Title: Of Seers and the Sight
Author: HumbugGirl
Email:
humbuggirl@hotmail.com
URL: http://www.geocities.com/humbuggirl or http://www.geocities.com/oddfiction
Fandom: Crossover – BtVS/Blade (the movie)
Pairing: None really. Maybe a little Deacon/Willow
Rating: A good 15. Maybe a little more.
Spoilers: Everything up to the end of season six. `Blade' the movie.
Summary: Completely AU. I know this would never happen. Deacon takes a
trip to Sunnydale. Warning: character death.
Disclaimer: None of the BtVS or Angel characters belong to me. The
characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui,
Sandollar, and Greenwolf Productions, 20th Century Fox, the WB
Network, and whoever else may have a hold on them. The characters of
Deacon and Quinn belong to whoever made the movie and the comic books…
there were comic books right?
Author's Notes: 1) I've completely screwed with the timelines to make
this fit. Just accept it. 2) I only know what I know about the
characters from `Blade' by watching the first movie a million times
over. Therefore the character representation in this fic is based on
what you discover in the film. 3) I know nothing about asylums
(although some people think I should) so I'm sort of making up some of
the details as I go along. The assumption is that after the end of
season six of BtVS that Willow was never exactly the same again.
Feedback: Naturally I love it so feed me some more!
1.
There was pale cherry blossom dancing in the trees and occasionally
drifting down through the air as the gentle breeze grew stronger then
fell away again. In the moonlight it looked like snow and blanketed
the ground giving the road spreading away into the distance an
ethereal appearance. Houses flooded by him on either side as Deacon
drove along, golden light glowing now from windows as the inhabitants
strove to fend off the darkness now stealing the world outside. They
blended into one as the pale vampire pressed the accelerator to floor
leaving the human world behind. He breezed through the town of
Sunnydale following directions he had been provided with and out into
the countryside beyond.
A shrill noise filled Deacon's ears, sounding even over the music
pouring out of the car's sound system and he glanced down irritably at
the cell phone on the empty passenger seat beside him. The display was
flashing iridescent green with a number that was easily recognised.
Reaching across Deacon refused the incoming call and quickly turned
the phone off. This wasn't the time for distractions.
It had all started as a joke; one that Deacon had participated in out
of boredom. The nights in Los Angeles could be fun but the elders in
the area had been developing an annoying habit of clamping down on any
sort of partying that even remotely involved live prey and in Deacon's
opinion that was the only kind of fun worth having. It was yet one
more thing in a long line of things that he didn't understand about
them but as they kept reminding him, who was he to judge their methods?
So when Quinn had suggested a trip out of town to talk to some seer
that lived in a backwater hick town and claimed to be able to tell
anyone on earth their destiny he had agreed although some what
sceptically. After all he didn't think he believed in destiny; at
least not for people like him. Deacon wasn't even sure that he wanted
to have a destiny.
Still he had gone along with the idea because anything was better than
another weekend being bored.
They drove out late Friday afternoon and arrived only shortly after
midnight. As Quinn had predicted the old woman had been waiting for
them, stood in the doorway of her home and watching the road as they
approached. She was a wizened character with steely grey eyes and thin
tightly pursed lips in a frown. As Deacon had climbed out of the car
he had watched her expression him to one resignation.
"I'll see him," she said gesturing towards Deacon and when Quinn had
gone to protest Deacon had simply held up a hand to silence him and
entered the house after the old woman. The others had been left to
wait outside, perturbed by his decision but willing to stand by it all
the same.
The inside of the house had been everything he had expected. Tattered
old furniture betrayed the woman's comparative poverty and he gained
the impression that even had she had the money to leave the house then
she never would have. Black and white photographs of happier times
lined the walls with the occasional one perched on top of surfaces.
Deacon paused as he followed the old woman through the house and into
the kitchen at the back and took his time glancing at the pictures
only half taking in what he saw. He felt a sudden reluctance to follow
her, to find out what she was going to say and it made him hesitate to
the point where Deacon began to grow irritated with himself. It was
just one old woman after all. What the hell could she possibly do to him?
Once inside the kitchen Deacon took the seat opposite hers at the
table and tried not to think too much. He tried not to stare at his
surroundings too obviously but took secretive little glances about the
room to take in its features while pretending to keep his eyes on the
old woman. A blanket had been set about her shoulders and she shook it
off now, letting it fall over the back of the chair and revealed
bird-like shoulders that he could have snapped without a second
thought. Her grey eyes seemed to darken and she waved a dismissive
hand in his direction.
"I wouldn't be thinking of doing that if I was you," she told him.
"There's a ward on this house that stops any violence from being
performed in it and the only thing you'll libel to end up doing is
give yourself an almighty headache."
Strangely enough he believed her so he settled back into the chair and
waited for the old woman to say something else. When it started to
seem like the silence between them would drag on an eternity he said,
"So are you going to do this reading thing or what?"
The look she gave him said very clearly that she didn't think enough
of him to be intimidated and Deacon found himself raising an eyebrow
at her, daring her to say anything in the least derogatory. Ward or no
ward there was no way some old bitch was going to talk down to him.
"I need to see your hand," she said and Deacon knew that he groaned
out aloud because she gave him another sharp look. This was shaping up
much too much like a joke and yet for some reason he wasn't quite sure
he would explain he felt compelled to hold his hand out and let her
look it over.
A few minutes later, when she had managed to get a hold of herself
enough to start talking again and some of the colour had returned to
her features she looked up at him with eyes filled with what appeared
to be an appropriate amount of fear. "I don't want to do this but
they're telling me I must." Deacon didn't ask who `they' were because
she was standing and walking away from the table and took a piece of
paper from one of those post-it note pads and scribbled someone on it.
A moment later she returned passing it to him. "You go now. You'll
find someone at this address that will be able to tell me more about
your destiny than I can."
After looking at it he stared back up at her from his seat. "You want
me to go and see someone in an insane asylum?" he asked in disbelief.
The old woman nodded, "Ask her and she will tell you want you need to
know."
The words had sent a thrill of excitement through him but at the same
time he had felt a kind of fear settle into his mind as just a few of
the implications began to sink into him. On leaving the house Deacon
had left instructions with Quinn and then driven off towards the city
leaving his baffled friends behind. When Quinn had reappeared the next
evening he reported that the `old bitch's house had gone up like a
bonfire' and that he had ensured that she had stayed inside.
If she had seen her own death in his future the old woman had given
him no indication of it. But there was something in Deacon which was
certain that for someone who had been able to see events in the
futures of the people she meant then she should certainly have been
able to see her own future. He almost admired her for still talking to
him. Almost - but not quite. Only a fool would have still talked to him.
So here he was, driving down dark roads in search of an asylum with
some stupid name that he could only recall vaguely at the best of
times. It was one of those names that were meant to offer comfort to
the families who felt guilty because they had stuck some helpless
person with its cold walls by conjuring up pleasant views of a nice
environment but actually came off sounding like a joke. It was the
type of name that it was easy to make into a joke.
He'd heard that someone had nicknamed this town Sunnyhell and from
everything he had seen so far there was nothing to contradict that
description.
The asylum was a sprawling monstrosity that was set within manicured
lawns complete with some sort of ornamental fish pond. Well
established shrubs and trees were scattered here and there in an
arrangement that might have been pleasing to the eye during the day
time but now just looked eerie. Of course Deacon didn't mind eerie but
he figured that it was this type of landscaping that gave such places
a bad name to ago along with the local urban legend about it that was
bound to have sprung up. Not that a place like Sunnydale needed
anymore urban legends; it already had more than a few real ones living
within its limits.
High brick walls in a Spanish style surrounded the grounds obviously
trying to look both imposing and friendly at the same time and failing
miserably. Deacon parked a good half a mile away from the old, wrought
iron gates, making sure his car was well out of sight of any nosey
person, official or otherwise and then travelled the final distance on
foot as silent as the night time world around him. Knowing that they
were hardly going to allow him to enter through the front gate the
vampire moved along the wall until he found a spot that seemed
suitably deserted and out of sight of any of the numerous security
guards and vaulting his lean frame over the top, landing confidently
on the other side.
The grounds on the other side were pitch black, the only light coming
from the occasionally passing security guard and from the odd window
in the huge building before him. With his specialised eyesight Deacon
spied bars on all of the windows, both ground floor and upper floor
though there were none on the doors. From the pocket of the trousers
he was wearing Deacon pulled a roughly drawn map that he had made up
before coming here this evening. A simple piece of hacking on his
computer had allowed him to access the records for this place and
therefore pinpoint the exact room that he wanted.
Entering the building he was surprised at the lack of security
precautions. For a place that seemed to make such a big deal over
publicly being seen to be secure they didn't actually seem to be that
secure. The corridors were lighted by dim, stale yellow bulbs that
gave it a putrid, almost diseased feel. Large windows that were placed
intermittently told him that during the day they would be flooded with
natural Californian sunlight but at the moment he found himself
thankful for any lighting at all and that that lighting wasn't natural.
In the distance he could detect the constant hum of a television set
and the low mumble of voices that he assumed belonged to nurses. They
barely noticed the brief gust of air as he whipped past them, without
the slightest sound and invisible to the naked eye as a result of his
speed. The only sign that he had even passed was the flutter of a
piece of paper slipping to floor.
The room he was looking for was situation on the second floor in the
isolation unit. Creeping up the stair case and onto the corridor he
found himself mildly shocked by the number of rooms present there.
Even through the padded doors he could hear the sounds of people
there, muttering quietly to themselves through medication induced
catatonic like states. In some there were the occasional sounds of
crying to be heard, distracting weeping and wailing that disturbed
even Deacon. Each door was covered in steel on the one side facing the
corridor. There was a tiny grate over which a little door could slide
and a tiny plaque baring the room number and the name of the person
within along with any warnings about dealings with them.
The room that Deacon wanted was situated right at the far end of the
corridor, separated even from the rest with large warning signs at
either side. He approached it carefully, tracing his fingers over the
name plate first to make sure he had the right room. Then he reached
down and forced the lock, hearing a loud crack as it broke in his
hand. At the other side of the door there was a rustling sound and
then silence.
He opened the door carefully, fully aware of the creature that lived
on the other side and her abilities. The odd question to the
preternatural life of Sunnydale had told him all he needed to know
about her and it had also taught him to be cautious. As the door
opened he fully expected the girl beyond to leap at him. He could hear
the pounding of her heart in her chest and the small gasps of breath
she was drawing in rapidly. There was a faint, acidic smell of human
sweat and something else that Deacon didn't really want to think about
knowing full well that it was something that he had left behind a long
time ago.
She was huddled in the corner at the far side. Long legs drawn up to
her chest and her arms clasped around them while her face was hidden
from view. With his night vision Deacon could tell that her hair had
been cut short and tight to her head in a ragged style that was really
no style at all. It was the colour of sunsets, deep and powerful and
yet had been nullified by whatever current treatment was being used on
it. She was wearing a plain white gown that covered much of her body
but from what wasn't covered he could easily tell that her flesh was a
pale colour that he would more have expected of one of his own kind
than a human. Mittens were tapped over her hands he guessed in order
to stop her from scratching herself and soft cotton slippers covered
her feet.
He stepped closer, letting the door fall closed behind him but
ensuring that it didn't lock. The room was plunged into darkness and
he heard a small whimper from the girl. In two steps he was across the
room and able to crouch down next to her watching as she shuffled her
feet even closer under her body. There was nothing here for him to fear.
When he made no further movement she rolled her head backwards and
peered out at him under the curtain of shaggy red hair that fell about
her features. The eye that was revealed was the colour of verdant
green and seemed oddly alive in her face compared to the rest. It
watched him wide-eyed with apparent horror but instead there was
something else lingering in the depths that told him a different story.
They sat for what seemed at eternity in the silence of the room and
eventually she unfolded herself, flower-like in her delicacy and
movements. A small hand reached forwards and brushed its way across
his cheek feather light.
"You're not what I was expecting," she murmured quietly. "I knew
something was going to come but I never expected something like you.
You're not like what I thought at all. You're not like what I know."
"What you know?"
"What I've met in the past," she reaffirmed and somehow she seemed to
be more confident that she had before. "You remind me of Spike, except
not."
Deacon's head cocked to one side. "Who is Spike?"
"Just a vampire. He's old like you but still young, like you. You
remind me of him. Did I say that already?"
He nodded absently. "You did. How do you know what I'm like?"
She gave a coy little smile and touched a finger to his forehead and
for a second he had to wonder when she had divested herself of the
mittens. "I can see it here, written in memories." The finger moved
down. "I can see it here in your eyes, like a map of the years. From
your lips I hear the words of a thousand experiences and in your
heart," she said finally, laying her hand against his chest in
approximately the right position. "I can feel nothing expect momentary
passions that are beginning to fade with the weight of lifetimes."
Deacon placed his hand over the top of hers and leaned closer, letting
the blue of his eyes shine with its vampiric nature. "What do you
sense now little witch?"
She shivered; a shiver that went through her from head to toe and
racked her entire body. "Nothing but a cold winter's eve." As the
words left her mouth the witch let her head fall to one side. "I
remind myself of Drusilla now. She liked riddles and I used to wonder
what it was like to be inside her head. I used to sit at night and try
to work my way around her mind because I don't think anyone really
understood her and that must have been awful for her. She needed
someone to understand her. She had someone to take care of her but she
didn't have anyone to understand her."
He frowned wondering whether she even understood herself. It seemed
that every word that she thought seemed to make its way out of her
mouth and that made him wonder just how far gone she was. Deciding to
play along he asked, "Do you have someone to take care of you?"
This was a question that she seemed to find strange and it caused a
contemplative expression to wash over her features. After a moment she
should her head back and forth. "They try. They do. But they don't
know how because they don't really know what I am. They've all
forgotten what I am." Her brow creased. "No, that isn't right. They
would like to forget and so they don't see me anymore and when they
do, they don't. I may as well be invisible to them. I'm a memory." By
the time she had finished speaking her eyes were wide and haunted and
it appeared to Deacon that a realisation had washed over her. "Am I a
memory now?" she asked.
In a fluid movement that would have startled most mortals but not the
one curled by the wall Deacon stood and held out his hand to her. "You
will be," he told her.
The redhead on the floor took the extended hand and let herself be
drawn upwards until she was on the balls of her feet then she slowly
seemed to float back down to the ground. In the silence of the
Californian night and the corridors of the asylum which had fallen
quiet as if nothing else had ever existed they moved through the
hospital and as if by magic emerged into the outside world. Even to
Deacon the air on his skin felt warm and he wondered what it would
feel like on the skin of the human beside him. She seemed to glory in
the sensation of the prickly grass beneath and brushed her bare toes
through it.
Gently tugging herself free of his grip the witch danced off across
the lawns and then set off at a run so suddenly that Deacon felt his
undead heart beat loudly in his chest. It was gone in a moment and he
took after her. Somehow, he wasn't sure how though she managed to keep
ahead of even with his additional abilities and he found himself
following her further and further into the grounds of the asylum until
they were well out of sight and surrounded by tall poplar trees. In
the pale of the moonlight she was ghost like. Fleeting, almost a
figment of his imagination with all her enthral appearance.
He caught up with her near the outer walls of the grounds where she
fell to a heap on the ground breathing hard and giggling quietly to
herself. When she regained some of her self control she looked up and
at him and gave a wry little smile.
"There is something special about moonlight." He nodded in agreement,
slumping down to the ground beside her as she tucked her feet up under
her body and peered around into the darkness. "It fills you and makes
magic run through you. You can always see clearest in moonlight."
Watching her closely Deacon found himself asking, "And what do you see?"
A troubled little frown washed over her features and she slipped
backwards until she was lying on the ground and staring up at the sky.
A rustle of wind brought a gentle rain of leaves down upon them and
the redhead sighed. "I see myths proven true and blood raining from
the sky while symbols and meanings play in the air."
"What symbols?"
"They talk of rebirth, of the old being made new while still old which
doesn't make sense to even me. They try to hide from me the meaning of
what they're saying. They don't want me to see anymore. I think
they're frightened."
He shifted slightly so he could have a better view of her face, noting
that she had closed her eyes and looked almost as if she were asleep.
The subtle intakes of breath that he could detect told him that this
was not so and when she opened her mouth to speak next it was with a
small gasp. "It's you! It's you that they're all so very frightened of."
She cracked one eye open at him. "They whisper things about you and
make threatening little noises when I think of telling you what they say."
He curled his lips into a smile and leaned over her until their faces
were only inches apart. "Whisper it to me and maybe they won't hear you."
The redhead's hand came up to her mouth and she nibbled nervously on a
nail while she thought and then nodded. Deacon smiled and leaned
closer until he could feel the softness of her breath on his skin.
"They say you're a destroyer; that you're going to hurt the world."
"And how exactly am I going to do that?"
"With blood."
"Well that's natural; I am a vampire after all."
"That's not what they mean."
"So what do they mean then?"
She paused and Deacon found himself become suddenly certain that she
wasn't going to answer his question; that she would leave the building
excitement inside of him unsatisfied. Then there was another soft
brush against his cheek as she took in a deep breath and once again
began to speak. "La Magra," she said.
Deacon froze, unable to move for surprise. Eventually he slipped
backwards into a sitting position but never let his eyes move from the
curious expression on her face. It seemed she was completing him.
"That's a myth; nothing more."
"Is it a myth because you've been told it's a myth or because it
actually is one?"
"It's a myth; like Santa Claus or the Tooth fairy."
"Are you quite sure? As sure as sure can be?"
Ignoring the musical quality of her questioning voice Deacon said,
"And if I'm not?"
"Then you should find out why you're not."
"And where would I do that?"
A sly little smile filtered onto her lips. "Try with those who don't
want you to know."
At her words a rush of thoughts ran through Deacon's mind though one
was the most prominent. The true bloods had to be hiding something.
Even their contempt for made vampires could not explain their
secretiveness. And then the thought occurred to Deacon that he found
himself wondering whether the idea of the myth of La Magra was a myth
itself. He tried to remember everything that he had ever been told
about the blood god and realised that although there was not much some
of it was conflicting.
There spread through him a vein of anger that made him begin to shake.
He sat up sharply and the delicate little witch gasped in breath and
flinched at his rapid movement. Looking down at her he saw that there
was a shadow of fear there. "Oh I've been naughty," she breathed. "I
said I wouldn't be but now I have and I shall surely be punished for
it. Am I going to be punished?"
Deacon gave a small smile and brushed a hand across her cheek before
leaning down to brush his lips against hers. The witch let out a small
sigh and before he knew it her tongue darted out to touch his lips,
feather-light in its action. The vampire could not determine who was
more startled by her action; he or the redheaded witch. He kissed her
more deeply then leaned back. "Now why would you think you'd been
naughty little witch?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "You know why. We both do. Something bad
is going to happen and I promised them I wouldn't do anything bad
anymore."
Ignoring her he stood and the redhead witch scrambled to her feet
after him. A breeze rippled the world around them and she trembled,
suddenly seeming less that perfect. He started at her as she began to
look up at the sky again, tipping her head back and exposing the pale
column of white flesh that was her neck. Again she was a lithe little
angel, as pure as pure could be and deliciously tempting to him.
Reaching toward her Deacon grabbed hold of the angel's arm and tugged
her close to his body and running his tongue up and down her neck. It
seemed that in the night the only colour was that of her hair and the
rose flush which came to her flesh.
"Bad, bad, bad, bad!" she exclaimed and began to murmur something over
and over again, mantra like although he did not know what. Deacon was
not listening though for he had already concentrated his attention
back on body, taking hold of her and lowering them both to the ground
where she squirmed wonderfully beneath him. And then her lips were on
his and nothing seemed to matter much anymore about anything.
As his eyes flickered open and the world rushed back in Deacon found
that he felt cold. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and started
down at his naked chest feeling oddly puzzled. Sending his perusal
further Deacon saw that his pants were laying a couple of feet away
along with his shirt and his shoes… Sitting up he felt the movement of
subtle flesh by his arm and glanced down to where the pale redhead had
fallen. She appeared as if in monochrome, as if someone had crept by
in her slumber and stolen the vivid colours of her being and then his
eye strayed to the one blemish which marred the image and in that
second he remembered; the rich and wonderful scent of her and the
warmth surging through his limbs.
Deacon stood, pulled on his clothes and then grabbed hold of the torn
white nightdress that had been discarded earlier. Carefully he laid it
over the girl and placed a brief kiss on her forehead.