donatella’ taunt that she often overheard between the two sisters from time to time over the speaker phone.  She has grown up, that’s for sure…it made her think of how fast Rose was growing, it would all too soon be the day when she wouldn't want the cute bed sheets either.


         
"It's been almost five weeks, and she hasn't checked-in in over three."


         
"She's always been that way, you know that."


         
"Hey…choir here…it's just, she could be getting herself into real trouble this time."

________________________________________________________________

Short and sweet. Willow has a daughter, Tara Rose Rosenburg.  I know lame name, not really, a lot of meaning in it, and cool initials: T.R. Rosenburg.

How'd that happen? Is she still...? What can I say Willow is Willow and needs no other labels. Tara Rose is a bit of a mystery to everybody, even Kennedy who is her other legal parent No matter, Kennedy isn't really around anyway and what's in a name, really?

Next Up; Just a matter of convenience.

Chapter One:

Brother Duncan had never seen The Slayer, but he knew this was her.


         
She was smaller than he expected, tiny, in fact, and older than the others who stalked the demons.


         
This was not a girl, not a child.  This was a woman.  She looked tired, as if she had been traveling for quite some time, as if she'd been - hunting.  She was petite and pretty, yet still looked lethal.


         
There were three clients in line for in-processing, counting the one at the desk. Duncan was assisting a young mother and her children with the forms, they were not printed in Ma’di and his command of African dialects was better than Spike's.


         
Spike's words caught in his throat when he saw her. The client took the clipboard from him and went to the couch in the lobby to fill out the forms.


         
The vampire's eyes locked with those of The Slayer, whether their gaze lasted for a split second or for eternity was moot, the impact was absolute, and it was not lost on Duncan.


         
His first instinct was panic: Slayer, vampire, small-enclosed space...but no, panic quickly gave way to many years of studied observations.


         
Nothing demony in those looks, he thought, damn dangerous though.


         
Duncan left Mrs. Abaku to fill out the packet of forms as best she could and stepped over to the desk before it became apparent to anyone that his co-worker had gone catatonic.


         
Buffy turned to the doors when she saw Spike at the desk.  She needed air.  She needed to breathe.  She'd been holding her breath since she'd started up the steps of the Mission, and seeing...she needed air.


         
She had been searching, stalking the alleyways and tunnels, looking for him since she had gotten back to California.  Dawn had gone on ahead to the Slayer compound, but she'd stayed here, hunting.  She started in what was left of the rubble of what was once the L.A. branch of Wolfram and Hart, nearly five weeks ago, and circled out from there.  Greater Los Angeles was a big area to cover.


         
The bartender, last night, at the demon bar, said to try here, at the Mission. The description she had given him wasn't an exact match.  It had been over seven years since she'd seen Spike, not that she could forget, he had been burned into her soul, but it was a long time.


         
 Things change.


         
Yeah, they do.  Things, people...and well, hell, he was sorta disintegrating in a pillar of fire last ime I saw him, she thought.



         
The thing about thinking, you never know where you're going to go:



Sunnydale: The Hellmouth, seven years, three months ago:



         
Spike shouts to her, "Go on then!"


         
She hesitates, shakes her head, "No, you've done enough, you could still..."


         
"No, you beat them back, now it's time for me to do the clean-up," he said, "Gotta move Lamb.  Think it's fair to say school’s out for bloody summer."


         
"Spike!" she yells.


         
"I mean it, I gotta do this," he answers.


         
The beam shot out of the amulet, out of Spike, even brighter.


         
Hands interlocked in flame.


         
Her thoughts raced back another year...


         
"I touch the fire, and it freezes me..."


         
Then another, she sees the image of the first Slayer through the flames. “You are full of love...it's brighter than the fire...love, give, forgive, risk the pain, it is
your nature."


         
Forward again, flames, intertwined fingers, her own voice, "...I love you."


         
Then his, "…no you don't, but thanks for saying it."


         
The Hellmouth was imploding, collapsing in on them.  She felt the jolt, he pushed away, broke the hold.


         
God!  Air! Breathe!


         
She tilted her head back and took a deep breath.



         
The bartender did not recognize Spike from her description, but said there was a demon, maybe a vampire; he wasn't sure, never ordered blood, just bourbon, who worked at the Mission.  He was a loner, didn't come to the bar often, had a presence that made the other patrons back off; not so much with the black clothes, or leather coat, British accent though and blonde hair, bleach blonde, parts of it anyway, platinum speckled blonde dredlocks to his shoulders.



         
Things can change.



         
Buffy tried to wrap her mind's eye around that, platinum dreds.  Couldn't quite do it until she saw him there in the flesh.



         
God! She needed air.



         
Spike's eyes followed Buffy as she turned and went out the door.  She stood just outside on the landing.  Brother Duncan reached for Spike's cigarettes and lighter and put them in front of him on the desk.


         
"Go."


         
"What," Spike said, startled back from elsewhere.  He turned toward the monk.


         
"Go," Duncan said again, nodding after her.


         
Spike took the cigarettes and the monk's nudge, cracked his neck, and headed for the doors.



         
The August air just after dark was hot and Buffy felt the only wisp of breeze to pass by in what seemed like forever.  Every nerve was twitching and more than a few forgotten muscles were telling her what she'd come here for.



         
She heard the door open behind her.


         
"Spike," she asked.


         
"Buffy," he answered.




           
She turned...Oh yeah...matty, dredy Spike was hot!


 


         
"You look..." they both started.


         
"...good," Spike said.


         
"...different,” she chortled,“...and good."


         
"We need to talk," their voices overlapped on the words.


         
"Well, that's different," said Spike.


         
"Yeah," she admitted with a little visible guilt.


         
"Where do you want to begin, Love?"


         
"You have a name tag!  Staff! Spike!"


         
"Uh, yeah..."       



         
"You didn't burn up in a pillar of fire."


         
"Actually...did...for a while...guess I got...stuck...in the amulet. Next thing I knew, I was standing in the middle of a desk in some bloody evil law firm..."


         
"You were stuck in the amulet?"


         
Spike shrugged, "dunno how."


         
"How long," Buffy asked.


         
"Two, three weeks...dunno exactly," he answered, "...came back as a ghost, a disembodied spirit, incorporeal..."


         
The impulse was too strong, Buffy reached out and lightly touched Spike's chest to make sure she was talking to flesh. "Solid through," she whispered.


         
"I got re...cor...pori...ated..." he paused, trying to figure if that was a real word, deciding it didn't matter, "...a couple of months later."


         
"I didn't know you, uh," she said drawing back her hand.  "It was two years before Andrew...let it slip."


         
Spike looked into her eyes, "I didn't know what to say, how to..." he sighed, "...explain it.  I, uh...I wanted to find you, Buffy...I tried...but I couldn't...literally...kept popping back to Wolfram and bloody Hart.  After I re...got my body back, Angel he..." Spike trailed off.  He averted his gaze, it was acutely uncomfortable to look at her standing there, so near, after so long; seven years had turned woman-child to woman-grown and it looked good on her, and he thought it might be wiser to avoid the subject of Angel altogether.


         
"How's Dawnie," he asked as he started down the steps gesturing with a nod for her to follow.


         
"She's good, finished school in Italy...high school and some college. She's trying for late admission for her masters to U.C. Berkley, Cal State, or Stanford.  They might not accept all her credits though," Buffy said as they walked down the steps.


         
Spike slid up onto the hood of the Mission's old station wagon, as he often did during smoke breaks, and lit up a cigarette.


         
Buffy looked at the hood of the prehistoric SUV then up to Spike.


         
"Oh..." he realized that she didn't quite know how to get up there, "...uh, turn around and lean up to it, put your foot on the bumper and push. I'll help."  He reached out for her arm.  His touch was cool and tingly on her skin.


         
Gingerly, Buffy tried it, and with the arm up from Spike, slid onto the hood. She did not know what to do with her legs and felt like she was sliding off.


         
"Windshield makes a good backrest," Spike said, already leaning back on it, one leg dangling off the side.


         
She looked back over her shoulder at him and almost slid off.


         
"Just…uh…scooch," he suppressed a chuckle, "...up, Love." He stretched out an arm in assistance once again.  Buffy took hold, grabbing just below his elbow...yep, still tingly...and scooched.


         
"And you," Spike asked once she had gotten up there and stopped slipping.


         
Buffy glanced at him as if she'd missed something in the conversation with all the sliding and scooching.


         
"How are you," he clarified, slightly amused by the look on her face.


         
"Huh, oh, fine.  Need to check in with the troops, in person for a change...some issues...get Dawn settled," she paused, "I was looking for..."


         
"He's not here...Hawaii or Guam, or somewhere," Spike said flicking the cigarette butt into the sewer grate alongside the curb.  He turned to stare at the building.


         
"I wasn't looking for Angel," she said.  You really think I'm here looking for Angel... your still a dope!


         
"Who then," before he got the question all the way out, a tonal 'Rock the Kasbah' was chiming from his back pocket.  Spike pulled out the phone and checked the number.


         
"Gotta get this, Love...sorry," he said, then answered the call.


         
"Yeah...you need me in there? Uh, yeah...thanks...no, they said 9:15, 9:30, means closer to ten, 10:30...Yeah...five, two adults, three kids...three, five and nine, girl, boy, girl...no...no...yeah...no...and, uh, Rudy and friends are just turning the corner now, the usual, looks like...you sure you don't need me in there?   Uh, I dunno yet...no...No!  I will take care of that...owe you one...okay, two, thanks...I'll need it. Call me if I'm
not back in by then...thanks...yeah."


         
"Sorry, Pet, work.  You, uh, need a drink," he said, glancing at the vending machine, "...a soda pop?"  He was already off the hood of the station wagon and slipping the phone back into his pocket.


         
Avoidyness can be good, she thought.


         
"Tab?"


         
"No," he said consolingly, "...not in the machine.  Uh, diet coke?"


         
She nodded.


         
"Be right back."


         
She watched him walk over to the vending machines, always a favorite pastime, watching him walk.  She tried the dangly leg thing, but the antenna got in the way, so she shifted position.  Oh, better view!  Don't let him see me watching him on the way back...my turn to stare at the building...how's he get up here so fast?


         
"I was looking for you, Spike," she said.


         
Their eyes met, briefly, when he asked, "...why?"  He tried, but could not hold the gaze and busied himself with opening his mountain dew bottle.


         
"Do you really have to ask that," it came out harsher than she had intended and she was instantly sorry that it had.  She looked at him being all avoidy again.  "Guess maybe you do...I missed you."


         
He took a drink of the mountain dew like it was one of those single malts that he and Giles were so fond of, as if it would fortify him, then looked at her.


         
"I love you, Buffy.  You know it," he paused, "...always will."  Although it seemed like he had more to say, he went back to fussing with the bottle cap, almost losing it.


         
The silence that followed did not last as long as either anticipated.


         
"I don't know if...I can...love you.  I want to...,” she said. That got his full attention and the look on his face made her smile.  "...and...I don't know, maybe I do..." she sighed, "...all I know for sure is," she paused and shook her head, "...I really need to find out."


         
Spike digested that for a moment.  He stopped fussing with the soda bottle and fussed with his cigarette pack instead, getting one out along with his lighter.


         
"Fair enough, Slayer," he said.  He lit the cigarette, "...fair enough."

_______________________________________________________________
That was actually a few sections, but they pretty much need to be read in one clip so there they are.

A Note: Duncan was the priest in the Gilroy mission who watched Calab/The First kill all the other bretheren, the one that Andrew was being "bad cop" to Spike's "good cop" with after Giles had sent them both there to get them out of the way back in Sunny D during season seven.

.Prologue The Second: January, the Slayer Compound:

"Angel, who did this to you," Willow asked, cautiously pulling back the cloth of his shirt now pasted to flesh by dried blackened blood and pus.  She winced as her ministrations allowed the wound to open.  It began to ooze and bleed and smoke.  It did not smell that well either.


         
Andrew skidded, overshooting the foyer archway. "I got it!" he said, panting from the scramble for the first aid kit.  He fumbled with the case's latch, opening it and putting it on the floor next to them."It was wedged in beside the refrigerator by a bent fork," he explained.  "Oh, and I found all the lost silverware there too!  Uh, they're a little bit furry."


         
"This is serious, Andrew," Willow snapped with a scowl.  She unwound some gauze as she quickly rummaged through the kit.  "This is not enough; we need the surgical kit from the infirmary."


         
"I'll get it," Andrew volunteered. The sight and smell of the oozing wound made him queasy and Willow noted the muffled retching and gagging sounds that followed him out the door.


         
"Here, Angel, put some pressure on this," she said, packing the wound with loose gauze.


         
Her hand accidentally brushed across the red and black jagged circle barely an inch from the wound, directly over his heart.  She thought it was a tattoo, he had several, though she didn't remember him having one there; but tattoos don't bite.  This one bit her like a spider startled by her hand.  She jerked it away.  The circle glowed with the incandescence of a coal starting to catch flame.  The flesh beneath and skin along its edges began to smolder.


         
"No!  Don't!" Angel rasped, his hand abruptly halting the gentle pressure.


         
The muscles in his jaw and neck involuntarily contracted as the gauze snagged on the rough edges surrounding the wound tearing them anew.


         
"No!  No pressure...it's splintered...all directions...can't get it out..." he said, his voice faltering as it failed him.


         
Willow grabbed a pre-packaged gauze pad.  "Oh no, no pressure," she repeated in quiet alarm, ripping open the gauze and putting it over the kindling circle not
knowing whether it would ignite or quench it.


         
The loose gauze in the wound was saturated and fresh blood and ooze began to trickle down Angel's chest leaving seared steaming rivulets in his flesh.


         
Willow was, as a rule, steady in these situations, she'd seen Angel hurt before, Spike as well, and injured vampires-just not as big a deal in the triage area as mortals, but she had never seen this.


         
Angel's skin, always pale, was chalky and looked very dry and ashen.  She knew that vampires didn't, under normal circumstances, breathe, at least not often, but he was breathing, hard and labored, and if she was not mistaken, each exhale held a little more faint smoke than the last, and that smell...vampires usually smelled, well, good to her. Occasionally she'd come across one that was a little ripe or just plain unhygienic.  Angel always smelled like cedar and spearmint mixed with leather and sorta licoricey.  This smelled like dry-scorched death.  Willow felt the panic escalate.


         
"Right, no pressure," she whispered.  "I need help."  She hit the intercom by the door.  "Giles! Hurry!" she yelled.


         
She and Giles were working in the study when the security monitor beeped
indicating someone at the main gate, someone who couldn't pass without
intercession through the mystic locks and who didn't have a current access code
for the physical ones.


         
She wasn't overly concerned when there was no answer to her salutatory inquiries. The intercom at the gate was garbled, at best, since the Lei-Ach incident last fall.  The main console would give a visual and she offered to go check it, needing a break from the routine research.


         
She checked the main security panel in the common living area pulling up video for the gate.  There was no vehicle in the drive.  She sighed heavily as she switched to the camera in the walk-up alcove, it was still spattered with exploded Lei-Ach, but she could see it was Angel.  She wondered why he was here.  He usually called first.  He didn't look well.  Something was wrong.


         
Willow began the incantation that would allow him to pass through the gate, hoping that enough of it made it through the intercom system to let him know when the mystic locks would allow him in.


         
It was apparent from the look on Angel's face that her words did not transfer through the Lei-Ach clogged speakers.  Luckily, the click of the electronic door lock did the trick.  He was in the compound, but he was not moving very well.  I might have to go get him, she thought.


         
Willow hurriedly recited the spell to allow him into the main house as she headed to the foyer.


         
“Are we having company," Andrew asked, coming out of the kitchen, a large sandwich in hand.  He’d overheard her invocations.


         
"It's Angel," Willow said, "he's here, coming from the gate, Andrew, he doesn't really look too good, can you go check and see if he needs help?"


         
"Yeah," he said, "just don't eat my sandwich," setting the plate down on the bookcase.  He turned and opened the door.  Angel was already there, in an upright slump against the barrier.  Willow realized Andrew had interrupted her incantation before she’d spoken the last two crucial words.


         
"Come in," they both chimed.  The barrier fell away and Angel fell with it, hard across the threshold taking Andrew down with him.  Willow attempted to break their fall and went down as well, leaving them all in a heap just inside the doorway.


         
Andrew squirmed trying to get out from underneath, as Willow propped Angel up against the doorframe.  She knew Andrew was all right by his wriggling and fussing, but Angel was hurt. There was a large oozing hole in his chest, gashes in an arm and a leg and a deep slash alongside his face from temple to jaw line.


         
"We need the first aid kit," she exclaimed, glancing at Andrew as she spoke, "...it's in the kitchen."  Andrew scurried leaving her to attend to Angel.


         
"What happened," she asked, moving the lapel of his coat away for a better look at the wound, "Angel, who did this to you?"



         
"Willow!  What," it was Giles dashing into the far end of the hall. "...Angel?"


         
"Giles, he's hurt bad," her voice telling fear and concern.


         
Giles quickly assessed Angel's wounds.  Willow was not wrong, he was hurt - bad.


         
Xander arrived panting at the door.  "I thought I saw..." he said catching his breath, "...I did!" He was never pleased to see Angel.


         
"He's been staked," Willow said, "and there's splinters."


         
"We need to move him," Giles said upon assessment of his wounds, "...somewhere with more light.  Uh...the kitchen.  Xander, let's see if we can get him up and get him in there."


         
Willow, Giles and Xander help Angel rise to his feet, halfway up a violent coughing fit abruptly halts their progress.  Angel, nearly doubling over, expelling smoke and dust with each labored hack.  He gestured for a little less assistance and grabbed the doorframe in effort to pull himself upright.


         
"Uh, gently," Giles offered belatedly, attempting to stabilize him. Braced by Giles on one side and Xander on the other, they began to trudge slowly to the kitchen, steadied by Willow from behind.


         
"What happened," Giles asked.


         
"It was Spike," Angel said, stopping mid-step to cough up more dust and smoke.


         
"Spike did this," Willow asked, supporting all of them through the coughing spell.


         
"We fought..." Angel continued, gasping for enough air to form the words.


         
"About what," Xander asked.


         
"Do we need a reason," Angel said with more force than he was able to triggering another coughing jag.  His tone, more Angelus than Angel, making Xander promptly drop the questioning.


         
"How long ago, uh...where," Giles continued trying to get as much preliminary information as he could before they started the physical probing.


         
"The Mission, about eight, ten days ago...I don't re..." Angel's voice failed him.


         
Willow almost asked, what mission, but she caught enough of the recognition in Giles' eyes to know he knew exactly where.  Her mouth opened in query but no words came out.  Giles knows where Spike is, she thought, that opens up a whole  new...she felt Angel flinch precursive to a cough...but this is not the
time.


         
 She concentrated on steadying them into the kitchen.


         
Andrew burst in from behind them offering the surgical kit as Giles asked, "You've been...like this, for ten days?"


         
Angel nodded, "It took that long to get here," he stopped to inhale sharply, "I can't get them out...they've been festering..." he gasped for enough air to continue, setting off further coughing, "...have to deconsecrate...splinters..."


         
"Deconsecrate," Willow asked, "Why?"


         
"Andrew, help us get him up on the table," Giles instructed.


         
"We..." Angel strained, "...knocked over a cross...a reliquary crucifix.  It shattered."


         
"A reliquary?  How old," Giles asked, removing Angel's jacket and shirt.  He rolled them up as a headrest and eased Angel down onto the table.


         
"Fifteen..." Angel winced, "...fifteen hundred..."


         
"From the fifteen hundreds, then it can't be that..." Giles began.


         
"No, not 1500's...it's fifteen hundred years old...six...sixth century," Angel corrected.


         
"Oh!" Giles said in that tone that was usually proceeded by a 'Dear Lord' and a vigorous cleaning of his glasses.  It was presently followed by the removal of the saturated gauze packing the wound and then by a heartfelt 'Dear Lord' as sinuses were offended and eyes watered all around the room.


         
"Sorry," Angel managed meekly.


         
"Camphor," Andrew interjected helpfully, holding out the small jar from the surgical kit.  He was already sporting a generous moustache of it.  Xander reached for it, gagging, then passed it to Willow who obliged a grateful Giles first then herself.  She offered some to Angel whose face turned even paler.


         
"Wooden, I take it," Giles asked opening a bottle of saline to flush the debris from the main wound.


         
"H-harp wood," Angel managed to answer.


         
"Ash," Willow clarified.


         
 He nodded.


         
"The reliquary, what was in it," Giles asked, dabbing gingerly at the wound.


         
"Two, two vials..." Angel began.


         
"Blood," Giles asked hastily with alarm.


         
"No...o-oil...and three...pigeon feathers.  The vials...broke, saturated everything..."  Angel winced in pain.


         
"This cross, did it have a name?"


         
"Cloves...Clover...Cloven..."  Angel tried, but could not remember.


         
"Cross of Clovis," Giles inquired.


         
Angel nodded, unable to vocalize further.


         
"Holy Ampoulla, lovely," Giles sighed.


         
"Rollicksome wrecked reliquary, Batman," Xander chimed. Giles, Willow and
Angel all glared at him.  Sobering, he asked, "If this cross is...how could Spike, I mean...he's not exactly..."


         
"...an altar boy," Giles finished for him.


         
"No, not yet," Angel said weakly, pacing his words with measured breaths. "He's been hanging around those robed types too long."  He glanced at the wound in his chest, took a long labored breath and addressed Giles specifically, "...his weapon of choice of late..." then he wasn't able to say anymore.


         
Giles turned his attention to the small gauze pad, which was starting to char. He lifted it revealing an angry molten circle sinking into Angel's chest.  He quickly replaced the gauze, dousing it with saline to keep it from bursting into flame.


         
"The Black Thorn," he whispered, barely audible.


         
"The tattoo," Willow asked.


         
"It's not a tattoo," he paused, "...it's a brand."  He didn’t add anything more, it would not be helpful, and Willow, wisely, did not inquire further.


         
Giles studied the selection of scalpels in the roll pack of the surgical kit; none were adequate to the task.


         
"Uh, Giles..." Andrew said, "...sparklage."


         
"Giles!" Xander added.


         
Rupert looked up, "you've all seen vampires dust before,” he said calmly.


         
"Just not in slow motion," Willow realized.


         
"It has to come out, now!" he said, putting down the roll of scalpels.


         
"Hold him, all of you," he said grabbing the longest butcher knife out of the wooden block on the counter.  With both hands and all the power he could muster, he plunged it directly into Angel's heart.


         
Willow and Xander both flinched as the knife penetrated flesh, bracing for a squirting spatter of blood that was not to come.


         
Andrew fainted, fortunately slumping over Angel's legs, his body weight
serving to hold him in place on the table.


         
Angel screamed, then spasmed and gasped, slipping into unconsciousness.


         
Willow was certain she heard the tip of the knife hit the table and she winced as she heard ribs and sternum crack as Giles pulled the knife steadily towards him with all the force he had, leaving a gaping hole.


         
Xander lunged for the sink and heaved, wet then dry.


         
Giles reached into the newly enlarged chest chasm and with no small effort, extricated the glistening splinter of ashwoodash wood from Angel's pericardium.  He grabbed the flashlight from the surgical kit and rapidly inspected the wound, which was already beginning to seal, then the splinter.  It had come out intact after ten days of sawing away at the membrane surrounding Angel's heart.


         
"Willow..." he said, examining the splinter more thoroughly, fascinated by its auto-restorative and self-cleansing properties, its tiny barbed projections now adhering smoothly to its pearly iridescent surface, like a living thing, now in repose.  "What do we have in the vaults to deconsecrate the wounds?"


         
"Huh, oh...Breken's bile," she answered unsure if that was the best choice.


         
Giles nodded, "that should do it."


         
"Andrew," Giles said, "...Andrew!" he said louder, rousing him.  "Andrew, the Hadean leaches you've been breeding, are they ready to feed?"


         
"Uh, leaches?  Yeah, they're old enough."


         
"Good, after Willow deconsecrates Angel's wounds, let them feed.  They can eat away the damaged tissue.  Oh!  Don't let them eat too much, we don't want them to develop a taste for living...or, uh, un-living flesh, just the corrupted areas, and see if you can get some of the girls to get the guest room ready and to help getting him up there when you’re done."


         
 “I'll have them bring a gurney," Andrew said before heading out to the dormitories to collect the needed extra hands.


         
"I'll get the Breken's bile," Willow began, "...Giles, there are a few different spells I could use, any suggestions as to which one, I mean, how much, how...deeply, do I have to deconsecrate..." she looked toward Angel stirring
slightly on the table.


         
"Oh, uh, as you see fit.  Willow, if he is conscience, let him tell you, he should know when it's enough.  He should be able to feel it," Giles said, "...as should you."


         
"What should I do," Xander asked, wiping his face with a wet towel and dabbing off the rest of the greasy camphor.


         
"Just keep him from rolling off the table, keep him still if he wakes up before we get back, oh, and uh, see if you can find the ammonia sticks in the kits, in case he doesn't," Willow instructed.


         
Xander nodded, "and I'll put these," he motioned to the now disheveled
first aid kits"...back together."


         
"Thanks," Willow smiled at him.


         
Giles was leaving the kitchen, taking the splinter back to the study to be tagged with all the appropriate log entries.


         
"Giles wait," she said after him, catching up in the hallway. "That tat...the brand...what was…is, it?  Angel didn't have it before, and I thought, vampires couldn't...shouldn't it have healed," she asked, hoping that he could decipher her questions.


         
"Circle of the Black Thorn," he said, "and it will never heal," he sighed.


         
Damn, she thought, he really has gotten good at this over the years.


         
"It's a leftover, I believe, from his association with Wolfram and Hart, by the hand of the senior partners."


         
"It's evil," she asked already knowing the answer.


         
"Um hum," he nodded.


         
"But, it seemed," she continued, "...was it..."


         
"The only thing keeping him from dusting...yes, I believe that would be an accurate assessment,"  he said studying the splinter and marveling, once more, this time at the smell it was now emitting... incense.


         
"It just seems so wrong," she went on, "to have to deconsecrate the wounds, to allow them to heal."


         
"It is, but, it's what we have to do," he said, "...or they won't."


         
"Isn't that what we, all of us, Angel too, are supposed to be fighting?"


         
He nodded.


         
"Giles are we winning," she asked as he continued down the hall, her voice sounding small and tiny.


         
There was no answer he could give.


This was  the first thing I wrote when I started this story, this one first then the Cave Demon one. The first prolog is very pertainant to the story overall, this second one has a lot of little stuff that ties in with the story to come, and we will get back to the storyline introduced here at some point in the future - but for now it's the little stuff that's important. 

Chapter one Section one is next.

Have I mentioned that I really hate the left justified blog format. I write with indented paragraphs and have to reformat evething because it uploads this dumb left justified format. As I said on the home page, I plan on putting the file on the site in it's proper format eventually but for now all you are going to get is the quickie fix-it-so-its-readable fix.


Prologue The First: Africa, eight years, three months ago:



         
He had many names: Asphyx, Cave Demon, Daemon of the Waters of the Earth, Archangel, Keeper of Souls, Paradoxium, Demon's Folly, Todd...but to him, he was just himself.


         
He had been here since there was a here to be, and now this task, at
least, was done.


         
There had been many, often even more than one per millennia, as time is
reckoned now in this the rising of man, and they had been-entertaining.


         
As he had been told the proof would come, in truth, would be compelled to
do so.


         
And so it did.


         
And, as he had been told, he would doubt the proof that it might be
proved.


         
And doubt he did.


         
This could not be proof of the paradox.  It was too small; larger than the
scarab, yes, but they were many and it was but one and alone; smaller in mass
and in muscle than the other trials by far.


         
And fragile, not even true daemon stood before him but mortal born.


         
Indeed, the trials themselves seemed set, as set they were, against this one, against its kind in particular.


         
Hmm, the Archangel thought, perhaps then this be telling true, and I should not doubt, but doubt he had to.


         
No, it was too young, not yet two centuries, a mere portion of a blink of
an eye, far too young to be proof.


         
Yet it bore the mark and by measure of its kind could not be marked.


         
The Archangel thought the motive selfish; it sounded so, but if proved
true as stated would be thus pure and that truth be in the Trial not in the
telling.


         
The other requirements are they met?


         
The Archangel probed as he spoke to it; his words meant naught, the
probing all.


         
Does it know or is it ignorant?


         
It did not know specifically, but by nature and in general-yes and specific awareness was never stipulated.


         
Does it fear or has it courage?


         
It had feared once and often and if it survived was certain would again;
although for now, the metal was tempered well.  And courage; courage and foolhardiness, they are often one.  It would not leave without what it came for or it would not leave.  It was here all the same.


         
Has it strength or is it weak?


         
No it did not have the strength, in that it would fail.  It had not fed; in truth, it hadn't fed well in a long time. It would fail, but neither quickly nor quietly. 
It would fight and it would struggle until it won or was no more.


         
Hmm, is that perhaps enough?


         
"Do your worst," it said, "...but when I win, I want what I came here for."


         
The Archangel chuckled to himself, 'When,' ha, yes, determined it is nonetheless.


         
Lastly, that to be restored must at once be given and freely.  Yes,
yes that was already so.


         
Well, the Archangel thought, let the proof be proven, then.


         
Thus the Trial began and in its due was done.



         
Afterward the Archangel mused aloud to that which Be:



                                              "I should tidy up.


                                                       No?


                                     True, time will attend to it.


                                             There is yet time."



         
And in after thought he asked, "May I watch?"


         
Answer was given.


         
The Archangel smiled as he unfurled his wings and he set with them upon
the heavens and the stars heard the peal of his laughter.

_______________________________________________________________

Asphyx, the Archangel,  will be showing up in various places through out the story, but beware, he may not be what you think he is and you may think you're reading about him when you are not- how's that for cryptic- I like to keep you guessing.

Prolog Two is next.