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BtVS After "Restless"
Spike awoke with an unusual feeling. It was something that had not happened to him since he was a teenaged human boy. With a curse, Spike threw off his blanket and scrabbled for what he needed. His hands itched to find paper, pen, and to write. He pawed among the litter in his crypt, finally coming up with a ballpoint with an ad for the Bronze on it and a paper grocery bag.
Words flowed from his mind as the poem grew. Metaphors danced with imagery in perfect step time and rhyme. After two hours, he sat back and blinked at the two bags covered in his long-unseen copperplate handwriting. Wonderingly, he picked up the first bag and begin to read. Soon, he smiled, later, he wept. It was perfect. An epic of sweeping scope had poured from his mind, and it was great.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself. “Where did that come from? I’m a terrible poet.”
“From me,” came a soft voice beside him.
Spike leapt to his feet, protectively clutching the poem to his breast. Before him floated a transparent woman of breathtaking beauty. Ribbons of colored energy languidly wound about her body like seaweed in a current, revealing and concealing her nudity. He squinted at the bright apparition. “And who are you, Pet?”
Her smile grew wider. “Why, William. I am your muse.”
“I don’t have a muse. I’m a horrible poet. People would laugh at my poems.”
Her look grew sad. “Dear William. I was imprisoned. A wizard ripped me from your side and entrapped me. He forced me to feed him instead of you. Roughly, I was passed from heir to heir until by happy circumstance, I was freed and rushed here to you.”
Spike’s expression softened from suspicion to understanding. “So… so what I wrote as a lad wasn’t a fluke.”
“Oh, my sweet, no. You were meant to have me by your side, guiding you. I tried to return to you, to reach you, but I couldn’t get more than a word or two through now and again.”
“That… explains a lot.”
“I was with you when you were turned. You had been calling me. I was sad at the loss of your light, yet I rejoiced that I could maybe one day rejoin you.”
“Effulgent…” Spike whispered.
“Yes. Drusilla caught it, too.”
Spike looked to the poem in his hands and back to her. “I have no use of you now. I’m a soulless demon.”
Her eyes widened, and the ribbons dimmed. “Do you not want me?”
Spike shrugged. “I didn’t say that. It’s just…”
”You feel you have no beauty to write about?”
The muse laughed. Spike’s spine tingled. “Oh, William. Oh, Spike. I have been watching you all these years. I know there were times I got through to you. The tableaus of horror and death you created. The symphonies of anguish and terror you pulled form your victims…”
Spike’s eyes sparkled, then dimmed again. “But this chip. I can’t do that any more.”
His muse smiled slyly. “I have an idea for you about that…”
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