ITLE: 'Seeking Sanctuary' 2/8
AUTHOR: Pythia
DISCLAIMER: The Slayer and her Watcher are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Sandollar Productions, Kuzui Enterprises, 20th Century Fox Television and the UPN Television Network. The story is written for the pleasure of the author and readers, and has no lucrative purpose whatsoever. Please do not reproduce this story anywhere without the author's consent.
Posting Note: * * implies emphasis and { } indicates thought.
The wind had picked up a bitter bite by the time she stepped out of the boat and onto the weathered stone quay that jutted out from the island's shore. The sky had turned grey, and the feel of impending storm was beginning to hang heavily in the air. The Sully seemed an unwelcoming place in the darkening light. Its jagged heights were stark against the sky; their peaks were draped with menace while beneath them the sea washed up onto a bleak and empty shore.
The ruins that draped the promontory added weight to that impression; the tumbled stone had weathered into ominous shapes, the remains of ancient towers jutting up like decaying teeth, or broken bones. Buffy Summers shivered as she stood on the quay, staring out at the desolate landscape with equally desolate eyes. The island looked the way she felt - empty, abandoned, bereft of all life and hope. It suggested exile rather than refuge; it was hard to believe that anyone would willingly seek sanctuary in such a harsh and unforgiving place.
"Away down the quay and across the beach, lassie." The ferryman's voice drifted into her thoughts with a warmth and a sympathy she tried hard to ignore. He was a creature from another world, a fey thing, tainted with life and the ignorance of the living. He knew nothing of her; nothing of who she was or what she had done. What right had he to feel for her, to offer her such care and concern?
"Hurry now. Before the rain comes."
She threw him one last look - one that nodded thanks for his services rather than gratitude for his concerns. He nodded back, his weathered face creased in quiet concern - then kicked out and firmly pushed his boat back from the stone. She let out a small breath she hadn't been aware she was holding, relieved that he was doing as she'd asked and leaving her. She hadn't been certain that he would.
His departure allowed the emptiness to swirl back into her heart, let those last lingering hints of his concerns flicker and fade to nothingness in the depths of her soul. She felt as forsaken as the island, existing in a bleak and empty world which knew neither warmth nor comfort. She had fled from the suffocating attentions of her friends, desperate to escape their painful concerns, their well meaning if utterly misguided sympathies - and her flight had brought her here, seeking … Seeking, what, exactly?
She wished she knew.
She had been dragged from the bliss of death and brought back to a world that was harsh and unforgiving, one that was filled with noise and confusion and demanded an effort that she had neither the strength nor the will to face. Everything was too hard, too discordant, too challenging. How could she function as a friend, as a sister, as a human being, when even the need to *breathe* felt alien to her? She was numb, inside and out, sinking into a morass of nothingness, wading through a world of shifting, intangible sand.
And the emptiness in her heart, the yawning gulf that lay between her and the friends that had fought to call her back, echoed with a need she couldn't define, with a desire that had neither shape nor definition. She had reached out to touch the fires of life - and had felt their warmth freeze in her veins and the chill of death enfold her like a shroud.
The bite in the wind was almost warm compared to that.
She walked down to the end of the ruined quay, skirting the place where part of it had slid away into the wash of the surf and trying not to slip on the dampened stone. Waves were curling in from the open sea, their foam topped weight breaking against the jutting barrier and painting the surface of the ancient stone with a swirl of water. Her feet were wet by the time she reached the chiselled rock which anchored the construction, but she ignored the discomfort, concentrating on making her way down the narrow steps onto the beach. The descent took her below the height of the quay, and for a moment or two its solid presence provided shelter from the rising wind. The beach appeared to be protected from the thunder of the open water by the line of the quay on one side and the jut of the rocky promontory on the other; their sheltering arms created a secluded bay filled with the whisper of the surf and the soft, haunting murmurs of the wind. The tide was encroaching on the curve of the sand, its long low waves rolling in with lazy confidence. Buffy felt as if she'd stepped out of the world altogether - as if she'd stepped down through time, and into the realms of myth and history.
There was a sense of sanctity about the island, one that went far deeper than the chill of the air and the bitter caress of the wind. The bleakness of the landscape held echoes of vaulting cathedrals, and the endless wash of the water against its shores spoke a soft and fervent prayer. She'd had spent too long in darkness, too much time in the company of demons and monsters to ever feel welcomed in such an atmosphere.
Another shiver possessed her as she stood there; this was an ancient, sacred place, and she was intruding on its secrets. She had no claim, no connection to this ancient realm, this place of sorrows and silences. She didn't feel as if she belonged here - but it was her last hope, her all but final destination.
If there were no answers for her here, then - after this - there would be only one place left for her to go.
Even so, she hesitated.
Could she do this? Could she desecrate this sanctuary, invade its hallowed ground and lay her grief at its guardian's feet? He'd come here to escape her - to escape her memory, the echoes of her presence and the emptiness she'd left him. They'd parted with unhappy words, ones forged between them by mutual love and unbearable necessity; he'd given her the only answer, and still she'd found another way - one that he might never be able to forgive her.
She wasn't sure that she could forgive herself for what she'd done.
No matter that she'd had to do it, no matter that it had been meant, no matter how right it had felt at the time; she'd chosen the easy option, the way that had held no cost for her - only cost for those she'd left behind, in the need to live on without her, with the bitter festering wounds of abandonment and grief.
Was that why Willow had fought to bring her back? Because the cost of losing her had been too high, the price more than any of them were prepared to pay?
Was that the price she was paying now, her soul pulled from eternity and plunged into the ice of a living hell? Could she bring that here - here to this echoing, mournful refuge, this place of eternal sorrows that offered, not - peace, exactly, but certainly solace. Solace and sanctuary and solitude?
She nearly turned back. Nearly moved to retrace her steps, up the twisting stone and out, towards the thunder of the sea. The ocean would welcome her, she thought, feeling a sudden longing to seek its embrace, the need to bring everything to an end. No more confusion. No more pain. Just - no more.
It was then that she saw him.
It was only a glimpse - the vague shape of a figure walking across the far end of the beach. But his presence shot through her like a bolt of fire, like a lifeline flung at the final moment, catching her heart, anchoring her desperate soul. She was running before she knew it, running towards him, lifted by the wind, carried across the sand like a leaf torn from a storm tossed tree.