Eight Maids A-Milking

8. On the Eighth Day of Christmas… Eight Maids A-Milking, by Cass

New Years Day, January 1st, 2004

This time when Spike opened his eyes it was to the unmistakable glow of moonlight on snow. Sheets of jewel-bright stars shone icily in the black velvet of the sky. In the light of the full moon, the winter-bare trees cast strong shadows across a wide sweep of pristine, glittering snow. In the distance the smooth, time-worn outlines of snow shrouded mountains stood in stark relief, dark pine forests clothing their lower slopes, running down to a quicksilver-smooth expanse of water.

He let out a low whistle. “Very pretty, love.” He considered the panorama for a moment. “OK. Enough. It’s cold. Let’s go.”

Illyria turned her gaze from the distant hills and looked at Spike. “You are a half-breed. The cold does not matter to you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Spike pulled his duster closer around him. “We’re a bit like snakes – you know, cold-blooded. We get real cold, we slow down. S’why you’ll never find a vampire at the South Pole – that and the fact penguins taste bloody awful.” He stamped his feet and shivered. “So – where are we? Lapland? Decided to come lookin’ for Santa?”

Illyria twisted her head to look back over her shoulder. Spike turned to follow her gaze. “Oh. Right. We’re goin’ for the full-on Highland cliché, then.”

Across a wide expanse of snow-covered lawn stood a picture-book Scottish castle, complete with thick granite walls, mullioned windows and a snow-capped tower. The lower windows blazed with light, casting an orange glow on the snow beneath them.

“Well, light’s are on so someone’s home. I vote we go visit the Laird and blag ourselves a wee dram.” He set off across the lawn. Half way across, he looked down at his feet and then back the way they had come. “Hey! Look – no footprints! Aww. No snow angels, then.”

“Snow angels?” Illyria glanced over at him.

“You lie on your back in the snow and kind of move your arms up and down, then when you get up you’ve left an impression in the snow that looks like… What?” He frowned over at Illyria’s uncomprehending stare. “It’s a kid’s thing, OK?” They were getting closer to the castle now and Spike could make out a heavily muffled figure pacing backwards and forwards in the snow outside the main door. “Some-one over there. That who we’ve come to see?” The figure dropped something and a short, sharp curse carried across the snow toward them. Spike stopped dead at a jolt of recognition. “Oh, wait a minute! You have got to be kidding me! We’ve come here to stand in the snow, freezin’ our bollocks off for him?”

“Oh, good heavens!” Giles muttered to himself, pulling his scarf closer around his face. The process of rearranging his clothing caused him to drop another of the jumble of objects he was carrying into the snow. As he bent to pick it up, something else fell with a muffled thud. “Oh, blast! There goes the Black Bun.” he picked up a lump of dark coloured fruitcake, brushed off the snow and crammed it into his coat pocket. The other objects in his collection followed suit save for a silver hip flask. Giles shook it hopefully, uncorked it and raised it to his lips. His disappointed frown clearly indicated he’s already emptied that particular source of refreshment. He sighed and looked at his watch. “Come on, come on!” he muttered impatiently, stamping his feet in the snow.

Illyria watched him, head cocked. “Why does he wait?”

“I suspect…” Spike was cut off in mid-sentence by the sound of clock chimes, the door being thrown open and the painful wail of the first notes of the bagpipes. He winced. “First foot.”

Illyria peered at Giles’ feet as he walked across the snow toward the open door. “I do not understand.”

“It’s a tradition. The First Foot is the first person to cross the threshold after the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Day. C’mon!” He sprinted across the snow, Illyria close behind. “Important who does it, see? Should by rights be a dark haired man for luck… somethin’ to do with memories of the Viking hordes - blond strangers arriving on your doorstep generally meant trouble.” He slipped past Giles and made it through the door before him. He grinned as Illyria joined him. “Wonder what sort of luck a blond vampire will bring them?”

They were standing in a large, dark, wood-panelled hall. A log fire crackled in a huge fireplace still wearing its Christmas dressing of greenery. Hunting trophies and prints adorned the walls, interspersed with heavy, faded tapestries and ancient, rusting weaponry. A huge, tartan-dressed Christmas tree, its green needles beginning to darken and dry, stood in the well of a wide polished wooden staircase that wound solidly upward. The whole place was redolent with the smell of wood smoke and cigars, the tang of pine and the warmth of beeswax, the feeling of solidity, age and gentility. “Look’s like the watcher’s got some rich mates.” Spike was impressed despite himself.

Illyria watched as Giles emptied his pockets and handed their contents to a laughing grey haired man in a kilt. “What does he give to the man in the skirt?”

“Skirt?” Spike gave a snort of laughter. “It’s a kilt! Never say skirt to a Scotsman, love.” He looked over at Giles. “Salt, coal, Black Bun and whisky – well, he’s drunk the whisky.”

“They are offerings for the birth of the new year? That man is a priest? They seem poor sacrifices.” Illyria walked closer to the two men. “I would not be appeased.”

“Not offerings, just – I dunno, symbols or something. Traditional. OK – you’ve seen traditional. Now can we… Oh, what now?” He gave an exasperated sigh.

Illyria tilted her head listening carefully. She focused on something across the hall and made for a door opposite. Spike followed reluctantly. This room, like the hall, was richly panelled and had a brightly burning fire in the hearth. Full-length windows, the heavy damask drapes pulled back, looked out over the snow-covered landscape. In the centre a large dark oak table was set with a white cloth and laid with silver dishes piled with party food – sausages and cheese on sticks jostling with vol-au-vents, mini quiches and chicken legs. A whole poached salmon, bedecked with cucumber scales and olive-slice eyes lay glistening in pride of place next to a large, brown-crusted game pie. A pile of plates, napkins, cutlery and glasses sat waiting beside them. But it was the lone man in the room who had Illyria’s attention. She walked over to him and examined him closely.

“What is he doing? What is that creature he fights with?” She turned a puzzled gaze to Spike.

Spike winced. “Bagpipes. Not a creature. Musical instrument – allegedly. Look, can we get out of here?”

“It pleases me.” Illyria tilted her head at the piper. “The sound is familiar…”

“Strangle a lot of cats where you come from, do they? C’mon, pet! Let’s go see what the watcher’s up to.”

Illyria kept her eyes fixed on the piper. “He comes,” she said without looking around.

A small crowd of people were coming into the dining room, Giles amongst them. Spike was highly relieved to see he had forgone the kilt in favour of a suit. The majority of the party were male, and all, as far as Spike could see, were old and grey and dull. This wasn’t going to be any sort of swinging party, then. Almost wished he was back with Lorne. He left Illyria to her rapt contemplation of the piper and wandered slowly around the room, eavesdropping on the various conversations. After a few minutes of that he was back at Illyria’s side. “Do you know who this lot are?” he asked her. “Watchers! You’ve only brought us to a bloody Watcher’s shindig! I thought the First had done for this lot, but no, more of ‘em crawlin’ out of the woodwork! And another thing…” he paused as the grey haired man they had seen earlier called attention by tapping a knife against a ringing crystal glass. “Oh, great. Just in time for the speeches.”

The piper droned the bagpipes to silence and Illyria switched her attention to the man calling for silence. “The priest is about to speak. I will hear him.” She crossed the room, trailed by a mumbling and unhappy vampire.

“Let me first say how happy I am that so many of you are able to join us here tonight. I know that some of you have had to make very long journeys, and some have left the comfort of hearth and home and family to be here. I thank you and offer you the freedom and hospitality of my… humble… home.” He paused, smiling self-consciously.

“Git.” Spike mumbled.

“And,” he went on “we are here to remember; to remember our annus horribilis, to remember our fallen colleagues, and those who died in the stand against the First Evil. We have instituted a Book of Remembrance.” He gestured to a large, leather bound tome open on the table in front of him. “Each of their names is recorded here, for each has earned the honour of our Council and each deserves to be remembered.” He patted the book solemnly. “But now, we look to the future, to the New Year and our new hope. The Council will rise again, and now, with the redrawing of the rules of slayerhood, we are needed more than ever. Evil has not quit this earth. Loathsome creatures still stalk this fair world of ours. On this day, the Eighth Day of Christmas, the carol tells us of the eight Beatitudes: blessed are the poor in spirit, the meek, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake and those who mourn. And today, although we mourn for those that have fallen in the struggle we look to the future and our continued fight for righteousness. May we be blessed in our quest to rid the world of the abhorrent plague of demonkind.” There was a general muttering of assent and the occasional muted ‘hear, hear’ from the audience.

“Oh, for… I don’t have to listen to this!” Spike growled.

“Desist!” Illyria flashed him an ice-cold glare. “I will hear him.”

“And now,” the speaker signalled the piper, “we will remember. And I will ask one who knew them best to propose the toast. Rupert?” He gestured to Giles.

Giles looked down at the floor briefly, and then raised his glass. “Auld Lang Syne.”

The rest of the room returned the toast, the piper struck up the tune and fifteen voices were raised in song.

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days of Auld Lang Syne….”

When the last note of the pipes and the last wavering voice died, there was a short silence. A sudden loud bang from outside drew everyone’s attention to the window. “Fireworks!” A voice called and there was a sudden stampede to grab coats, scarves and hats and go outside.

“They remember their fallen warriors. There is honour in this.” Illyria stood at the window, watching the small crowd of people admiring the brightly coloured lights exploding in the sky.

“No thanks to them that there isn’t a whole load more fallen warriors to remember,” Spike muttered. “Bugger all use they were…”

Illyria ignored him. “These Watchers.” A shower of golden stars reflected on the cold, dead surface of her eyes. “They are wise men? Tribal elders?”

“They’re a bunch of wankers!” Spike snorted in disdain. “They bang on about righteousness and… and mercy… mercy! For God’s sake! You want tradition? Here it is at its worst! They are so fucking blinkered, so set in their narrow little ways that…” There was the sound of a page being turned from behind them Spike turned to see Giles bending over the Book of Remembrance. “Him!” He pointed a finger at Giles and moved to stand across the table from him. “You just kept blindly on, clingin’ to the past! That’s the way it always was an’ that’s the way it will always be, right Rupert? No time for anything that rocked your comfy little watcher world, with its… its stupid traditions and dogmas and sheer unbending fucking certainties! You complete and utter, idiotic, uptight, bleedin’… wanker!” Words finally failed Spike and he settled for seething quietly at Giles’ bent head.

Giles ran his finger down the list of names, pausing occasionally as if in thought. His finger stopped at one name longer than the others.

“Anya.” He said softly. “Poor Anya.”

“Anya?” Spike felt a shock of pain. “Anya bought it?” We should have been dead hundreds of years ago ... and we're the only ones who are really alive. “No-one told me. Fuck.” He looked back at Giles. “I should’ve known.” He said accusingly.

Giles reached the end of the role of names and sighed. He sat down heavily in one of the chairs, and stared into the swirling amber liquid in his glass, clearly lost in his memories. Spike watched him, noticing the pain etched clearly on his face. He looked so much more careworn than before, weary almost. The watcher was hurting.

“Yeah, well.” Spike felt a pang of sympathy and bit it down. Like Giles had ever shown him any compassion. “You tried to off me! Bloody good job Woodentops didn’t manage it, huh? Things might have been a bit different back at the Hellmouth then!”

Giles looked up, his eyes travelling through Spike and out of the window. “I’m sorry.” He said softly.

Spike did a double take. “Huh? You talking to me?”

“He cannot see you.” Illyria was still engrossed in the explosions and glittering lights of the fireworks.

Giles stared down at the book. “Should be there by rights,” he muttered. He put down his glass and fished in the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a blue enamelled fountain pen. He unscrewed the lid and frowned down at the book in thought. As Spike watched curiously, Giles looked surreptitiously around the room, then bent over the book and began to write. Spike craned his neck, hoping for a sight of Giles’ message, but Giles was carefully screening what he was doing with his free arm, as if hiding his efforts. Eventually he stopped, screwed the top back on the pen and replaced it in his pocket. He paused, and then raised his glass in a toast. “To Spike.” He took a deep swallow, closed his eyes briefly and then lowered the glass with a self-conscious laugh. “Talking to yourself, Rupert? You really should take more water with it.” He got unsteadily to his feet and walked out of the room.

Spike watched him go and then walked quickly around the table and peered down at the open page.

“His writing hasn’t improved any,” he muttered. “If it gets any smaller…” He frowned in concentration and read “Spike – ‘That best portion of a good man's life: his nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.’ Lest We Forget.” He looked up and watched Giles’ back as he made his way slowly across the room. “Well, bugger me.” he said softly.

Spike stood next to Illyria, watching the last of the fireworks fading in the now starless sky. The first few feather-like snowflakes began to fall softly and silently, and before long the outside world became masked in a swirling snowstorm. From the hall came the sounds of laughter as the guests came inside and out of the cold.

“Nice to be remembered, I guess.” Spike stared out of the window, lost in reminiscence.

“In memories we live beyond our time. When memories die, we die.” Illyria gave a short nod. “I will see another. I will see one from my remembrance.” She paused. “I wish to see him.”

Spike glanced over at her. “Thought you might.” He said. Together they watched as the swirling snow merged and blended with the blur of space and time.