Chapter One - Savage Fire
Dusk has fallen, cool blue mist settling around me. The lights from the shroves have been lit, glowing softly through the cloudy air. They are the shallow dwellings of my people, open enough to allow one to breathe the night air, feel the warmth of the rising sun, yet sheltered enough to protect us from the elements when need be. There is a certain restlessness today, the attention suddenly all on the young unnamed. Tonight one of us would be named, the chosen leader, destined for greatness and power. It could be me. I hope it will be me. To have the purpose, the clarity, to be honoured with a name of power and divinity. It is incredible. And yet, what will become of me if I am Chosen? A life apart from any I can imagine, let alone know. Secluded in the temple, would I ever see my samara, my keeper again? I do not know, and the thought of uncertainty disturbs me. I think I should want to know everything, to never doubt. No, it is far greater still to be everything, to control my world entirely, so I might know all, and keep it all safe.
It is unusual, the bond between my keeper and I. She means more to me than what is expected and appropriate. That is, the fact that I might care for her at all. She is nothing really but one who serves as my keeper until I shift. She is unnamed, my poor samara, and therefore of no distinction, no importance. I wonder what the Elders would think if they knew I felt pity for such a creature.
A sudden tug at my mind interrupts my thoughts, and I know it is time. The mist has darkened, and seems to pulse around me, keeping time with my heartbeat that seems to slow, pounding heavily in my ears. A breeze clears the fog away, and I can see the bright light of the primitives’ fire in the distance. This, then is my task. This is what my entire existence has led to. It is time, and I am ready.
********
I approach the mud creatures cautiously, their burning fire far too bright for my liking. Hot, hungry blaze destroys all it touches, black and burned. So dangerous, yet is it not without its own beauty. It is alluring. But dangerous. Particularly for that pair of half-breeds hidden in shadow. Their amber eyes glow dimly in the darkness, unnoticeable to the primitive filth, whose eyes see only the fire. Pathetic really, these soft-skinned beings and their darker kin. So weak, so fragile. So breakable. I will take these first, the dry husks, empty counterparts of the livelier sort, filled with the demon kind. They will be my first taste. My appetizer.
They seem completely oblivious to their coming demise, too enthralled with the nearby prey to notice me. So unaware. The tall one looks around only as his companion’s dusty remains settle on the ground. Yellow eyes flash, searching for his enemy. I can feel his fear, smell it even. It comes off him in waves, thick and intoxicating. The look in his eyes as I separate his head from his body is interesting. That almost acceptance of death mixed with shock and defeat us both calming and exhilarating. I want more.
The half-breed is only dust now. I am disappointed, they were so dry, so bloodless. There is nothing left of my kill except a few handfuls of dust. How dull. I need something….something solid, full of blood, life. The savages! These have blood pumping through their veins, soft bodies I can tear, delicate lives I can take. These creatures I will crush, they I will kill. And yet, I feel reservation, an almost reluctance to claim the lives I will own. But I will not be weak, not when I am almost certain the Elders are watching. I must set my mind of the task at hand. The mud men.
This first creature too, seems oblivious to my presence, that is, until my hand reaches for its vulnerable neck. Its weak hand knocks mine away, and its eyes find mine. There is something different here, in the gaze of a mud creature there is resilience, a flicker of determination, a desire to live. It strikes out blindly into the darkness, searching for its attacker. In a moment, I rush forward, pinning my prey to the ground. It makes no sound but a small gurgling noise as I pierce its throat. Dark, sticky blood gushes out, coating my hands. It shines blackly in the dim light, thick and beautiful. And the taste is unlike any other. I can almost see why the half-breeds hunt and kill the weak ones despite the danger of she they call the Slayer. This richness of life and the power it contains is nearly enough to make my own head spin.
This was unexpected, this rush, this feeling. I can feel the blood coursing through my veins to meet my own. My breathing has grown ragged, I notice. I can hear a dull thumping noise around me. Rising from the ground, the sound grows louder, pounding heavily, distracting me. I can feel my own heartbeat falling into its rhythm, my mind swaying to its beat, until all I can hear is its steady thrum in my ears.
“No!” The sound rips through the steady beating in the air. Had that harsh, broken sound come from me? Apparently it had, as the mud creatures all turn to face me. Oddly, I feel no fear of this large group of fierce looking savages approach me, crude weapons raised. My fear is of what I am about to do, what I have already done. I am shaking, shivering in the suddenly cold breeze, terrified and wishing it were day. The thought of the Elders reminds me, and frightens me; if I do not take this chance given to me, there will be far worse consequences than that of the oncoming mud men. I have seen the outcasts, who suffer an eternity of silence, alone in the cold dark. It will not be me.
The pounding sound returns, louder, faster than before, and I finally realize what it is. It is their heartbeats. The weak fluttering of a mud filth heart.
I feel distant from my body, but I am more aware, more focused than ever in my life at the same time. It is like I can feel myself move, see the thoughts run through my mind, but this body, this brain is not my own. My lips pull back to display my own gleaming fangs, sharp and ready. I will stop the cause of my irritation, crush the wind from their puny lungs, open their soft bodies and spill their blood to paint the earth red. And yet, as I slice into the first fool, I can only wonder, what would my samara think? And then as I feel another life end by my hand, the blue mist thickens and I have only one thought. More.
My hands are covered in blood and I am bleeding slightly from a cut marring the flesh of my left arm. The cut is deep, but the sting of pain is distant as I watch a new figure approach. This mud creature is young, and female I think. This one is a she, not an it; she is somehow above those whose bodies litter the ground around me. She possesses a smidgen of power, exudes as much strength and grace a creature like she can. The look of anger and pain in her eyes at seeing the corpses of her kind is startling. I didn’t think these…humans…could feel anything other than hunger and a fear of my own demon kind. But this anguish, this guilt I can see is most unexpected. And suddenly, I understand. The anger, the feeling of little power, the predatory way she circles my now, the black symbol marking her face. This little female child is she they call the Slayer.
********
The room was consumed with silence for long minutes as Wesley stared hard at the blue god creature that sat before him. She returned his stare, unafraid of any reaction he might have. She was after all, a god.
He saw the cold uncaring expression on her face, a face borrowed from one he had loved so well. The planes of her face, the shape of her mouth, the slender form all belonged to one Winifred Burkle. But the eyes, how cold they were, so unlike his love. All traces of anything resembling human emotion were gone, frozen in a time long past. This, he knew, was the lasting mark of Fred’s death, the silent proclamation that her soul, if it still existed, had no connections with this…shell. It housed a greater power now, one whose eyes still watched him with unrelenting intensity, waiting for him.
“Did you kill her?”
She looked down for a moment at her hands, before meeting his gaze with a look that said she knew exactly what he asked, yet she feigned innocence.
“Of whom do you speak?” Here her lips twitched into a half-smile, the closest he had seen her come to amusement yet. “The Slayer? Or Winifred Burkle?”
“Both.”
“I killed the Slayer.” Her eyes seemed distant now, as if remembering a time long, long past. Unfocused, they traveled across the room, landing on the view of the setting sun from the window. “She was not so easy as the others, but I killed her just the same. Her blood stained the sky, and the stars burned red that night. It was beautiful.”
“How did you do it?” he asked quietly, just loud enough for her to hear.
“Human throats are weak,” she replied simply, “even that of a Slayer.”
His hand was shaking when he asked, “And Fred? Was she weak?”
“The shell?” For once, Illyria looked thoughtful, choosing her words carefully for the first time in a millennia. For this mud man, this human, she had a strange desire to soften the blow of the truth of his race’s weakness. She saw the pain in this creature’s eyes, and for once did not wish to magnify his suffering. She could, if she wanted, and that thought added a drop of power to her, something she would have normally spared no thought on. Until now. Now when her strength was not half what it was, when her powers were weakened, stripped away from her grasp. All because of this shell’s own weakness.
“She fought me,” she pronounced finally. “She fought well, for a human. She was strong, until the end. But you must know, Wesley, after all you have read of me, those who oppose me do not survive. Not even they who imprisoned me. Even if I wished to leave this body, you know I cannot. Where would I go? This world is not enough to contain who I was. It was not then, nor is it enough now. You grieve for this…Fred. I admit I too grieved once in my lifetime. I once felt the sting of emotions, the same that soil you now. And because of it, I am who I am.”
It was one of the longest speeches she had ever made to him, he supposed, each word biting into his heart, deeper and deeper. But still, his curiosity was awakened, despite his pain, by her words. Long ago, she had been more like the human kind she despised, he thought, but not now. He could see the ice in her, stilling any unwanted emotion from rising, and he wondered again, what had changed her.
He thought of Fred as he looked upon the creature he had considered her killer. She had been strong to fight Illyria off as she had. But not nearly enough, he couldn’t help but feel as he considered the powerful being in front of him, still powerful despite the drain of her strength.
“You tire.” Her voice snapped him out of his reverie, his attention once more on the task at hand.
“No, no,” he brushed away his fatigue, awakened by the thought of continuing the narrative.
“Then you wish to continue.” Her blue head was cocked to one side, her knowing gaze stirring that uncomfortable feeling of unsettledness in him, as it did everyone.
His voice came out a whisper, unsteady and unsure of what he was about to hear. He could not imagine what had possibly transpired in the long lifetime of this goddess, and his curiosity begged to know.
“Yes.”
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