Title: Well of Realms

Author: Nightmelody

email: nightmelody@hotmail.com

Season: post Chosen

Summary: Yet another human-Spike- post Chosen fic.

Pairing: S/B

Rating: R

Disclaimer: The Buffyverse belongs to Joss Whedon


Chapter Five: Retreat

Hearth Home, Glastonbury, England.

"This is your room, Miss Summers. I think you will find it
comfortable." Mother Rose led Buffy into the room. She was an older
woman, spare and plain, wearing a long blue robe . "The bath is down
the hall. Dormitory style, I'm afraid. You'll find toiletries in the
closet."

It was a small room, stone walled like the entire abbey. It held a
narrow bed, covered with a blue cotton spread, an easy chair next to
a book shelf, and a desk under an arched stone window.

Buffy walked into the room slowly, fingers brushing the bedspread,
the curtain. She moved to the desk and touched a thick book there,
flipping it open to reveal blank lined pages. There were two of them,
she noticed.

"What are these for?"

They were the first words Buffy had spoken other than her goodbyes to
Giles and Dawn.

"That will be your life. From birth until this day. Your past. It is
your first task and assignment, for however long it takes you,
whether a week , or a month, or a year. The other one is for your
life now, and your hopes and dreams for the future."

"So I'm just going to sit in here all day, writing?"

"No, dear. There will be other things to do. We begin each day in the
garden at sunrise, with a dance. That is followed by meditation, and
then breakfast. And you will have two hours each day to give of
yourself, and two hours a day for personal expression."

For the first time in ages, Buffy wanted to know more. "What do I
give of...myself?" She felt empty-what was there to give? " And what
is personal expression?"

"To give of yourself is to do some work to better our community.
Perhaps cleaning, or gardening. Or you can join our work in the city,
volunteer at the daycare, or at the senior center. There will be a
list each day."

"Personal expression deals in the arts. You can paint, or join the
choir or dancers. There are potters, and weavers. You can explore all
of them."

Mother Rose left her, explaining that either of her neighbors would
be happy to assist her if she needed any thing during the night.

There was nothing to unpack, Buffy realized. The closet held robes
and leggings, and plain cotton panties and sports bras, several sizes
of leather slippers and shoes, like the other women wore. A basket
contained toiletries, and towels were folded neatly on a shelf. The
clothes Dawn had packed were not there.

The book shelf next to the bed held books on herbs, on myth, poetry,
and the complete works of Dickens and Shakespeare. All old.

When was the last time she had read a book? For a college class?
She'd never finished any.

There was a knock at her door and she opened it to find a woman
pushing a wheeled cart.

"Here's you evening tea, dear," said the young woman. She handed
Buffy a ceramic teapot and a cup. "We all drink tea at night- it
helps us sleep sweetly."

Buffy thanked her and carried the tea to her desk. Maybe it would
help her stomach, which kept getting queasy at night. Stress and
grief, she figured . She sat in the soft chair and sipped the hot
sweet herbal tea in the twilight.

I hope it works. I hope I sleep well. I hope I don't spend hours
swallowing down my own bile, to keep from vomiting.

I hope I don't dream of the monster I was to him.