Scars: Scars
by Sandycat
Disclaimer: Characters of Dru and Spike belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and 'Grr Arg', not me. No profit being made.



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Long is the way And hard, that out of hell leads up to light. -J. Milton


* * *
I can feel the difference in texture when I touch it. The scar. A smoothness, unnatural and taut when I draw a finger along it, following the curve of my brow. It's a small thing, yeah. Just a thin white line, when I show my human face. When I change, though, then it becomes more painful. Not a physical pain, no. Just memories.The wound that caused it's been healed more than a century, but it still remains; the shape of a cross clearly visible when I loose my demon.

Thinking of it, I feel my face shift. It's not difficult to command the change, not tonight. My stomach roils with hunger, with an agony so strong, it becomes an almost sexual ache. I ignore it though, trailing fingers once more across the whorls and ridges of the demon mask I wear. Tracing the lines of it, slightly distorted diagonal and crossbar, and seeing in my head a small wooden cross, and her face.


* * *
I remember when Angelus first told me about her. 'Perfect', he said, a convent girl, devoutly Catholic, so pure you could practically see the light shining from her face. And gifted. Gifted with foresight, visions of the future. She believed that she was somehow evil, that the seed of the devil was within her, manifested in her visions. Angel was convinced it wouldn't take long for her to embrace that darkness, to take to the shadows with the singlemindedness of one that's spent their entire short life ensconced within the Church. He loved the irony of it, the deliciousness of introducing a demon into the body of a Catholic novice.

I listened to him talk, outwardly humouring him, as I always did. I was barely a fledgling, only a few years old, and he was my sire. Early on I'd figured out Angel wasn't nearly as smart or as seductive as he thought. What's the saying? Familiarity breeds contempt. That was certainly true in our case. I did admire his strength, though; coveted it. And so, I'd bide my time, wait for the day when I would be a Master.

Meanwhile I went along with his schemes. They led to fun and slaughter, most times. So, as he described this girl, this paragon of virtue to me, I'll admit I was sceptical. Angel had a tendency to over poeticize things- when I killed someone, they were dead. I thought it strangely insulting to then claim you had 'drained their essence' or 'taken their soul into yourself'. Bloody hell, I'd drunk their *blood* for fucks sake, not really anything remotely fucking poetic about that is there? Not when you were the one with the fangs in your neck, anyway.

Bearing in mind Angelus' leanings towards poetic license, I decided to check out this girl, at least see what was so special about her that it would be keeping us both in this hole of a village for the next few months.

I spotted her as she was walking to Mass, that evening. Not proper for a young girl to be walking alone at dusk, but then, the village was so small they didn't seem to pay much mind to such things. I trailed her, at a distance, undead feet moving smoothly and silently over the leaf-littered dirt. She was dressed in something long and pale, oh-so-modest, not a glimpse of unseemly ankle- not a glimpse of flesh at all, in fact. Some sort of shawl was clutched to her chest, the fringed edges of the midnight-deep garment, swaying as she walked. She'd tucked it up, over her hair, walking swiftly, businesslike, nervous. As well she should be, if Angelus had already introduced himself.

Wanting to see her face, I sped up my pace, silently closing the gap between us.

"Druscilla?"

She spun around so fast, she almost lost her footing, then froze like a startled doe, vivid in the halflight. If I'd been breathing, it would have caught in my throat at the sight of her. For once, Angelus was right. Her skin shone silvery pale, cheeks caught up in a faint rosy blush in her startlement. Those huge dark eyes, eyes you could lose yourself in, were a stark contrast against her paleness. Pale pink lips, sculpted and tender- she had the face of a dark madonna, an altar-piece come to life.

She simply stood there, frozen and staring at me, as I stalked towards her. I think I probably had a dazed smile on my face- I couldn't help it. Angel had been right, for once. She exuded purity, innocence; the kind of goodness that drew evil like a moth to a flame, although exactly who was the moth and who was the flame...

"S...Sir?"

Her voice drew me out of my contemplation of her. Sweet. High and child-like. Angel was right, it would be fun corrupting her. I think he thought of it as spitting in the face of God. Smiling still, I stopped directly in fron of her, wondering what she saw when she looked at me. Visibly summoning her courage, she continued:

"A..Are you with...h...him?"

Ah. So Angelus had started it already. I grinned toothily, devilish impulse driving me on, though part of me wanted just to look at her, stay and admire that pure, dark, beauty. I felt the lengthing of my teeth, the sculpting shift of my face, all through me, as I grinned down at her.

"What do you think, pet?"

To her credit, she gaped for only a split second, before managing to make her legs move. I intended just to play with her a little, Angelus would've had my guts for garters if I'd fed on her, and I wasn't yet strong enough to face up to him in fight. She only got a couple of steps, dress impeding her as it wound around her legs, before I caught her shoulder, spining her to face me... and sudden searing pain shot through my face. Staggering backwards, I shoved her away from me, pressing my hand to the agonised spot on my forehead. I could smell the acrid scent of my own burning flesh in the air, hear Druscilla fumbling as she fought to untangle her skirts and flee. Finally jerking upright, I caught the glimpse of the wooden beads in her hands, as she dashed into the darkness.

The damn rosary. Going to Mass like any good Catholic girl, and she burnt me with the cross on her damn rosary beads.

As I lay in the dirt, warm damp smell of earth and rain gradually overwhelming the scent of burnt demon flesh; I began to laugh.


* * *
I half-smile thinking of it, even now. The ridiculousness of it all temporarily overwhelming the tight suffocating knowledge I carry with me, the brief phantom pain in my forehead. All those years, stemming from that scar. I came to admire her perserverence, came as close to love as a demon can, but I couldn't save her. Angelus destroyed her, piece by piece, while I did nothing, waiting, biding my time, building my strength. I couldn't be strong enough in time. Every day a small piece of her died. I watched him chip away at her shining faith, the solid pillar of knowledge she carried inside herself that God was with her.

He killed her family one by one, becoming more inventive, more gruesome as time went by. With each body she discovered, each vision she was subjected to (all becoming darker and darker, a picture of a future of blood and night) some of her certainty, her faith, died. She began to question. She hated herself for questioning. She became a paradox, fragmenting, losing herself in her visions, caught between hatred of the God who could let this happen, and an equally powerful despise for the demon that had done this to her.

I remember the day she died. Taking her final vows, fervently believing she had at last purged herself of us. As Angelus slit her Mother Superior's throat, scarlet blood lapping over the altar where sacred communion had been held, she let go. Screamed, partly in surrender, partly a death rattle; collapsing to the chill wooden floor as Angel defiled this holy place, licking the blood from the cold stone. I was looking at her as Angel finished draining the nun. I remember when those quiet wracking sobs turned first to a hoarse chuckle, then to full-throated laughter.

She was still laughing, mad eyes too bright; when Angelus sank his teeth into her neck.


* * *
Angelus lost interest in her after a few years, our dark mad goddess. I was there to pick up the pieces, as more and more often, he hunted alone, or left us for months at a time. And yes, I did love her, still. Whether that makes me blind, or stupid, I'll never know. When Angelus left for good, I worshipped her; catered to her whims, hunted with her, danced with her, made love with her in the cold pale moonlight.

It was never enough though. Never enough to put her together again (although I grew affectionate towards her quirks, her childlike ways) not only that, but it was never enough to turn her from her Angel. Because when it came down to it, she hated him more than she could ever love me; the thin line between the two sending her into his arms, even after one and a half centuries.

I allowed myself to forget all that. To think that with Angelus gone, she'd be mine again, just like old times. I should've guessed she was never mine in the first place. The tightness in my chest clenches like a fist, coiling, as I run my fingers again over the shiny scar tissue, replaying that first sight of her in my head. Scars heal, with time, on humans. I haven't been human for two hundred years, and I'll bear this mark always. To a mortal, eternity is incomprehendable. To you, forever is, say, seventy, eighty years at most. I loved for almost two hundred years. I have until the end of time to mourn. It's not long enough, or perhaps it's too long. I know what forever means, and an endless dark highway stretches out in front of me. I finger the scar, a cross, mark of ownership, whether she knew it or not. Perpetual reminder. Scars don't heal. But they can be erased.

I remember the look on her face, just briefly, I could almost believe I saw an apology in her eyes. Nothing after that, just the sight of the silvery gray ash, drifting through the sunbeam like dust motes; and the heavy dull thunk of her necklace, as it fell to the floor.

A smile flits briefly across my face as I banish that image, focussing instead on the real Dru; the one that tossed her wild dark hair and danced with me under the moon. From here I can see a slight crimson shade painted along the horizon, watch it spread, joined by brilliant purple-blues, as the firey sphere rises, day dawning. I wonder if the sunrise looks different, after all these years?

No, scars don't heal.

But they can be erased; and my final thoughts are of her.

-finis-


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