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| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: Crazy is Colourful, and Death is, too Author: Julissak Pairing: Spike/Angel (implied) Rating: R Setting: 1800s- Post Gypsy Curse He should run away from it, them, all, he should run away run run run run run where it’s less bright and it doesn’t hurt his eyes when they’re open and always closed it burns too fast too cleanly too purely and he keeps his eyes always closed, but behind his lids dance memories dance dreams dance a life that could have been and they dance dance dance dance faster ever faster around him, always calling but never silent so loudly a cacophony for the dead to hear dead dead dead and he can hear it because the burn gives it meaning, gives it a name, gives a purpose. And he can hear it because it’s there. The faces now have a name, and they didn’t before, but all of the faces have a name names like Cillian Mary Geneve Collin Jack Dru Spike Spike William because they call in whispers and in voices that shatter glass that shatter like glass like leaves crumple like water spills and they’re yearning like mourners cry yearning for things things things things chances so many things, and when he pretends to breathe because breathing feels gives life gives much too much for the dead, and in the end there are rats that bite screech scamper bite he bites back for the blood, only the blood, and it’s rats, and the burning is real. Spike thought it was best to do it quick because it was all for the game, the time, the moment, you see, and William’s poetry was no match for Spike’s flair and so the other went and the latter stayed and nobody was wiser to which one stayed behind but Angelus knew it because of the smirk, the stride, he knew it for he made William change made him harden made him embrace death and he knew for it didn’t rhyme with effulgent and he knew it like a song. Angelus sculpted Spike, he was different, Angelus watched him change like the first break of day, because he was the same blood same colour but not stuttering William never. No. I promise you forever, she said, I promise you forever and never alone you shall be, I promise you forever like a prayer like a blessing like a curse like absolution like being free. I promise you forever, and it burns. She never said it would burn. Their eyes are yellow yellow sun yellow sky yellow fire yellow blood and their eyes glitter like knives cut scrape dig burry in. They burry in. Rats, rats, and vampires turn into bats. He finds no holy herald with his name, a name, not like any other name and it is his but shouldn’t be, and he laughs because it’s strange he laughs because it’s not Liam nor Angelus and it shouldn’t be, but there it is, and Darla was right, like death is final and heaven is bright. She was right she was right the Angel of death was born that night. Hark, hear the angels sing, and death is a wonderful thing thing thing. :: The bruises fade and they should stay and mar and mark permanent, he knows, the bruises fade but he sees them even in his sleep without color without shape without special names for elbow knees chest head. These bruises will never fade. He remembers seeing Spike and looking away, because the burn burned like Spike’s eyes burned like the moon set afire, like obstructed white light, and he remembers turning away, away away he turned, but it was all falling down and fall down he fell. There are memories of running down empty streets and howling like wolves howl like vampires howl at the moon. He remembers Spike’s machismo and his–no, not his anymore, the changes changed him, too–ire and fury the fury would make him snarl and hurt and bleed and cut shred plunder until Spike’s smiles dimmed and never shined, never for him. Never for him, and Spike payed for it limb for limb. Some memories taste like roasted pork, like finely aged wine, like “I’m not your whore! And you’re not my sire, damn you! I’ll do as I please” and “Aye, you may not be my whore, and you may not be mine, but I take what I want when I want, and sometimes I want ye” and Spike shivered and the shiver ran up and down his spine like a match lit new and he’d shiver like a sick person throughout the rest of the night. There’s no reason for living even if the dead shouldn’t live, and if some poor soul could find a wooden spear in their hand find mercy in their heart then they would give death they would give give give. The lord giveth and he taketh away, and if the dead kill those living then why do they stay? Stay. You can’t falsely kiss the burn away, nay. Promises like a rose in bloom like a baby in the womb like life-saving rain clouds loom. Not life but death, with death the light. Mourn for life lost, and sorely you shall pay the cost. Feed off vermin, mice rats screeching clawing rat mice not men, not in morning hours ever-lasting long long, and living life is nothing but a tuneless song. -END Feedback |