Journey Through a Barren Mind

by Denny


Pairing: Dru/Spike (implied)
Rating: R (warning: dark imagery)
Summary: Drusilla spends her time remembering days gone by. This was written for a Spike/Dru Ficathon, and was supposed to take place during the Boxer Rebellion, but I decided that the 'rebellion' I wanted to write about was taking place in Dru's mind. It takes place post- BtVS and AtS finales.
A/N: Special thank you to my beta on this one, bloodshedbaby.


Drusilla glances up to see the stars and moon above, as she lay on her back in her simple bed in the dark room. She stares at the black ceiling and watches it peel back to unveil the night sky. She allows her unique vision to traverse through the galaxies, and she smiles. There is no end to the beauty of the twinkling sky and the bright, round moon.

Does he see the same sky in his world?

She is not sad as she thinks of Spike. Sincere curiosity motivates her speculation about his whereabouts in this moment in time. If she reaches out and probes carefully, she could find him, she knows that.

Best not, though.

More thoughts of Spike jump around in her head as the black ceiling returns and the night's sky disappears. A small round disc, which replaced the vinyl music wheels she used to enjoy breaking, is making some of the old pretty music she loves.

If Spike were here, he would sing the words to the song, name the singer who sang it, and take Drusilla back to the first time they'd heard it—together.

Now, she remembers only that she likes the song. Little more, except that Spike would remember it all, and tell her stories. If he were there.

Hard and soft books stacked high on the oddly shaped desk rest unopened. She reads little. Spike had read to her for a century and she'd lost the knack for doing it herself long ago. She keeps the books around because they remind her of him.

A few clothes are scattered aimlessly around the room—on the floor, on the desk, at the edge of the bed in which she lies. The stale perfume of dead jasmine leaves and rose petals mingling with the barest hint of lemon, linger in her old gowns. She wears them still. Spike likes the smell of lemon and night-blooming jasmine.

She swallows a breath, resisting the urge to say his name aloud to the emptiness.

She's been alone for more than one-thousand-nine-hundred-and-ninety days. Feeding constantly, yet always starved—she waits and wanders aimlessly through her past. Warning her sisters and chastising her missing soul, recalling the days before she submitted to death and immortality.

Angelus is a right bastard, Spike would say. But she misses her Daddy.

Limp arms and thin fingers reach out to touch the nearly invisible shadows. Alone for countless nights, endless hours and eternal minutes, she has no company, kindred or solace. Still she can conjure their images and nearly touch them, making them seem so real.

Vampires are killers, and not meant to be isolated from their own kind. She knows this, and understands it. But can do nothing to change what is.

Shifting to stare out the blackened window, she ponders the unexplained. The house of Aurelius is cursed. Her sire, Angelus, has a soul. Her sired and lover, Spike, has a soul. Her mother and daughter, Darla, is deliberate dust.

Where does an orphan go?

Burning candles brighten the dreams of her beloved. Spike was her escort, and the keeper of her true heart. Not for a century, long past, thanks to her, their hearts beat no more. But she never forgets the sound—will never allow that memory to fade.

"There were worms in my baguette," she sighs with tears brimming in her wide wild eyes. Still she never sheds them. Madness makes that impossible.

Drusilla is all pomp and circumstance.

She thinks of Spike—again. All he knew of loving, of passion, of killing and of fear. Sparks of light surround her with his scent and colors; the pale white, the bright blue, the brutal red and black drift through air and space and become magical. It was what they were when together and what they dreamt when apart. Still connected. They were one entity controlling each other's destinies. She shudders, and turns to face the sun—except no sunshine can reach her in the blackness.

Underneath the veil of insanity, she wishes to be sane.

Beseeching the stars, she whimpers to her dearest Darla, and remembers, "the first informs who we are." And she knows both are within the walls of torment where Drusilla's demon shines.

She recalls the little girl who sat with her sisters in the sunroom playing fantastic games. Porcelain dolls and wooden toy soldiers are relatives in tiny families that live underneath the beds. A thousand black knights dwell in these villages. They are strong, masculine and brilliant men, who travel, read books and are champions. Heroes who bless the earth with their good nature and kind hearts. They are better, stronger and just more than any others.

Thinking of Darla, she remembers youth, and Darla's strength, which measured beyond scales. Darla took time when destroying the young. She stole their hearts and grabbed them wildly between stained, cruel fingers. These babies Darla loved to rip and tear and bleed before devouring them. Drusilla learned the art of carnage from Darla in China. She learned cruelty and pain from Angelus in England. She learned lust and passion from Spike almost everywhere they went.

She quivers from her thoughts. It is no use; Drusilla makes no sense, even to herself. She is no longer sane.

Sitting at the edge of the Apocalypse, she looks for her lover in the darkness of her empty room. He is gentle. He is fierce. He is what she made of him. Her William, her Spike. But where is her sire? Her mind, her empty soul. Oh, ah, yes. A moan moves over her lips.

Oh God, Oh God, blessed are the sinners. Help me become what I once was—a girl of virtue. A sister of Christ. A woman of the church.

Laughter begins in her gut, traces its path through her cold chest, and spews from her lips. She remembers the first time she saw him. Angelus. Venturing into her mind, he knew what she would become. And she died. Before he even touched her. She knew death. She knew her destiny and feared it, abhorring the thing she was to be.

Daddy's gone.

Ah… but being a monster carries with it power. A simplicity of purpose that is beyond the imaginable. Brilliant in its glory. And the fall from grace that allowed her to find Spike was the blessing of her existence.

My mate. My William. My Spike. My love. My hell.

It was so easy, recalls Drusilla. Taking him. Stripping him of his humanity. He was so ready to go. It took no more than a compliment, a tease and make-believe.

Her bed is filled with dolls, broken and bent, naked and clothed. Eyes dark, and brittle.

The dollies, they are her family but aren't real.

She rises in her bed, and hears noises in the hall. It's time to feed. Her dollies understand. She'll return as always to the room where she lives in the small space in her mind where no one knows or cares.

I am so alone.

- fin -


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