__Perhaps Not__
By Greyangel
Broken wings.
The feathers were matted together with sticky red circles of blood. Dawn cocked her head slightly and pushed her hand into the soft, sticky shards, continuing to draw the awkward circles into the burgundy dirt as a soft humming began in the distance.
The little blonde girl that sat across from her looked up and smiled before casting her eyes down to their stained hands. Dawn's eyes lingered on her companion before she looked back down, and took a handful of feathers. They were softer than before, but the occasional roughness of a quill dragged along her skin, scratching her and leaving tiny white lines on her hands.
“I could have flown.”
Dawn's blue-green eyes flickered up to where the little blonde girl sat. “Really?”
The girl nodded furiously and continued to draw sticky circles in the red mud.
Humming in the distance grew stronger. She thought she recognised the tune, but all at once realised it was entirely foreign to her. The voice was definitely masculine, and out of the buzz of humming, words finally began to form, with a deep, powerful English accent to them.
She lifted her head and listened, letting a smile creep to the side of her mouth. “She could have flown.”
The little girl didn't take her eyes of the circles on the ground. “If you hadn't broken my wings, I could have flown.” She corrected. The singing stopped.
Dawn sighed gently and looked at the bloody pile of feathers.
He shrugged and knelt beside her. “They're not her wings, pet.”
Closing her eyes for a moment, Dawn tried to wish the wings back together. When she opened them again she found herself standing. After a moment she turned and began walking, the grass tickling her ankles. She was wearing an ankle-length dress that felt like it had been torn open at the back. Her back hurt, but she ignored it, sliding her feet in the cool green ocean of the field. Barefoot, she wandered along, seeing no fences, no houses and no visible life in sight.
It was early evening, and the sky bubbled with furious purple and grey clouds that drew a pattern of faces long forgotten. Faces she knew, but had never seen before. She felt the cold wind on her face and placed her hands on opposite shoulders in a pathetic attempt to keep herself warm. After a few moments she lowered her hands and cocked her head. Not too far away, beneath a rotting wooden arch, Xander lay sprawled on the ground in a torn and mud-spattered tuxedo.
She approached him slowly, noticing the tear stains on his face.
“Xander?”
“Big day.” Xander whimpered as he pulled his knees up to his chest, dragging his black leather shoes through the mud puddle he was currently occupying.
Dawn watched him cower under the arch, and heaved a sigh. “I'm a flower-girl.” She offered, as if those words were some kind of perfect comfort, something tangible that he could immerse himself in. Instead he waved a hand in acknowledgement of her words and went on whimpering.
She shrugged, and turned away, wandering off into the chilly grass. The fields were immense, and pulled like a green blanket over many hills. There were no roads, no buildings and no fences anywhere in sight. No trees, no animals. She was alone. After a moment she turned around, and observed the empty space where the arch and its single companion had been.
Her brow lifted. “Big day.” She repeated before turning back in the other direction. After a few moments of walking she noticed a piece of wood, clearly broken off something, lying in the grass. Lowering herself to her knees in her ankle-length dress, she touched the piece of polished wood before noticing another not too far away. Lifting her head, she saw a figure, sitting in the immediate distance, rummaging around with several objects.
On her hands and knees, she pulled herself through the grass to where Giles sat, surrounded by pieces of wood that she soon recognised as a shattered guitar. She looked to his face. It, like Xander's, was drenched with tears. His glasses lay, twisted and smashed, not too far away. Fumbling sore and broken hands over the pieces of wood, he was trying to assemble them into a pattern in the grass. After a few moments he noticed her and let a sorrowful expression cross his face. “I have no voice.” He said gently.
She looked down to the pattern. “I can hear you.”
He shook his head. “No. No voice.”
Ignoring his repetition, she observed the cuts on his hands and noticed the blood stains on the edges of some of the wood pieces. Silence passed over them for a few moments before she finally uttered, pointing to the pattern. “You broke your song.”
“What?”
She pointed again. “You broke it.”
“No.” He said sharply, his head darting up. “You broke them. She could have flown.”
Dawn's eyes narrowed. “They weren't hers.”
He had pure sadness in his eyes. “They should have been.”
Lowering her head for a moment she closed her eyes, as they stung with burning tears. He was mumbling something, something that vaguely resembled a song. She pulled herself to her feet without opening her eyes, and wheeled around, as if tearing herself away from his presence and the sadness that ebbed from his being. She felt a stab of pain in her back, and shook herself to get rid of it.
After a few footsteps were taken, she heard his voice again.
“Sunrise.”
She turned, opening her eyes.
He watched her carefully for a few moments before lowering his reddened eyes to the pattern of wood. “I will fade… soon.”
Pressing her lips tightly together she observed the completed pattern of the smashed guitar in the grass, perfectly positioned into the shape of a woman that lay, with her arms sprawled out beside her and her head leaning gently to one side. Dawn inclined her head, curious. “I will find her wings, and you will still fade?”
He stroked his bloody fingers across the broken wood. “The wound can only go so deep before it hits the other side.”
Dawn sighed, and placed a hand on her hip, wondering what to do. Finally she walked over to him, knelt, and leaned in – kissing him on the cheek before smiling gently. “Bleed then. I have little power to stop you.”
Giles held her cheek gently before turning his attention back to the pattern.
She stood, and continued on through the grass, feeling the blood from his hands on her cheek – as it sent a ripple of cold through her face when hit by the night wind.
Her bare feet felt moisture slide through her toes, and what smelled like piles of wet pennies. She cocked her head, and looked down, noting that her toes were spattered with red.
“More blood.” She noted. “He still bleeds? He faded long ago…”
“He s-still f-f-fades.”
Dawn looked down at the cowering figure in the grass. “Why do you say that?”
“Sh-she t-told me.” The girl said meekly.
“She?”
A single, bloody hand lifted up, pointing a bony figure over Dawn's shoulder.
Dawn turned, and her eyes finally rested upon a red, bubbling mist that twisted into the form of what appeared to be a dragon. Despite it's grotesque appearance, Dawn felt no fear.
The girl in the grass lifted her head, and Dawn turned back to her, noticing the still-bleeding cut across the girl's cheekbone. Then she recognised her through blood-matted hair and the bruises that lined her forehead. “Tara?”
Tara smiled softly and repeated: “She told me.”
Dawn cast her eyes towards the demon-like creature as Tara continued.
“She knows everything. Why the sun rises. Why the moon dies.”
“Did she hurt you?” Dawn asked, kneeling by her dear friend.
Tara thought about it for a moment, and then smiled weakly at the red demon. “She loves me.”
“Perhaps she simply loves your blood.” Dawn offered, wiping the stream of blood away from Tara's chin with the back of her hand.
Shaking her head emphatically, she pressed her hand to her heart. “She loves me, she does! I only bleed for now, just for now. I'll be all right later. She said—“
“She says these things because she thinks she knows. She can't know.”
“She can.” Tara insisted.
After several moments, Dawn noticed that Tara's eyes were slightly clouded over with a white film. She was blind.
“Your eyes.”
“I can see her,” she said. “That's all that matters.”
Confused and slightly alarmed, Dawn waited a few moments before pulling herself to her feet and staggering towards the red demon, feeling the pain in her back again.
She flinched, feeling searing heat on her skin. She called out: “She's burning me!”
“And I thought I was the only one that would end in ashes.” The deep English voice returned. She looked over her shoulder to where he stood, calm, behind her. “But it seems Red here will see you all resting at the bottom of the furnace.”
Dawn turned back to the demon. “She wouldn't do that to us.”
“She's not herself anymore, pet.” He insisted, taking Dawn's arm and leading her in the other direction. “She hasn't been since she lost track of the moon.”
“And you?”
“Me?” He let a small smile creep to the side of his face. “I will always be what I am.”
“You're more than that.” She insisted, the demon and the bleeding Tara all at once forgotten.
He paused, and looked at her. “Perhaps, to you.”
They stopped walking, and she noticed that the grass had turned to dirt. She looked over to a figure sitting in the dirt, surrounded by matted feathers. She was crying.
“Why is she--?”
“You left her, pet. She's crying because you went away.”
Dawn shook her head. “She went away. I was always here.”
He didn't respond, only let his eyes linger on the now fully-grown blonde woman surrounded by broken feathers and red mud.
“Not always.” She corrected herself, realising what she had said. “That's why she's crying. I wasn't here. I was some green blob of energy floating around somewhere, I--”
He held up a hand to silence her. “Don't be pedantic.”
She let her eyes narrow – his voice didn't sound right. “What did you say?”
“You lose yourself in the past. Look up, not over your shoulder, little bit.” He said, his accent more present than ever.
For a moment she thought she'd heard Giles in his voice.
She cast her eyes back down to the shards of feathers that rested on the moist, red ground. “She could have flown.”
“Can you hear me?” He asked, suddenly.
She looked up at him and nodded.
“I told you, Niblet. They're not her wings. She was always meant to fall.”
Dawn closed her eyes tightly. “I don't understand.”
He walked an invisible circle around her, and she looked over to the crying figure once again.
Finally, he stopped circling and moved in behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “It's not a mirror, love.”
She blinked, unsure of what he meant. “A mirror?”
“Looking at yourself. I may have no reflection, but I still know a mirror when I see one. And that,” he indicated the woman, who was now standing and looking directly at them, “is not a mirror.”
Silence reigned for a few moments before he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, holding her to his chest. She felt as though she had been wrapped in a warm blanket, and snuggled back against him, feeling the safety his arms provided.
“You're warm.” She said gently. “But I still can't feel your heart.”
“Its not beating, love.”
Dawn closed her eyes. “But you feel like a human.”
He leaned in gently and whispered by her ear. “I am.”
“And what am I?”
He didn't reply.
She opened her eyes and saw the pile of feathers was gone. She felt a stabbing pain in her back again.
“They were mine, weren't they?”
“You're human, little bit.”
“But they were mine?”
After a few moments of silence, he nodded gently.
She closed her eyes again and let a smile spread across her face, rolling her head to the side. “Spike?”
“Hmm.”
She felt the softness of his shirt against her cheek. “Is this your dream or mine?”
“Yours.” He replied. “Mine… Both. But, for now, it's just a dream.”
“Will I wake up?”
“Not as long as I've got you, pet. You can stay here as long as you want to.”
She looked up. “And what about her?”
He pressed his lips tightly together. Dawn felt his apprehension.
“She's gone.”
He lifted a hand to the side of her face to caress her and block her view at the same time. “Yes, she's gone.”
“And we can't go with her? All of us? We can be with her, can't we? So she doesn't get afraid.” Dawn was starting to panic, and was shaking.
“Shh, shh.” He said gently, stroking her hair with his hand. “Heaven is only so wide, love.”
“She's coming back to me, though, right?”
He rested his lips against her hair, feeling a tear glide down his cheek. “Perhaps, pet…
Perhaps not.”
* * *