18.3: Soul Searching - The Epilogue

"You got everything you need?" Willow gestured at Feigenbaum perched on top of a small suitcase, waiting alongside the mirror.

"I think so. I mean I packed for every…." Fred turned to Drogyn "What’s the weather like in the Old One’s Domain? You think three jumpers will be enough?"

Drogyn notched his sword belt tighter, picked up his shield and stepped towards the gates. "Until you locate the Oracle who holds the true name of your combined spirits, you will have no need of the protection of human garb. Illyria will assume whatever form is necessary."

"And when we have it?" Wesley picked up his bag and hoisted it onto his shoulder. "What then?"

"You must find a way to return." Drogyn placed a hand on the centre of the portal; it opened at his touch. "I cannot accompany you. I must resume my duties as Keeper of the Gate." He motioned at the open gateway. "Your way lies through there. I follow another path."

"I wish I could come with." Willow kissed Fred lightly on the cheek. "But what with Giles’ frantic phone call for help last night…" She grimaced apologetically.

"And me," Connor said shyly. He gave Fred a quick peck on the opposite cheek. "Also with the sorry."

"Me too." Buffy embraced Fred. "With the sorry bit, not the frantic part."

Fred bent to pick up her bag. "Well. This is it then. Bye y’all." She waved to Lorne.

"So soon?" Lorne threw his arms around her and pulled her into a hug. "We only just got used to having you back Freddles." He released her, studied her at arms’ length for a second and narrowed his eyes. "I know you’re in there somewhere, Lyri. You be good to our girl."

"As she is to me." Fred’s eyes flashed icily and Illyria shrugged herself free from his grasp. "There is much we may provide one for the other while we remain together in this vessel."

She closed her eyes and fastened her hand in a vice-like grip on Lorne’s arm, drew him close and hugged him again.

"If it hadn’t been for you and Spike, I wouldn’t ever have come back," said Fred. Where is Spike?" she asked looking around the lobby.

"Avoiding me," replied Buffy.

Fred picked up her case. "Well then, I guess I’m finally ready."

Wesley took her arm, turned and looked at Angel for a long moment, then stepped into the portal.

"Take good care of her Wes," said Angel.

A blur of black leather raced towards the mirror.

"Where are you going?" Angel caught the sleeve of Spike’s duster and swung him round.

"Why are you going?" asked Buffy, her voice wavering.

"Nothin’ here for me." Spike yanked his arm from Angel’s grip, pulled his coat closer and dropped his eyes from Buffy’s. "Not with Dru gone."

"You still have family." Angel licked his lips nervously. "You still have me."

"And you have Connor. Father and son tag-team." Spike shrugged. "LA doesn’t need me anymore. He jerked his head towards Wesley’s disappearing figure. "But I reckon Wes ’n Illyria’ll need a bit of muscle on their way back from the Old One’s gaff. Thought I’d tag along for a while. Bring a spot of civilisation to the natives." He turned towards the portal.

Buffy caught his hand. "Spike. Ever thought I might need you?"

Spike shook his head and pulled his hand free. "Face it, love. Happy-ever-after’s not for the likes of you and me. Is it?"

She stared into his eyes. "No," she replied her own brimming with tears. "I guess it isn’t."

His face softened. "You’re like me, Buffy. Still all about the fight," he murmured caressing her cheek. He bit his lower lip and took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping as he dropped his hand from her face and turned away. "And you got a great gig waitin’ for you in Cleveland, what with Giles wantin’ you as lead with the Slayerettes."

"Oh, don’t mention gigs for at least the next decade or five," said Lorne. "If I never hear Psychedelic Folk again, it’ll be too soon." He picked a tumbler from the check-in desk and threw back its contents. "I still have ‘acid’ taste in my mouth.

Spike sprinted towards the gates as they started to close. From within the smoky interior, a shadowy form loomed; a slavering demon blocked his entrance. "Now that’s more like it!" he cried, flinging himself forward.

The gates closed behind him with a clang and sank into the swirling whirlpool of mist. The mirror folded in on itself, disappearing with a gentle gurgle as it followed the gates.

"Do you think the Old Ones are ready for him?" asked Lorne.

"Doubt it," replied Buffy. She faced Angel, her face streaked with tears.

"Don’t worry," he said. "He’ll be back. Spike always comes back."

------------------------------------------