16: On my soul, I'll speak but truth

Chapter 16 - On my soul, I'll speak but truth. (Shakespeare Henry VIII)

Pebbles in a jar; shiny, round, smoothed by aeons of waves, and sand, and weather; little specks of infinity crowded together, compressed against the sides of the glass. Shells arranged on counter tops; flinty-sharp, delicate as china; ocean colours; greens, and blues, and foamy white. More rocks beside the shells, labelled and tagged; waiting for their allotted places in the drawers below.

Spike turned over a large stone, feeling its roughened edge, tracing its curves. He ran a finger along a groove and stared at the curled imprint of a long-extinct creature, finely outlined yet unmistakable in its complex beauty. “A tiny time machine,” he murmured. He lifted the jar to the light, took off the lid and turned it upside down releasing its contents onto the workbench. “What was it we’re supposed to be looking for? A stone you say?” He fingered the pile then opened his arms wide and turned a full circle. “Like looking for a bloody needle in a haystack. The room’s chock-a-block with ‘em.”

“Not a stone,” Willow explained patiently. “A fossil. Like this.” She opened Wesley’s notebook and displayed the sketch he’d made of the nautilus.

“Well there’s tons of them as well,” grumbled Spike. “What’s so important ‘bout this one?”

Wesley lifted his head from a display case. “Willow needs it… to find Fred.”

“You thinkin’ of bringing Fred back with magic now? Thought you were working on that weapon thing?”

“We were. We are,” replied Willow. She glanced at Illyria. “It's why we have to find Fred.”

Spike shrugged. “Makes about as much sense as me twirlin’ backwards from being crispy-fried and re-hydrating from that amulet I suppose.” He crouched down and resumed the search through the trays lining the drawers of a large storage unit. “Uh, and what exactly is it about Fred that you need?” He swivelled on his heels, gesturing towards Illyria. “Seems she’s been here all along, taggin’ Blue.”

“Parts of her memories have,” said Wesley through clenched teeth. “We need rather more of her than that.”

"But we saw her," Connor interrupted, glaring at Illyria.

Illyria returned his stare impassively. "Just as the lights in the night sky are but memories of long dead stars…. " She stopped, doubling over and clutching her stomach. "The signature of the North Star is 680 light years from Earth. It is 680 years older when we see it…. but it is not dead."

"Fred?" Wesley rushed to Illyria's side and supported her sagging form.

"The Shell's memories are strong."

"Don't call her that!" yelled Connor.

"I am Illyria. I have no need of her presence. Nor the emotions that assail her."

"But we do." Willow scooped the pebbles back into the jar. “We’ll explain everything when we get back. We have an orb of Thesulah and other stuff, but the spell won’t work without something that Fred touched before…”

“Before she was murdered.” Connor sneered.

Illyria pushed herself out of Wesley's arms. “They know that to be a falsehood, vampire spawn.”

“Dad,” Connor appealed to Angel. “Tell them.”

“Is there something I should know?” asked Wesley. “Something more you’re keeping from us?” He squared up to Angel, eyes narrowing.

Buffy stepped between the two men. “There hasn’t been time.”

“We know where Fred’s soul is, Wes.” Angel licked his lips nervously. “Here. With Illyria.”

“Then I suppose we won’t be needin’ this after all?” Spike held up a large fossil for Willow’s inspection.

The sound of splintering wood, followed by the explosion of the heavy laboratory door, drowned Willow’s squeal of recognition. She grabbed the stone from Spike’s outstretched hands and thrust it into her shoulder bag, removing a small pouch from its depths as she scuttled for shelter from the falling debris.

“Everyone out. Now!” yelled Angel, throwing himself at the bulky form of Wolfgang Hartram.

“Oh no you don’t Peaches,” shouted Spike. “Not keepin’ me from a good fight.”

“Me neither,” added Buffy.

The two of them joined Angel’s attack but Hartram flicked all three away, swatting them to opposite corners of the room with ease.

“Willow, Wes, get Connor to the car.” Angel grunted as he hit the wall.

“You think you can hide from us? We are no longer limited to the confines of Wolfram and Hart.” Hartram gave a feral smile. “The power of The First is remarkably liberating. You’d know all about that, vampire,” he said to Spike's crumpled form. He grabbed Illyria by the throat, lifting her high, and dashing her head on the counter. “We’ll have to see what we can do to bring an end to your roaming, Old One. Where is the mirror?”

Willow threw the contents of the pouch over Hartram’s head, clapping her hands as the final grains drifted to the floor. “Discede!”

Hartram exploded into a miriad of particles and disappeared.

“Great shot, Will,” said Spike. “Not that we didn’t have it covered.” He rubbed the back of his head with one hand and held out the other to Buffy. “Right Slayer?”

“Covered in the sense we were all about to die?” Buffy grasped the proffered hand. “Oh yeah.”

“Willow, I thought I told you to leave.” Angel pulled himself to his feet.

“Just practising for the real thing,” Willow replied, glaring. “And you’re welcome.”
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Water trickled from the misnamed 'power shower' in uneven rivulets, hardly moving the suds from Spike's hair and shoulders. He smashed his fist repeatedly into the lime-stained tiles surrounding the showerhead, grinding his jaw, allowing the tears to mingle with the scummy stream running into the soap-streaked tray.

"I get that you're angry. "A green hand pushed the curtain aside. "Taking it out on the less-than-secure plumbing arrangements is not the way to go."

Spike shut off the water, pulled a towel from the rail and rubbed his hair vigorously. He wrapped a second towel around his waist and took the proffered glass from Lorne's outstretched hand. "Knew you were a barkeep. Accounts for correct-guessing my preferred poison," he said, tossing down the amber liquid. "Not gonna sing for you though."

"No need," replied Lorne re-filling the tumbler. "It rolled over me like a Tsunami as soon as you hit the back seat of the limo." He jerked his head towards the living space. "You figured the Big Guy passed his responsibility to you."

"Not just that." Spike pulled on his jeans and T-shirt and ran a hand through his damp hair. "There was a lot more goin' on between Angel and … everyone on that limo ride.
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"What did you think you were doing?" Angel continued haranguing Willow as the Mercedes squealed away from the Museum.

"Um - saving your unlife, along with Spike and Buffy's?"

"At incredible risk!"

"Lighten up, Peaches. You sound like Giles on one of his less pompous days. The Witch scored. Hit the bad guy out for a six." Spike rubbed the side of his face, which was blooming with purple weals along the length of the jawline.

"The bad guy who just happens to be The First…" Lorne paused, checking for traffic before swinging the limo into Exposition Boulevard, "stroke Senior Partners combo? That's pretty impressive."

"Lucky shot," replied Angel.

"It wasn't a lucky shot," said Buffy brusquely. "Will did the same to a Hell God once. Though there was some headachy fallout from that one."

"Lorne, where're you heading?" Angel asked, ignoring her as the car turned left on Sepulveda Boulevard.

"Back to the hotel, Big Fella. Wesley said we should head back tout suite."

"Has everyone gone crazy? We are not going back to the hotel." Angel gripped the back of the driver's seat and leaned close to Lorne's ear. "Since when did you take orders from Wesley?" he hissed. "Turn the car around and take us to Spike's place."

"Calm down, Angel" Wesley soothed. "It's not a question of giving or taking orders any more."

Angel turned and stared at him. "I nearly lost my son," he grated. "I just want to make sure he's safe."

"I'm OK Dad." Connor sank into the plump leather-cushioned headrest and closed his eyes.

"I guess a detour to tuck you up in bed won't take too long," said Buffy smiling at him. "And we could all do with a break and regroup before we decide what to do next.

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Spike grabbed the bottle from Lorne's hand and emptied the remaining contents into the glass. "And he's still at it," he growled. "Still trying to be the big boss. Can't stand it when anyone challenges his authority. Never could."

The sound of a subdued argument filtered through the flimsy partition.

"Angel, we can't do the summoning here. We need the pentangle at the hotel." Wesley kept his voice low, fearing to wake Connor who'd fallen into a deep sleep as soon as his head hit the pillows on Spike's narrow bed.

"You don't know that drawing one here wouldn't work."

"Well no, that's true. But the hotel's where Fred's room…"

"The device which showed the room has a power over time such as I have not encountered," Illyria commented gazing intently into the mirror she'd salvaged from City Hall. "It returns to an earlier time on command. Or even halts its progression altogether."

"What we saw in that video never happened. It's all lies," said Angel.

"The camera never lies, Angelcake," Lorne called from the shower compartment. "Why d'ya think Nip/Tuck's so popular?"

"Fred moved from that room when we took over Wolfram and Hart," replied Angel. "It can't be true."

"Only one bloke to be trusted with the truth," said Spike emerging from the shower area, "and you killed him."

"Not like I had much choice," Angel mumbled.

"Like you ever give anyone much of that," snorted Spike. "Too busy barking orders. 'We are not going back to the hotel," he mocked in tones remarkably like Angel's.

"It's too dangerous."

"What Angel means," said Spike turning to the others, "is now his boy's all safe and sound, he's not much bothered 'bout what the rest of us want."

"He's my son!"

"And Dru was my Sire!" Spike snarled.

"The Senior Partners required but little effort to find my jailer here while we played pointless games and were deemed safe." Illyria paused in the inspection of the mirror.

"And so we all stay together … here," Angel replied. "Willow does the summoning while I figure out what we do next."

"Why d'you think the Senior Partners sounded the retreat in that alley? Because Willow was doing some major mojo? said Buffy. "She bought you some time that was all." She jerked her head in Spike's direction. "Someone else paid a high price to find a way out of the mess you'd gotten yourself into. What we do next is find Fred."

" Neither of you really got the hang of the whole 'working together as a team' thing, did you? Spike picked his duster off the sofa and rifled the pockets. "'Scuse me while I go have a fag in my own home."

"Angel's right about one thing, " said Willow as Spike stomped into the kitchen area. "It couldn’t hurt to try the summoning here." She smiled, appealing wide-eyed at Wesley who shook his head in frustration.

"Willow, without reference to the Watcher's Diary I'm not sure…"

"I memorised it," she whispered. She cleared a space on the floor and swiftly drew a pentangle, sprinkling the white sand from a pouch with a steady hand. On each of the five points, she placed a white candle, and in the centre, the fossil Spike had found in the Museum; beside it, she carefully placed the Orb of Thesulah. "I'm ready," she said standing. I need all of you to form a circle and hold hands.

Spike stubbed his cigarette in the sink. "You want me to light those first?" He gestured at the candles.

"Please." Willow nodded her thanks.

After the fifth candle was lit, Buffy took Spike's hand in hers and walked him to the waiting circle. Illyria stood apart, still watching the mirror intently. Buffy grasped Angel's hand with her free one and the five waited for Willow to begin the ritual.

"I call upon the guardian of souls, the keeper of the passage. Let our breath flow from what is to what was. Bless us with the presence of the lost. Grant us communion with the world beyond our reach. I beseech you. Open your gates. Restore to us the one that is lost."*

"Not to worry, Red. Can't win 'em all," said Spike after a few minutes of silence.

"At least nothing went kerblooey." Willow laughed nervously.

"Maybe it's because Fred's soul isn't in this dimension and we need a proper portal." Wesley released Lorne's hand. "Is there anything left in that bottle?" he asked gesturing at the one Spike had placed on the table.

"Run that past me again. About Fred's soul being here and yet … not." Spike opened a cupboard, took out a fresh bottle and handed it to Wesley.

"It's quite simple. What we see are images that are sometimes thousands of years old. The light has taken thousands of years to reach us. By the time it does, the star may be long dead. What we are really seeing is the distinctive spectral signature…."

"In English, you git," said Spike. "Not all of us here speak gobbledegook."

"Then think of it as Fred's radiance that stayed with Illyria when she crossed back into our time-line while Fred remained in the other one." Willow picked up the nautilus. "And that radiance, or radiation, has a resonance that's linked to both through The Stone of Time that brought us back."

"You mean it's still connected across time lines. So there's something getting through the barrier. Like a leak?" asked Spike.

"Sort of," said Willow.

"And this watch?"

"You don't wear a watch." Wesley inspected the broken timepiece on Spike's wrist.

"Where did you get…?"

"Same leaky place, I reckon. Illyria retrieved it from your office at Wolfram and Hart, along with that video and Fred's rabbit."

"So this alternate universe/time/dimension - whatever - is leaking because?" Buffy raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Because the Stone of Time was used there to summon Illyria and somehow got returned here." Willow frowned. "So why isn't it working?"

"Speaking of leaks," Lorne pointed at the mirror. "Notice anything else springing one?"

In the hazy surface of the glass, the huge gates solidified once again, a faint rumbling emanating from somewhere behind their massive bulk. Chunks of verdigris and rotting vegetation cascaded from the top as the gap between them widened. They shuddered and groaned, inching their way open in fitful jerks, the machinery grinding, rusty metal grating and screeching, finally coming to a halt, revealing a ghostly figure in the steaming misty void.

“Knew they’d shriek,” Spike muttered to himself, squinting at the apparition stepping through the gaseous surface of the mirror.

The hazy form solidified, revealing a mediaeval knight, armed with both broadsword and shield. The helmeted head moved slowly from left to right, the eyes beneath the visor sweeping the room, stopping only when they found Angel. The Knight moved towards him, raising the sword.

“Haven’t you heard. Evil Inc’s gone all high-techie and 21st century,” cried Buffy launching herself at him. She swung at his sword arm, falling against the mirror as he neatly side-stepped her attack.

“This is scant welcome to one who comes to serve your cause.”

“Buffy, this is Drogyn, Truthsayer, Battlebrand, former Keeper of the Deeper Well,” said Angel. "The one we were looking for."

Drogyn removed his helmet "It is good to see you again, Angel. "The two men embraced briefly. "I once held Angel as my brother warrior against the forces of darkness."

“You got on well then? Back in the day?" Buffy scrambled to her feet . "Which one of you headed the glowery gang?”

Drogyn turned slowly and fixed her with an unwavering stare. “Do not,” he said slowly, "make light of things beyond your ken.”

“Oh I never had a Ken,” Buffy quipped. “I had a Barbie once. Her head came off.”

“This is the one on whom the world now relies in the fight against the darkness?” Drogyn appealed to Angel. “It truly is doomed.”

“Would’ve agreed with you once, mate,” said Spike. “But she’s not the only One. There’s hundreds more of ‘em. Mind you, not one of ‘em can hold a candle to Blondie here…” He stopped, frowning at Drogyn.“ Didn’t Angel kill you?”

"Yes," replied Drogyn. "Thankfully, he did."

* From Hellbound