DISCLAIMER: Joss owns them, along with a lot of other folks at FOX, various production companies and a network or two. Joss has publicly stated that BtVS was always intended as a show which would inspire fanfiction. Fanfiction he wanted, fanfiction he’s got. No infringement intended.

RATING: R at most for this chapter.

SPOILERS: Everything through the end of seasons 5/2.

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Storming Heaven  part 5

with apparitions of your soul

Sarah McLachlan, Do What You Have To Do

The dreams of those in heaven are a rare thing, for such spirits have passed beyond the compass of mortal dreaming. And yet, sometimes, a soul may slip into the dream world and, when the guardians of such things permit, touch the minds of the living. Waking, the living may perceive these gentle visits as a memory, or an idle thought. Sleeping, they may enjoy the presence of their visitor more fully, beholding the remembered form, hearing the remembered voice. They may receive the comfort of a loving embrace or a fond kiss; for in dreams, the veil between those who have gone and those who remain, while not lifted, is a little thinned.

She who was no longer fitted for heaven had never been meant for hell, unless it be as an conqueror. Nor was she yet fitted for earth, once more. But she yearned toward it, and toward those she loved. It suited Their purposes to grant her the boon of dreaming toward them. And so, she let herself drift, while she waited in the chamber of tear-shaped light.

Inevitably, it was his pain which drew her, his grief she needed most to assuage, and she let herself be drawn toward it. The fire came to her, then.

It isn't time yet, Spike said gently, catching her around the waist, and pulling her back against his chest.

"But are we not outside of time?" she asked, relaxing into his embrace. "Are we not free of its strictures?"

In many ways. But not in all, the fire said, letting her go. She turned to face him. Her beauty, extraordinary enough when she had been human, was now an unbearable, aching exquisiteness that moved even a heart such as his must be. She roused his compassion, and he tried to explain why They had placed limits upon her. Time has not yet unfolded, and you are to go within it once more. The past of your mortal life cannot give you the strength you require, or comfort those you love, yet there is too much danger should you visit the future that must come of his actions.

"My past and my future are both closed to me," she said wistfully, then looked up at him with those luminous green eyes. "Where, then, shall I go?"

We can permit you the space between the time of your leaving, and the time of his return, for now. Soon, there will be more. Until then, go to those others who love you. They will have need your strength.

"And he? Does he not need me most of all?" The fire was not unmoved by her grief, but could not yield to it, for all their sakes.

You know what must be, he reminded her gently. And, she did know. But she had been a human and little more than a girl, and it was difficult for her.

"Have you no mercy for us?" Had his heart been capable of breaking, her soft plea would have shattered it.

Oh, child . . . he said, wishing he could spare her, knowing he dared not.

She watched the Spike-shaped fire, his face burning white, his eyes molten blue pools of cerulean light. She knew he had no desire to see her suffer, just as she knew what her part was to be. More: she knew what would happen--to herself, to Angel, to the world-- if she failed to play her part. "I'm sorry. You are right. I understand. But, it is . . .hard."

He felt love for her swell his breast. Who could not love a child such as this one? He sought to comfort her, again.

For now, child. Only for now. I cannot lie. It will be harder, yet: bitterly hard. But all things fade. We chose you for your strength. We know you can bear what must be borne. And, you know what must be.

"Yes," said quietly. "I know what must be."

Let that strengthen you, then. Go to those who need your comfort, until it may be that you may take comfort, in return. She smiled at this reminder that there would be comfort for her, amidst the darkness.

"Thank you," she said, and let herself sink earthward, dreaming.

She was outside of time, but confined to a narrow span of days within it. She might move backward and forward within that span, but could not go back before the moment when her lifeless body had come to rest after she’d closed the portals, or forward past the point when Angel had cried his grief aloud in heaven. So, she opened herself to their need, choosing the time when their greatest grief had passed, and they would be receptive to the comfort she could offer.

Thus she found herself in Willow’s room, watching an embrace of lovers. She smiled, rejoicing in the love shared between her two friends. She caught a hint of guilt marring the perfection of Willow’s joy, so she dreamed toward her, reminding Willow that her own sacrifice had been made for this very purpose; that her friends might continue to live and to love. She shared with Willow her own pleasure in the redhead’s rapture, and encouraged her to continue. As Willow’s guilt abated, she shared her pleasure in that, as well. Feeling that Willow had taken renewed strength and comfort in the memory of the reason why her friend had made her sacrifice, she left the lovers to their embrace, and dreamed toward another of those to whom she was permitted to offer comfort.

She told Xander that he shouldn’t take life so seriously. She knew him to be a fine man, strong, and caring, and brave, though perhaps he had yet to learn those things about himself. He would be okay, she reassured him. Sensing that he had accepted her reassurance, she left him to happier memories.

She found Giles considering a bottle of gin. She reminded him that he had so much more to do in his own life. He poured himself one glass, but put the bottle away, and she knew he had realized that it was not quite time to set down his own burdens.

Dawn was weeping into her pillow. She gazed down at her, then bent to whisper into her sister’s ear, tenderly brushing a strand of hair away. Dawn thought no more than that a summer breeze had come through her window to stir the air of her room. But Dawn pretended to herself that it w as her sister, and thus pretended what was, in fact, the truth, and settled into slumber. The spirit fled backward through time, to the first night Dawn had tried to find sleep after her older sister’s death, and to every night thereafter. And, each night, she bent over the form tenderly, whispering, "Night, Dawnie," into her ear as she brushed aside a lock of her hair, until she returned to this final night. Assured that Dawn was sleeping in the comfort of dreams, the visitor drifted onward.

She found herself dreaming toward Spike, now. She stopped herself, and stood off, at first. Not because she wished to deny him the comfort of her presence, but because, dead, he might too easily understand what it was that approached him. Then she saw the empty bottle on her grave, and the half-empty one in his hand, and she smiled, drifting closer, knowing he would not be able to sense the truth of what was happening to him.

He wouldn’t respond to the kind of comfort she offered the others, so she teased him with threats should he fail to protect her sister. She knew he would not fail, and tried to ensure that he knew it, as well. She contented herself with the realization that he was no longer considering greeting the sunrise. Eventually, she drifted away from him, and it was then that the terrible cry echoed around her once more, driving her to seek the sanctuary of the antechamber of heaven.

The fire awaited her.

"Please," she begged.

We wish to spare you, the fire said.

"You cannot," she denied. "And, I think, I must know the worst. How else am I to do what must be done?"

The fire sighed, like flames being banked for the evening, and shook his head.

"I just hate to see you hurting, pet," Spike said.

"I know," she said with a soft smile. The fire nodded and took a step toward her.

I shall go with you. He shall not sense your presence, and, perhaps I can yet spare you a little pain. He offered his hand. She took it gratefully, and together they drifted toward the earth once more, into a tower of steel and glass. The tower was filled with the light of the sun, and with many things of great value and greater beauty. And yet, neither the sunlight not the beauty could mitigate the hellish dark that permeated the soul of the place. She shivered, and drew nearer the fire, who wrapped her in his arms, then hurried her toward a room in which no light of sun had been permitted to come.

There she found the one she sought, the one she would always seek out, always be drawn toward. Though his cry of loss had gone unanswered in heaven, his soul yet cried out for hers, just as she desperately longed to answer that cry.

Not yet. She did not need the fire’s reminder. Still, it hurt to see him. He was as beautiful to her as ever, perhaps even more so, because of their long parting. But it was not his beauty which caused her pain: it was his own pain. Angel’s grief was not like the grief of the others she had visited. In all of them, she had sensed the seeds of healing. But his grief was limitless and despairing. She understood that it would not be eased by the passage of time, so much as enlarged by it, as every day which passed without her wore away that much more of his heart.

She knew what must be, but it still hurt her to hear him speak so coldly about his desire to end the world, hurt that his pain made him believe that this would be a kindness to those he loved. She knew what would come, yet it hurt to see him embrace the dark-haired woman, hurt that his pain was such that he took no comfort from the embrace, but used it as a means to an end.

She was not made for tears: the denizens of heaven do not know weeping. But, he had taught her. She had wept when he stormed heaven for her sake, and she wept anew, to see him in such agony of spirit. The fire crackled beside her, around her, offering her soothing warmth.

Soon, it promised.

She nodded, but her tears did not dry.

When he left the dark-haired woman, she followed, the fire drifting at her side.

Arrangements had been made. There was an elevator trip to the underground garage, and a ride in a limousine with tinted windows. Then came another enclosed garage, another elevator ride, and entrance into a penthouse suite with thick blackout curtains covering shuttered casement windows.

It was precisely the sort of place in which he would once have taken great pleasure. It held heavy Victorian furniture that combined the elegance he admired with the durability a man of his strength and power required. The camel-backed sofa was covered in green velvet, centuries-old paintings adorned the cream-colored walls, statues stood on pedestals in recessed alcoves. There were shelves of leather-bound books, and vases of antique china filled with fresh cut flowers.

He ignored all of it. Unmoved by the beauty surrounding him, indifferent to the luxury offered, he looked to neither left nor right as he made his way to the suite’s one bedroom, and closed the door behind him. She moved to follow, but the fire restrained her.

I cannot continue to shield your presence from him, he warned. But, when Angel falls asleep, you may go to him.

"Will he sleep?" she fretted. "Grief keeps him restless."

Grief will rob him of consciousness, the fire reassured her. He will be pulled into the realm of dreams, as a ship overburdened with cargo might be pulled into the ocean's heart. He will not find it strange to see you in his dreams. It is all he hopes for.

"It was all I ever hoped for, once," she remembered. "We are permitted to be together for this time?"

For the length of a dream, the fire agreed. Still, we must safeguard the future. You know what must be, or, as much as it is safe for you to know. He does not, must not, understand his part in it. So, he will be able to see you, to touch you, to speak to you. And you may return his embrace. But you will not be able to speak with him.

"Am I to comfort him, or wound him further?" she asked sadly.

The fire sighed again. It will be no wound, but unlooked for blessing. Will you trade this moment for what is to come, or hold fast, and gain . . .

"What must be gained," she finished and sighed. "Have I ever disappointed you?"

No, child. You have not. Spike smiled sadly at her I am sorry. If it were in my power to change this, I would. If I could have simply let you be together, be happy I would have rejoiced. But even I am not free to make all as I would wish.

"I understand," she reassured him.

The fire nodded, then cocked his head, as if listening to something she could not hear. With another smile, he released her. He sleeps. For this space of time, give and receive comfort. Let it strengthen you as you have strengthened others. And, remember . . . The fire did not need to tell her what it was she must remember. She bowed her head in acceptance, as he flickered, and was gone. Turning once more to the closed door, she passed through it as light through a window.

When Angel had entered the suite Nathan had arranged for him, he recognized at once that Wolfram & Hart had left nothing to chance. They must have kept this place in readiness for him, ever since they had come across those prophecies. Countless hours of research must have gone into so perfectly reconstructing the parlor of the London townhouse he had shared with Darla, Dru and Spike just before that fateful trip to Rumania. He didn’t need to look at the paintings and statues individually to recognize that they were the exact ones he had collected over the course of the first fifteen decades of his unlife. He supposed if he ran his hand over the wooden molding at the back of the sofa, he would find the nick caused by his sword when he’d thought Spike, then chained over its back, needed a harsher lesson than the bullwhip had been able to impart.

The man-hours involved in recreating his past home, the amount of money, of talent and time were staggering, and the feat Wolfram & Hart had pulled off was impressive. He could not bring himself to be impressed. They could have spared themselves a lot of effort, thrown in one chair, bare walls, and a refrigerator filled with blood bags, and he’d have been fine, so long as they provided a bed big enough for him to crash in. He didn’t even need the books: his research was complete. He knew exactly how this was going to play out. Without so much as glancing at his surroundings, Angel headed toward what he knew would be the master bedroom, and shut himself in.

The bed waiting for him wasn’t the one in which he and his vampiric family had tumbled together in sleep over the span of two decades. Someone had had the common sense to juxtapose the recreation of his earlier life with a room that was untainted by memories of any of his several pasts. Instead of a canopied four-poster, heaped with embroidered pillows and velvet duvets, he found a king sized bed with the sort of firm mattress he preferred, and a mere two large pillows. Still, Wolfram & Hart had been unable to resist a touch of opulence. The bed frame was carved from wickedly expensive, outrageously heavy black oak, covered with a goose down comforter over hand-finished silk sheets. An unneeded luxury, as unimportant to him as the paintings in the outer room. Not important enough to change. He quickly stripped out of his clothes, tossing them over a convenient chair, then headed for the shower, to rid himself of the scent of Lilah’s perfumed lust. Within a few minutes, he had retrieved his gim from the chair--it was not a weapon that could long be kept far from its master-- and was sliding between the cool silk sheets, the comforter tossed carelessly aside.

He slid the scabbard beneath his pillow, the hilt near to hand, then settled down to rest. Angel shut his eyes, refusing to think about the things that weighed heavy on his spirit, the eternal weeping of those the gim had swallowed over the long course of its history lulling him to sleep.

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Still not the end.

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