Song Lyrics

He wonders how long he's been in this quiet cell of isolation that is this seeming paradise of nothing. Spike looks around at the beautiful vistas and green rolling hills. This isn't like any Hell he could have imagined but perhaps it's all the more cruel for the beautiful face it wears on the surface. No one could have been more surprised to wake up here than he was; from the mouth of hell itself to this deceptively innocuous-looking pocket of serenity. No one could have been more surprised than he was to have woken up at all.

It didn't look like Hell but he remembers reading a passage in a book from his Human youth that said that each man crafts his own Hell. He fears few things more than the isolation of being alone and his Hell is beautiful but it is still his Hell. The surprise of waking up quickly became secondary to the reality of his situation. Whatever hand had crafted his prison was diabolically clever, he had everything to sustain his life with just a little work and effort. The building materials were plentiful and a wide variety of placid animal life ranged all over the place, providing a readably accessible food supply. Water was no problem as his location sported both a very large fresh water river that fed a large lake and his exploring soon led him to a cave system not too distant that sported natural hot springs. Several miles away a large rocky coastline gave him easy access to the sea, though the strange mauve and sapphire coloured waves were an unusual sight to be sure.

He explored as thoroughly as he could, ranging through the hills and up into the mountains, through the fords and across the plains and into the depths of the eldritch forests. He knew that he couldn't be anywhere on the plane or the planet that birthed him, not even in the remotest forest was nature so untouched as the Humans' destructive potential was very far reaching indeed. There was no way to judge by whether or not the sun would combust him as it never rose in this strange place. The 'day' was the little more than twilight and the nights were the darkest of dark shrouds and the moon seemed to be perpetually full.

For nearly two years he travelled his pretty cage with not a single sign of civilization or hints that any had ever existed there at all. He was utterly alone and he knew that the isolation would soon drive him mad unless he took steps to prevent the inevitable mental collapse. He knew that the best way to do that was to have something to focus on and to keep his mind off of his situation. He began to search for a place to settle down and eventually his travels brought him back to the place that he had started and taking it as a sign, he began to fashion an existence for himself.

He wonders how perverse it is that he actually managed to learn a few things watching Survivor and Gilligan's Island. As time went on in its indomitable march he managed a comfortable existence. He explored the system of caves that harboured the hot springs and found several large connecting caves. A few were inhabited but a Vampire has to eat and they proved to be satisfying meals in the end, giving up their homes as they gave up their lives to him. Deciding that it would be easier to make the caves home as opposed to building something entirely from scratch, he set about making things as comfortable as he could. Miraculously he'd managed to arrive still armed with the small hand axe he'd secreted in the small of his back and both of his knives, so that made things a little easier. He found that he could use many parts of the animals he'd drained for food for other purposes and nothing went to waste. The bones could be fashioned into a variety of tools, weapons, and other objects, while the internal organs made handy bait for fishing or trapping.

After several months and a lot of trial and error he taught himself how to tan and preserve the leather hides of the bovine like herbivores that seemed to range in vast herds and the number he took was barely a dent in their number. Using a bone needle and thin strips of scrap leather as thread he even learned to fashion clothing and other items. The feathers from the geese-like water birds and other avian types that he was able to catch also came in handy. The heavier outer feathers he found made excellent insulation when stitched together to form thickets and he was able to line the walls and floor of his cave home with the thickly protective cushioning. The soft down feathers he used to stuff a large leather bag which he then cross-stitched and quilted. Set atop a natural rock shelf that was nestled towards the back of the cave, it became a comfortable bed. He decided to sacrifice his soft cotton t-shirt and deftly turned it into a thick fluffy down filled pillow. He decided to carefully set his precious duster aside and he folded it reverently and placed it on a rock shelf. After a few moments his jeans reluctantly joined it also folded neatly. A simple pair of leather trousers and a vest would do well enough for clothing. It wasn't long before his heavy clunky books also joined the neatly stored items of clothing. The soft Indian style moccasins he was able to fashion were more suited to the terrain and allowed him to move with almost cat-like silence, a great advantage on the hunt.

He began to explore his new home more carefully and he discovered that the wealth of things it boasted were greater than he knew. He found a shortcut through the mountains to the plains that would allow him to move easily between the valley that was his home and where the majority of the large herbivores dwelt. He also found an animal not unlike a long legged sheep and remembering lessons learned long ago from his Mother he soon relearned the skill of carding wool and weaving. He even managed to construct a simple guitar and flute from the simple materials his new home had in abundance. Soon his life was as soft as it could be, though hardly as pretty or polished as a Macy's ad but it was all he needed... well almost all he needed.

The days turned to weeks, then to months and finally years, marked only by the turning of the seasons and the tides of life. For a while he tried to keep track but eventually all that did was depress him, as did trying to figure out why he was where he was and not dead... well permanently so. His favourite theory is that he's in some sort of limbo dimension, too good for Hell but too bad for Heaven and this perfect prison is his karmic compromise. He soon stopped trying to figure it out, it didn't really matter and not much did anymore.
 
He's not sure when he started singing but he found comfort in the sound of a voice, even if it was his own. In the evening when he'd finished his tasks for the night and the night's sounds rose up around him he would climb to the top of the hill that overlooked the river and the lake beyond and raise his voice in song. The strange alien sounds soon became as much a part of the surroundings as the growing things and the animals came to accept them. He fancies that the quietness that seemed to fall over his quiet valley was their ultimate complement as all stopped to listen to his impromptu concerts. He knows it's probably the sound of his voice so unlike theirs that has them quiet but he's fine with the flattering lie he chooses to believe.

He's strangely not surprised that she shows up one night while he was softly strumming his simple guitar; surely he conjured her from his memory. She's as lovely as he remembers her to be with her porcelain pale skin and her hair dark as a moonless night. Her pretty gown is a confection of pale snowy white satin and pale yellow lace that isn't something he can remember her wearing before but she must have if he's conjured her from his memories wearing it.

Paint me your picture and hang it on the wall
Color it darkly; the lines will start to crawl
Down...down...down
Spin me around and around...

Draw me away to the night from the day; leave not a trace to be found...
Down...down...

Nothing is real but the way that I feel and I feel like going -
Down, down, down, down, down, down, down,
Down, down, down, down, down....

His smile is tender as she dances in the moonlight as he knew that she would, as she did every time he sang for her. As carefree as a little girl as she swayed , bobbed and twirled until the world was a mad whirl around and again, until all that was known was a blur of chaos all run together. She is as she always was to him tender and tough despite the seemingly fragile body that housed her indomitable will. Hers was the spirit of a little girl, fearless and easily bruised but the ugly marks soon faded and were forgotten as though they had never been. She courted pain with all the fervour and dedication of a child chasing after its favourite ball despite the dangers of the busy streets. She was the wisdom of madness and the anarchy of random thoughts. She was a constant contradiction that caused her mind to float from subject to subject like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower eager to sample all that there was to offer. She was broken perfection and still she danced in the moonlight to the tunes he wove for her.

I'm ready to go, pull me down from below
Give me a place I can lay
Hey Hey - nothing is real but the way that I feel and I feel like going

Down, down, down, down, down, down, down,
Down, down, down, down, down...

Nothing is real but the way that I feel and I feel like going -
Nothing is real but the way that I feel and I feel like going

Down, down, down, down, down, down, down,
Down, down, down, down, down...

The pain and loneliness he feels is poured into the last word of the song transforming the word down into a howling lament that washes over the valley setting the birds to panicked flight as the small creatures dive for the comfort of safe dens and dense thickets. He pulls the guitar tight to his chest and wilts over the top of it drained and shaking from the cathartic release of emotion.

It takes him several moments to realize that a hand is stroking slowly through his riot of hair, which thanks to the comb and the knives he's brought with him, he's managing to keep trimmed and somewhat neat. He doesn't need a mirror to see that the peroxide has long grown out of his hair returning it to the burnished gold, tawny red, and whiskey coloured mane of his youth.

"You are real my beautiful and wild William. A flower that grows alone is no less beautiful for its isolation. I wanted to come before, sweet Childe of mine but I was forbidden to interfere in the choice at hand but your cries have reached the vaults of Heaven's Gate. Death cannot part us for we are death. You always sung me such pretty songs; sing me something happy, my William? I will dance for you now as I danced for you then." Her voice is unchanged, curiously trapped somewhere between childhood and womanhood and freely travelling between.

He rears back and away, shaking his head from side to side in denial as her scent wraps around him. The pervasive scent that is violet water, Frankincense and Myrrh mixed with the faint scent of candle wax, sacramental wine, and despair could belong to no one else. "No, no, no, no, you can't be here, please don't be here." He chants frantically squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Not his dark princess, not in this place, not really, that would mean Angelus is alone and that is something he doesn't want to face. Angel may have denied them and convinced that he didn't need them but he's always known that his Sire felt more for them than he was willing to face. He knows that every night he rises because he knows that if it were any other way he'd have been dust long ago, like Darla and like Penn. He may not consciously realize it but soul or not Angel or Angelus, he protected them and even in his cruellest moments he never injured them so badly they wouldn't heal.

She was gone when he opened his eyes.

She would come and go with no predictable pattern and eventually he had to accept that his Dark Princess was no more of the flesh. They spoke of many things, wonders and horrors and sometimes nothing at all as they wrapped themselves in music and let it speak for them. Drusilla told him of her final death and he mourned for his tortured Princess even as he rejoiced in her salvation. While her Demon was unworthy of entrance to the hallowed halls of the afterlife, her mortal soul was welcomed and embraced as her Demon was cast out to return to the pits that birthed it. He had the singular pleasure of getting to know his once-Sire as she was a human girl and he rejoiced that some part of her was living on and thriving in whatever lay beyond his prison.

Some part of him knew that tonight was different. As he gathered up his guitar and his flute and ascended to his favourite vantage point over his Valley, each step brought more surety. Something was going to happen tonight, something was going to change and he marched boldly to meet it and her. He knew that she would come to him tonight as the music drifted on the breeze.

The full moon rose over the distant mountain peaks as he settled at the edge of the hill as it dropped sharply over his valley; if this were his kingdom than he would be sitting atop his throne. He sets the simple six string guitar aside and lifts the simple wooden flute to his lips and soon the night drifts with music, haunting and soft.

His eyes are closed as he sways gently but he doesn't need his eyes to know the second she arrives or the gentle caress of her hand as she sweeps by him in her joyous dancing.

"You play the sweetest music, My William. It drifts on the wind like kisses and holds me as close as your arms. Sing me to my forever William?" Her voice is cotton candy sweet and the bitterest of flavours as he lowers the flute, no longer having the strength to hold it aloft.

"You've come to say goodbye then." He says flatly, his voice choked and throbbing with pain.

"You cannot live a life always saying hello, Sweet William. There has to be goodbyes too. I don't know what lies beyond for me but it is time to find out and I cannot do that tethered to my past." Her hand is gentle as it cups his head and the bosom he is pulled against is warm and welcoming.

"What kind of life is this that they've left me to? I would almost rather be dammed."

"Do not speak so my Childe." There is nothing of the madness that once ruled her left in her voice. What he hears now is only the chorus of Angels. "You are alone but you will not always be, I have seen that it is so. What you have lost, you will reclaim, and what has been taken will be given back. Trust in your heart my sweet one for it has never lied to you or hidden the truth away."

Spike clings to his creator and trembles faintly. "When will I know what to do to escape this place?"

"You cannot escape but even now events are set in motion that you will be released and light shall overcome the darkness of despair that troubles you so. Things will not be as they were, hold to that certainty and know that it is true. I will not see you again, my path leads me to journey far from where you shall be but I will never leave as long as you remember." The hands release him and he is free and sitting once more alone. "Sing our song my Sweet William, sing and know that wherever I am, I shall hear it."

His hand goes to his guitar of its own volition and it is soon settled across his lap as his hands steal over the tightly strung strings of sinew and coaxing the music from its depths.

The valley green was so serene
In the middle ran a stream so blue...
A maiden fair, in despair, once had met her true love there and she told him...
She would say...

He lets his voice trail off and blend into Drusilla's as the bell like purity of her voice rises to answer his own.

"Promise me, when you see, a white rose you'll think of me
I love you so,
Never let go,
I will be your ghost of a rose..."

Their voices weave and join in unison as the tide rises and recedes in the sea so they are moved by forces unseen but never unfelt.

Her eyes believed in mysteries
She would lay amongst the leaves of amber
Her spirit wild, heart of a child, yet gentle still and quiet and mild and he loved her...
When she would say...

"Promise me, when you see, a white rose you'll think of me
I love you so,
Never let go,
I will be your ghost of a rose..."

When all was done, she turned to run
Dancing to the setting sun as he watched her
And ever more he thought he saw
A glimpse of her upon the moors forever
He'd hear her say...

"Promise me, when you see, a white rose you'll think of me
I love you so,
Never let go,
I will be your ghost of a rose..."

He'd hear her say...

"Promise me, when you see, a white rose you'll think of me
I love you so,
Never let go,
I will be your ghost of a rose..."

A last touch against his cheek and she starts to fade as the night before the day until all that is left are her words upon the wind.

"Never let go Spike and I will never be lost to you. Sing for me...."

Ghost of a rose........

He played that night until his voice fled and his fingers ran with blood. He sang for her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The full moon shines brightly upon the ivory stone as he kneels to place the single flower down upon it. His hands turn to search among the gaily patterned colours of white and yellow daisies, deftly plucking the weeds that are trying to gain a foothold among the beautiful flowers. There will be no ugliness here, only beauty. He feels more than sees the powerful form that crouches beside him to search for the botanical invaders in the second bed of flowers.

Their task complete their hands reach out to entwine fingers, the tattoos that adorn the inside of both of their wrists seem to shine faintly in the moonlight. They take a step back and survey their work.

"Why did you choose daisies? I didn't ask before. We could have planted roses."

"She likes daisies but they always died, these won't." He says quietly, pulling his Mate closer and turning them away from the field of silent stones and back to the land of the living. His voice drifts back in parting benediction.

He'd hear her say...

"Promise me , when you see, a white rose you'll think of me
I love you so,
Never let go,
I will be your ghost of a rose..."

Behind them an ivory Angel stands guard over the carefully tended plot, surrounded by daisies in riots of yellow and white until they're almost overflowing. Despite winter's chill winds the magic that sustains them protects them from the harsh reality of weather. The heavy stone Angel is a masterpiece of craftsmanship and if anyone were to look closely enough they might be startled to recognize its stone features as very familiar and the curious object it clutches in one hand as a railroad spike.

The heavy ivory cover-stone is bevelled and carved deeply and angled so that the Angel towering above it partially shields it from the weather. A lone white rose lies upon the words so deeply ingrained into its welcoming surface.

Drusilla Bradley-Quinlan
We'll never let go.

If anyone had been there to see it, they may have smiled as an uncharacteristically warm breeze blew in out of nowhere to set the petals to dancing.