The Dimly Burning Wick

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Summary: a little ficlet that inspired by a subject line on the Spikes_Soul mailing list.

AUTHOR: Elsa Frohman
EMAIL: elsa@frohman.net
RATING: G
PAIRING: Buffy/Spike
SPOILERS: Through 'Potential' Season 7.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For Clariel, inspired by her subject line.
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He will not cry or lift up his voice, or make it heard in the street; a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice. He will not grow faint or be crushed until he has established justice in the earth ...

-- Isaiah 42:2-4

The house is dark and makes small creaking sounds as it settles. The sun has been down for hours and the air is cooling. What heat there is comes from the little girls sleeping on the living room floor, their soft breathing and tiny sighs a background to the sounds of distant traffic and the wind passing through the trees outside.

He keeps watch through the night -- the one best suited to such a task. The night is his day. He doesn't get sleepy as he wanders through the house alone in the still hours.

He stands in the front entry hall looking into the living room dormitory. The girls are wrapped in their down-filled cocoons, insulated from the rigors of their training for a few hours. He watches and listens for a moment and knows that one isn't asleep. He can hear her choking off her sobs as she buries her face in her pillow. He goes and crouches down beside her, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.

"Hush," he whispers in a voice so low that none of the sleepers will be disturbed. "Nothing to cry about, princess. Nothing to be afraid of. I'll keep you safe."

She turns over and looks up at him, her eyes glistening with tears in the dark. He brushes a stray hair off her cheek. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and tries to show him a brave face. He gives her a smile and stands to move on in his nightly rounds.

If the Slayer knew he was comforting this girl, she'd be angry. Not jealousy, though there would be a touch of that as well. No, she has told him over and over that he can't be too friendly or reassuring with the girls. He can't make them comfortable with his presence. When they face down his kind, they can't be troubled by the
possibility that this might be a nice one -- one who isn't out for their blood. They have to believe that all of his kind are killers.

But he can't make himself turn away when he hears one of them crying. He can't turn his back and pretend he doesn't feel their uncertainty and despair. Their pain is to bright, too sharp for him to ignore.

He hears their hearts beating, and the soft whisper of their breath. They radiate warmth and life into the air of a house that has sheltered too much death.

The carpenter snores softly as he sleeps on the sofa. This one struggles against his own variety of despair. The carpenter feels ordinary and unappreciated -- a pebble in a box of diamonds. He doesn't know that the heart that beats in his chest and the blood that flows through his veins makes him an extraordinary creature. He doesn't recognize the preciousness of the life that burns bright inside him.

In the next room, the boy sleeps on a cot. This one wants to be good now, though he doesn't know the price he'll have to pay. How could he know? The boy drifts aimlessly from day to day. He killed and doesn't understand yet what that's done to him. Will he make a clear choice? Will he accept the grief that comes with responsibility? The spirit is weak. But it isn't absent. The boy might make it, but it isn't a sure bet.

The vampire moves on, climbing the stairs silently. In dim light of a window in the upstairs hall, he stops to listen. First he pauses outside the witch's room. He can tell that she's not asleep from the irregular sound of her breathing. This one lies awake many nights. She understands what the boy downstairs doesn't. She knows the pain that comes from owning one's self. The witch stirs, turning over in her sleeping bag on the floor, trying to get comfortable and find the peace to rest. He knows she won't find it tonight, as she hasn't for several nights in a row.

The other sound from that room is the rhythmic breathing of the other girl -- the oldest of the army of young women who have invaded the house. This one sleeps the sleep of confidence. Will that brash attitude survive when she's tested?

He pauses again outside the next door. The little sister sleeps here, and tonight she is sleeping. He doesn't hear the soft sniffling he's heard so many nights lately. The little girl is growing up. Each day she gets a little stronger. She stands tall. She's strong enough to take on anything that comes at her -- though she doesn't know it yet. He has no doubt that she's equal to the challenges that await her.

A few more steps and he pauses at the last door. The Slayer is sleeping restlessly beyond this barrier. He can hear her shifting in her bed. The dreams trouble her. She sleeps, but she never rests, and each day she seems a bit more tired. She's strong, but even she is vulnerable to exhaustion. He wishes he could step through this door and go to her. He wishes he could comfort her and stand sentry over her dreams, letting only the gentle ones reach her. It would soothe him to soothe her. But he's forbidden that solace. There is still too much between them for him to bridge the gap. Maybe someday, or maybe never. He doesn't know how their story will end. He only knows he has to keep living it.

He slips back down the stairs as silently has he came up, and takes up his post in the kitchen, looking out over the back yard, waiting to raise an alarm if a threat comes into sight. He extends his senses to hear any footfall on the street outside. He listens, and sniffs the air, and looks out over the night drenched world.

It's hard, so hard. It would be a comfort to cease to be -- to wait for the sunrise out in the open. But he knows he can't lay down this burden. It's his to carry and he'll carry it on. Some nights it feels like he's stretched tight and ready to snap. Others that he's spread thin, so thin that they can see through him.

He is the dimly burning wick, and he will not be crushed until he has established justice in the earth.

The End

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Elsa Frohman - elsa@frohman.net