William's Song

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Summary: Just who is William, and how does he feel about being dragged into the 21st Century?

AUTHOR: Elsa Frohman
EMAIL: elsa@frohman.net
PREQUEL TO: Spike's Song
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING: Buffy/Spike
SPOILERS: Through 'Sleeper' season 7.
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My name is William. I was born in the year of our Lord 1855 in All Hallows London Wall Parish -- one hundred forty-seven years ago -- in a different world.

What a long, strange trip it's been.

Oh, you think it odd and anachronistic that I'd quote the Grateful Dead? Not so strange. I am dead, you know. So I have a certain affinity for the group -- their name, at least. I died in 1880, in a London stable. But I haven't been gone. I've been here all along -- separated from the world, it's true, but I've seen it all.

I saw the motor cars crowd out the horses, and the electrical wires go up on the poles to light the world. I heard Caruso sing in person, then on a wax recording, and now I have a boom box on my bureau. When I was eight, I sat for a family photograph, and my face was blurred because I couldn't stay still long enough. Mother wrapped my knuckles for that -- told me I'd spoilt it. Now, with these digital cameras, you can have the finished picture in less time that I was supposed to sit still for that portrait.

I watched the first magic lantern picture shows and laughed at Charlie Chaplin films, marveled when Al Jolson sang "Mammy," and now I watch soap operas on the telly. I watched when the Americans put a man on the moon. That was something, wasn't it?

But that's neither here nor there. You aren't interested in the march of technology. You're wondering about me.

So am I.

Here I am in the 21st Century, somewhat in control of my facilities again after some hundred and twenty years as an uninvolved observer. Yes, that's more or less what it was like. I was here. If he cared to, the demon could consult me. He didn't very often. He disliked me. I won't say he hated me. That's too strong. But he held me in contempt. I was weak. I was inhibited. I was pathetic. And rather than endure his
sneering disdain -- and the knowledge of the vile things he did -- I withdrew.

Now he's called me back, and I find I have no choice but to be in the world again.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. You're wondering what sort of man I am.

I was never a quick study as a schoolboy. Mother assured me that I wasn't really slow, I just had trouble keeping my mind on my studies. She would sigh her exasperation with me when she came to the station to meet me after another trip on the down train. I'm afraid my school career was rather checkered. A part of a term at school, a trip home when the head master decided I needed to "renew my dedication." Mother would tutor me then, so when I went back for the next term I wouldn't be too far behind. I'm sure mother used every bit of influence she could
muster to get me back in all those times. She called in every favour we were owed to complete my education.

Father didn't leave us much in terms of social position or money. He took his own life -- before they could take him to debtor's prison. He was an importer of wines with a marginally successful trade, until a hopeful but ill-advised investment in Lloyds.

He'd married above himself, and mother could have covered his debts, but he wouldn't allow it -- until after he was gone, when she had to anyway. There wasn't much left after that -- just enough to keep me in school, when I wasn't day-dreaming my way onto the down train. Mother and Annabelle, my little sister, hadn't much left to live on, and I promised them again and again that I would keep them in style and comfort when I finished school and entered my profession.

In my school days, my own mind, I was Ulysses -- or Jason, or Hercules, or Paris. I fought for my Penelope, battled beneath the walls of Troy, won the Golden Fleece and cleaned the Augean Stables. I sailed past Scylla and Charybdis, and found the Holy Grail. How could sums and memorization compete with the thrill of beheading Medusa? 'Twas the sirens that got me in the end.

Women -- they bounded my world. They were my sustenance and my inspiration. I worshipped many a fair maiden from afar. As a shy, awkward 14-year-old, I fell in love with the pastor's wife, then at 15 it was the headmaster's daughter -- that improved my studies a bit and I managed to stay at school for the entire term. And later, when I was at university, there was a succession of great romances, though not a one of the objects of my affection ever knew of it. I suppose that's how I most took after Father. I was always attracted to women above my station. The radiant ones, the princesses and warrior queens. My heart paid tribute. I was vanquished and enslaved. I prayed for a word of encouragement -- a token of affection.

And none ever came.

Now, you might believe that I died without ever knowing a woman in the biblical sense, but that wouldn't be strictly true. When I was at university, I kept company with several women of less than sterling character. Not that I was a regular customer at the bordellos that serviced the college boys -- I generally didn't have the money to spare. But more than once, after an evening of drinking, I would allow myself to be bullied or shamed into going along with the others. I learned something of the mechanics of love at the breasts of those sad-faced, pockmarked whores. And I learned that what they offered was not what I wanted.

I wanted something pure, something lustrous, something worth sailing a ship to the end of the world for. I wanted to slay a dragon for my love, to climb a tower or perform a quest. I would return, bloodied, from the battlefield and lay my bloodied sword and shield at my lady's feet.

Instead, I called on Nell Griffith, daughter of one of my father's business associates. I walked her home from church services every Sunday, and made awkward conversation with her mother and maiden aunt afterward. Nell was a solid, respectable girl, and I certainly could have done worse. But she had the beginnings of a moustache and a thick waist, not to mention the laugh of a crazed mule. I don't want to seem disparaging. She was affectionate, and she would have made a good wife -- in the sense that she could cook and had the skills and attitude to manage a household like a brigadier general.

But I can't say I loved her. At times, I liked her. And I think she was fond of me, maybe even beyond my potential to complete her plans to be a wife and mother.

But Nell stopped mattering to me the day I saw Cecily Addams.

However, let us not dwell on Cecily. You know how that turned out. Not my finest hour. And in retrospect, I can't really say she was worth it, the arrogant chit. If I knew then, what I know now... but who can't say that?

We'll skip over my rather sordid demise. I don't even know whether Nell came to my funeral. I'm certain Miss Addams didn't.

When the demon raised my body, I found myself conscious, but no longer in control. I could see out of my eyes. Remember all I had been. But my mouth would not speak my words, and my limbs would not obey my commands. And what happened next left me reeling in horror. The blood. Blood in my mouth, running down my throat, warming my belly. I felt the girl's flesh give way under my fangs. I felt her heart flutter to a stop and her body begin to cool. The taste, sharp and coppery, and the thick, warm feel on my tongue. Words fail me. I wanted to feel sick, but I didn't. I felt
the power. I had ended a life, and I didn't feel guilty, I felt exhilarated. And I was beyond disgusted with myself.

But it wasn't myself. It was the demon. The demon had become me. He had all of my memories. He had my voice. He had my body. And he had me -- trapped inside him. I could see what he saw, feel what he felt, but I couldn't influence anything that happened.

Can you blame me for withdrawing? I couldn't bear it. He killed and killed again. He reveled in it. And he was me.

I did not sleep for the next 120 years. I was there, but I wasn't involved. I saw the changes. I saw the world evolve from what it was to what it is. And, now and then, some of it interested me. And sometimes, the demon -- the one who came to call himself Spike -- would laugh at me for my fascination with technology and politics and literature. He still thought I was pathetic. He cared about sensation, and passion, and fighting fists and fangs. He was impatient and impulsive. But sometimes he needed my advice, and even if he seldom took it after he asked, I gave it. It passed the time.

Then something happened. I suppose it started when the government types captured us and put that chip in my head. He was at a loss then. He couldn't go on the way he was. So, he began asking me for advice more often. And sometimes he took it. And sometimes he didn't.

The girl? Yes, I saw her. And she was certainly pretty. But I can't say I was interested. I'd been separated from the world so long. He was obsessed with her. She was never out of his thoughts. A thousand times a day he asked me what to do to make her love him. I didn't have much help for him. I'd not been very successful with the fairer sex myself in my day.

And when she began coming to him for physical satisfaction, I found myself withdrawing again. I was repulsed by the things they did together. Not so much because of the specific acts they performed, but because it was so utterly loveless on her part. Even I could see that. He saw it too, but he denied it. He wanted her so badly that he deluded himself about her feelings. But I could see it. I saw the same look in her eyes that Cecily gave me on the last night of my life. I knew.

And my relationship to the demon changed as well. Now it was I who thought he was pathetic. And he hadn't the heart to contradict me. The contempt was gone.

I felt pity for him. He was trying... trying so hard. He wanted to be better than he was -- for her. And she cast him off like so much used tissue. She wouldn't see him. She wouldn't acknowledge his efforts. She wouldn't even admit she would talk to him, let alone have sexual congress with him. And he couldn't even turn to me in those dark days. Denying me was his last vestige of dignity.

Then he snapped. He faced his own personal Armageddon, and that sent him to do what none of his kind ever would. He won his soul back. And much to my surprise, after more than 120 years, I was back in control.

He's still here. But he defers to me. I'm the one who can deal with the soul.

So who am I? To begin with, I am one angry man. I didn't ask to take responsibility for more than a century of murders. Yes, it was my failing that put me in this position. But I didn't know what would happen, did I? I didn't know!

And now here I am, crushed beneath the weight of the deeds done with my body. The blood on my hands, on my lips, in my veins. The terror in the faces of the people I killed. Yes, I killed them. My hands, my fangs, my strength, my blood lust. He is me. I am him. I have to accept that. I was here for the whole hundred and twenty-two year show. It was me.

It would have been hard enough, but the soul brought something with it. That's the irony. We might have started to make amends, but the other -- the new resident in our consciousness -- stymied us at every turn.

I don't know what it is, but it's in us down to the deepest level. And it gives us no quarter. I don't know what's real anymore. It shows us things, tells us things. Makes us do things.

I am so weary of it. I've tried, tried so hard. And I fear it is all for nothing, because he's the stronger. I was never a fighter, and I've let myself grow weaker these long years of withdrawl. And there was little left of him when he went to win his soul. The restraint of the chip and the reductive effects of disappointment and failure had worn him down so far. What had we left to fight the other with?

We fell to him. What else can I say? We failed. I failed.

But something else happened. I cannot leave that out. Before the other forced us back to killing. Before I had to feel the hot blood in my mouth again.

A door opened, and she was standing on the other side. And I saw her with his eyes. I finally understood what he had seen in her that changed everything for him.

She was radiant. Her hair was spun gold, her skin was as fine as polished ivory and her eyes were bright with a fire that ignited something in me. I saw her, and knew that the word I'd spoken so many years ago was coined to describe her. She was effulgent. Don't laugh. I know it sounds naïve. But I came alive a little bit at that moment, then died again as I remembered what he had done -- what I had done. What we had done.

But she was in me. I couldn't deny it and I couldn't cast her out. I didn't want to cast her out. She shines her light on me. She warms me. She makes me want to try again.

After that, God help me. The evil came. The horror overtook me. I did things -- I killed. I killed not out of anger, not out of hunger, not out of lust. I killed as a puppet manipulated by the other. I failed.

And I could not bear it. Death -- real death -- was my only chance to be at peace. It was what I deserved. It was what I craved.

She was there. I bared my chest to her as she held the stake high. She'd put my victims out of their misery already. I deserved to follow them.

But she looked into my eyes and saw me. My warrior princess saw me, and cast the stake aside. She wouldn't do it, even though I begged her.

I don't know what will happen now. She has taken me back to her home. She says she will help me.

By God, I'll try again. A glance from her is worth the effort, the pain, facing the despair. I'll hold on. I'll fight back. I don't know where the strength comes from, but as God is my witness, I'll find it.

The other sings to us and robs us of our will. But I have a new song. And I'm going to sing it with every bit of my resolve. I'll drown him out. I'll take back what is mine. I'll gird my loins and do battle.

I have to.

She needs me.

I won't fail her again.

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Elsa Frohman - elsa@frohman.net