Horace
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
The golden grail glinted in the light which shone down upon it. Spike’s eyes glinted with lust.
“What’s in the Cup of Perpetual Torment?” Buffy asked, stepping closer, wary of Spike’s entranced condition.
“Last time: Mountain Dew.” Spike never took his eyes off the prize. “This time, hopefully perpetual torment.”
“I didn’t realize perpetual torment was something vampires hoped for,” Willow drew next to Buffy as Spike slowly rose to his feet and took a reverent step towards the Cup.
“Not any vampire. Just two.” He took another step towards it, the only light in the small chamber coming from the crack in the ceiling above the chalice. “If I drink it, I get the shanshu.”
“You get whose shoe?” Will asked, stepping closer, intrigued.
“The shanshu,” Spike said absently, his eyes growing wide with anticipation, “is the reward given to the champion; the vampire with a soul who drinks from the Cup of Perpetual Torment.”
“Oh, I see,” Buffy nodded, her wariness slipping away. “And you’re not the vampire with a soul, you’re a vampire with a soul.”
“Something like that,” he said quietly. The Cup was only meters away now, its ornate surface covered in ancient runes. “The one who gets shanshu....” he took another step. “Gets to live again.”
“Perpetual torment and all you get is a heart that beats?” Buffy raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think living is as good as you remember,” she warned, taking a step towards him. “And doesn’t this seem a bit convenient to you?”
“Not at all,” Spike murmured, his gaze locked with the gold of the Cup. “The Powers that Be needed a Champion for the final battle, and when I decided to come on this little outing of ours, instead of Angel, I became their Champion.” He took another step forward, his hand reached out, slowly, as if the cup would burn him. The burns on his hands and face were all but forgotten. “This thing we’re going to do... It must be the final battle.” For the first time, he turned to face the other two. “That means that we’re going up against the Ancient-” he took a step and his foot came down on nothing. With a cry he toppled over the edge of the chasm separating him from his prize. His shout echoed down the deep shaft which had been conveniently cloaked in shadow.
“Spike!” Buffy ran to the edge, keeping an eye on the place where he had disappeared. She squinted for a moment, then came to her senses and cracked the end of the flare. It hissed to life, throwing the chasm into sharp relief. Without a moment’s hesitation, she dropped the flare down the hole.
“That’s a lot more than ten feet,” Willow observed. She looked to Buffy for a response, but the Slayer continued to watch the flare. Willow followed her gaze. Seconds later, the flare hit the ground below.
“Well, we have to go down,” Buffy said, pulling her trusty rucksack off her shoulders. She removed the bundle of rope. It was thin, Kevlar rope, tightly wound around a spool to save space. “D’you think it’s more than five hundred feet?” She asked the witch.
“I hope not,” came a fait shout from the shaft.
“Spike?” Buffy looked over the edge. She had failed to noticed him clinging to the rock face forty feet or so below the edge, his black, grimy, leather duster camouflaging him to the rock face. “Are you alright?”
“Well, it’s not perpetual torment, but it’s not heaven either,” he shouted back.
“We’re coming down,” Buffy shouted. “Don’t let go.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he answered.
Buffy took a few feet of the rope and tied a thick knot. She wedged the knot between two secure-looking boulders near the edge, then tossed the spool over. It bounced and clattered down the face, unraveling as it went.
With a look of relief, Buffy saw it briefly eclipse the light of the flare as it hit the bottom. It was long enough. “Can you get the rope?” Buffy shouted over the edge. There was a pause, during which the Slayer slung the sack over her shoulder again.
“What rope?” Came the response.
Buffy sighed. “I’ll go first,” she told Will, and went over the edge.
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