Author's Note: This fic is the third in the series of Beyond the Shadow and the Soul. Part 1 was The Gift of Death; part 2 was Without. It picks up about two years after the end of Without. The name comes from the bleak lyrics in the song of the same name by The Kenny Wayne Shepherd Band.

Deepest thanks to all those who've stuck with me throughout this series so far; I sincerely hope you enjoy the ride. It's going to be a lengthy one.

If you want to know more about Tolkien's concept of death and the soul, please visit .de/etep/E/elven_ .

Blue on Black, Chapter One

By CinnamonGrrl

Most people don't realize the huge dichotomy that is both life and death. We have far more control over the manner of both entrance and exit from this world than we realize; the gods have all the major details planned out long before we're born, but little things—like, say, an odd and poignant sense of regret before death claims us—can propel us in a direction completely different from that which we might have gone if only we'd died quietly, with our sole last thought being, "Ow."

And so it came to be that the Powers That Be heard Faith's wordless surge of remorse in that heartbeat-span of time between when the demon grabbed rough fistfuls of her hair, and when its sudden wrench nearly twisted her head from her shoulders and she died. The Powers watched as her broken body spilled to the dirty, rain-wet pavement of the Philadelphia street, and thought of a bothersome issue in another dimension that just might benefit from this young woman's particular outlook on the world.

This Slayer had not been anything special. Oh, she'd been the first redundant Slayer ever, certainly, but in terms of performance: dozens of her sisters had gone "bad" before, and as beings of intrinsic good rather than evil, all had seen the error of their ways and sought redemption. Her skills, her attitude: none of them had marked her as extraordinary. Not like her predecessor, Buffy Summers. Now, that one had been special…

But we digress. No, Faith was not an unusual Slayer. She was, however, an unusual person, and the Powers saw in her a singular opportunity to assist that little problem they were having in Middle-Earth. Blast these inter-pantheon alliances! Always more trouble than they were worth. Well, the Valar had asked for more assistance with their attempts to fend off the Netjeru. And this Slayer had died with a plea left unspoken: the opportunity to achieve what she had not had the time to accomplish in her short span of life.

It would seem a marriage made in heaven, would it not? With an indolent wave of a metaphorical finger, the Power responsible for this sort of thing greatly confused the demon, who had begun to crow his triumph at conquering an almighty Slayer to the world, by first reattaching her head properly, and then making her body vanish into thin air. The Power was met—so to speak—at the border between their dimensions by one of the Valar: Námo was his name, but most called him Mandos.

"Another warrior, to aid in your battle," the Power said formally, exchanging ownership of the girl's body and soul to the other deity.

"We thank you for your kindness and generosity in our time of need," replied Mandos, just as formally. Then, "You still owe me twenty dollars."

"I told you, I'm good for it," replied the Power testily. Really, these Valar wouldn't cut a fellow a break. "How about double or nothing?"

"Have I not already won all of your money?" inquired Mandos gently. "'Twould ill befit me to beggar you of gold when 'tis already clear you have nothing of wit."

The Power scowled and flounced off as best as a noncorporeal being was able, leaving the Vala there with the girl's body cradled in His immense, glowing hands. Mandos sighed. Truly, He was tired of all this shuffling around between life and death. The past two decades had been quite vexing for Him, what with that Slayer seeming to die every ten minutes, and all the nonsense after the War of the Ring… and there did not look to be an end in sight. How He longed for the old days, when there was only that one elf, Glorfindel, who needed sending back, and just the once…

"Does no one remain dead any longer?" He asked plaintively, but He was alone in the ethers and shades between worlds, and was not heard. He sighed again, and returned with the girl to His home on Aman. This one would require some work before He could return her to the realm of the living. He only prayed that she would not prove more trouble than she was worth. "I have other things to do," Mandos muttered grouchily as He reappeared in His Halls and strode through the corridors, the girl's arms and legs dangling with the limpness only death can provide.

Where to put her? Certainly not with the elves, as it was clear she was no elf, and what would they talk about? Not with the souls of Men, either, for they were only in His halls for a brief while before Ilúvatar'sprecious gift, that of roaming free instead of being bound to this world, was granted to them. In truth, Mandos was puzzled as to which path He should take and called, as all wise husbands do, for His wife to counsel Him.

Vairë came to Him at once, and heard his dilemma whilst He laid down His burden on an alabaster table. The girl's hair, dampened with sweat and blood, was a dark smudge against the pristine pallor of the stone, her smudged red lipstick a jarring clash in this grey and calm place, and even in death she seemed to exude passion and vitality. Mandos looked down at her, gaze intent, and then all colour seemed to bleach away as he severed her fëa from her hröa. she faded into nothingness, leaving only the misty silver-toned whisper of her soul behind, the very image of her former body.

"Her fate is a unique one," Vairë said at last, for She knew what had been decided for this woman. She rubbed Her fingers, ink-stained from scribing the tales of Arda and Aman into legends, against Her filmy skirts. "Who shall decide when she will be placed once more in her body?"

"Manwë, of course," Mandos replied, and passed a hand over the girl's face. Faith blinked hazily, more out of habit than necessity, and moved to brush hair from her face as she sat up before realizing that there was no longer a need to worry about either hair or face.

"Then you should put the decision to Him," Vairë said firmly, and gave the girl a thorough once-over. "Welcome, child," She said, not unkindly.

They watched as she stared at Them in stupefaction. Even among elves, it was a rare and wondrous thing to be in the presence of even one Vala, to feel their immense power. But this was a human, and They were two, not one. Too late, They realized Their error as she fell back on the table, overwhelmed by their combined glory.

Mandos turned to Vairë with a frown. "We must send for Nienna," He told Her after a last glance at Faith's shivering, terrified form. "She will know how to comfort this one."

Vairë nodded. "I will go." After She was gone, Mandos looked with pity at His new charge. "Such a destiny before you," He said with something akin to sadness. "I can only hope you are strong enough to fulfill it."

Faith felt the shadows swamp her, shockingly fast, and then there was a vague sort of coldness, as if she'd run outside in winter, barefoot, without a coat. Then the chill receded, and sensation prickled her skin as warmth returned. When she returned to herself again, she lay very still and quiet, not knowing what to do. She was weightless, weightless and yet complete, as if by losing something she had found everything. Everything she'd ever lost, ever missed, ever wanted. She had never felt that way before, and this time instead of struggling, relaxed into it. There was light here, and love, and comfort like she'd never thought could exist. She felt herself lowered against something soft and cool, and then all physical sensation ceased entirely, leaving only that flowing completion.

Faith blinked and used her hand to push herself to a sitting position before realizing that she could see whether her eyes were open on not. Slowly, slowly, memories began to trickle back to her. She was aware that she was dead, and surprisingly, the knowledge didn't bother her too much. Slayers never lived long. This, then, was heaven. "Not like I thought it would be," she mused. Many times over the years she'd wondered about her sister Slayers. About her predecessor, Kendra. About Buffy. Where had they gone? What was death like for them? Would it be the same for her? She knew she'd made mistakes—bad ones—but Angel had been so sure that redemption was possible, that forgiveness could be granted to people like them.

This wasn't like the other place. That had been so empty, so cloudy, filled with nothing but tall, glowy people who'd stared inside her very soul. She'd felt transparent as glass, as if every evil nasty thing she'd ever done had been pulled out, one by one, like one of those never-ending magician's scarves. If she'd still had pants, Faith was sure she'd have peed them.

This place had nothing barren or cold about it. Rather, it was comfortable and even a little shabby: the sheets beneath her were worn from many washings, and the blanket above her looked as if it had gone through a few wars. A fire crackled merrily in the tiny hearth across from the bed, and a lone chair sat before it, as if awaiting the arrival of its usual occupant. The room was small and the outer wall was rounded, with a band of windows stretching from side to side. There was no door, and Faith did not feel trapped, but safe, as if she were being protected instead of incarcerated.

She pushed herself up and left the bed to approach the windows. Beyond the glass was a wide strip of beach, with foaming waves of clear green crashing upon the shore. Their rhythm was steady, like a heartbeat, and Faith found herself mesmerized by it. Gripping the windowsill, she watched as the tide came in, gradually inching up the sand until the water rushed almost to the base of the wall she stood behind. Slowly, Faith felt emotions begin to seep from behind the façade of numbness. Before she knew it, she was crying.

Faith wept a little for herself, but mostly for Angel, and prayed he'd found some measure of peace, some way to erase the shadows from him. She'd been with him when he'd died. The Polgara demon had skewered him, but not close enough to kill. She had finished off the last of the vamps and rushed down the murky alley toward him, but he'd looked at her, looked at her with those bottomless eyes of him, and shoved the splinter of bone the fraction to the right it needed to pierce his heart. Her scream of anguish had bounced off the clammy bricks that loomed around them even as his body had altered, crystallizing into a fine grey dust that could not retain its form. With the sound she herself had caused more times than she could count, the sickly yellow of the streetlights had caused what was left of Angel to sparkle and glimmer as it floated gently back to earth. Faith dispatched the Polgara without a second glance, then dropped to her knees beside the little heap of powder that had been her friend, her mentor.

Her lover.

He'd arranged for her release from prison, and she'd joined him in fighting to keep Los Angeles safe from the dark. She'd seen the despair grow in him, the longing for Buffy that nothing could ever diminish or replace. That nobody could ever replace… Faith had long wished it could have been her. In desperate loneliness, Angel had turned to her, and they had taken solace in each other's bodies. When her powerful limbs had wrapped around him, urging him to completion, she had known he was thinking of Buffy. And when he'd buried his face in Faith's hair, groaning Buffy's name, she had allowed herself to pretend for that moment that she was Buffy, that shining girl who had danced with the darkness and yet who had never been vanquished by it.

"Yes," she'd murmured in Angel's ear. "I'm Buffy, and I love you."

Faith had loved him. He was her saviour, after all—had arranged for her release from prison, given her a home, a purpose. She'd fought by his side every night since he'd freed her, and the same passion that had gotten her into so much trouble before now served her in good stead: ardently devoted to Angel, she took his part in every argument without fail, much to the consternation of the others.

Especially Wesley, who had tried to take up his role as Watcher to her. He was much changed from the Sir Geeks-a-lot he'd been in Sunnydale, however, and it wasn't as much of a chore to deal with him this time around. To her everlasting horror, one day he'd noted how mature she'd become, and how proud he was of how she'd buckled down to her responsibilities.

That night was the first time she'd gotten drunk with Spike. Always suspicious of him, chip or no, she'd never gotten to know him much. One thing was clear, however: if you wanted a companion for tying one on, he was your vamp. They exchanged war stories, compared scars, bragged about impressive kills, and by the end of the night (and the end of the whiskey) Faith didn't feel she knew him any better than she had before. It seemed that only Buffy's sister was allowed to learn anything more of him than the swaggering, chain-smoking smirk-on-legs demeanor he affected primarily in order to make Angel insane.

It had been Spike who'd suggested she seduce Angel. He'd just turned down her advances on him, after all, and filled with the sloppy bonhomie that drinking neat gin always seemed to evoke in him. "Go on, then, pet," he'd said, shoving her none-too-gently out of his room at the Hyperion and in the direction of Angel's room. "Bet you twenny quid the Poof'll be right glad t'see ya." Then he'd given her a final flourish with the cigarette clamped between his nicotine-stained fingers, nearly setting her hair alight, and lurched back into his room. The door shut in her face with a certain awful finality, and Faith felt resolve fill her.

"I can do this," she said to bolster herself, and lurched down the hallway, unaware of how garish she appeared under the fluorescent lighting. Mascara streaked, lipstick smeared halfway across her chin, hair matted, t-shirt sodden with spilt liquor, she thought herself irresistible. And indeed, in a state like that, to Angel she had been irresistible. He had not been able to turn her away in such a pathetic, needy state, and when she had pressed her mouth to his in a clumsy, rum-soaked kiss, he had tasted her fear, her loneliness, her desperation. He understood that she was shot full of holes, just as he was, and so he pulled her inside his room and made love to her. It pushed away the shadows for a while. The next day, things resumed as they had been before, and after a few days when the shadows began to creep back and the loneliness was too much to bear, he came to her room. Sober this time, but no less devoted to Angel, Faith stepped back and let him in.

Years passed, and they continued that way. Who knew why they used each other like that? Perhaps it was gratitude. Hadn't her gratitude toward Mayor Wilkins spurred her to excuse his various atrocities, even participate in them? Or perhaps it was her own baser needs. For an hour or two, she could pretend she was someone whole and clean, someone who could be loved, and it was enough. Far more than she deserved, at least. It was enough.

"No," Faith thought, and gave a sharp bark of laughter. No more need to lie to herself, or turn it into something acceptable. They were both dead now, no one to hurt with the truth. They had used each other for sex because they could—and that was it. No deep meaning behind it, no sad story, no teary tale. They had needed the comfort and oblivion that only loveless sex could bring, and so they had indulged. But their moments of respite came with a heavy, dear cost: after a while Faith was aware of feeling tight, over-extended, like she'd been pulled too far and stretched too thin. Then came that night in the alley, and Angel had looked into her eyes, and she'd known he felt the same way.

Angel was gone, and now, so was she. "Gone where?" she asked, hoping there was someone to hear her. "Where am I?" Somehow, she understood as clearly as if she'd learned it in school, long ago: she no longer had a body, really, nor would anyone else in this place. Her physical senses—sight, hearing, touch—all were gone. Or rather, unnecessary, because instead of sensing anything, everything she experienced… she just knew.

There was a rustle of cloth behind her, and yet she knew it was a contrivance —that there was no cloth, really, and no actual body to make it move. Still, she had not lost the custom of looking with eyes instead of mind, and turned to face her new companion. Before her stood a tall woman of middling years, in a gown of grey. Hair the colour of dusk coursed over thin shoulders, and eyes as kind as summer gazed at Faith with the same piercing quality of the other two beings, but without the detachment.

"I am Nienna," the woman said, though Her lips did not move, "and I will help you, if you let me." Nienna reached out Her hand, long fingers gleaming pale in the golden light streaming through the windows, and waited for Faith to respond.

"What the hell," Faith thought. Summoning up her cockiest grin, she placed her hand in Nienna's and lifted her chin. It wasn't like she had anything else to do.

fëa = soul

hröa = body