|100 Years of Solitude
Author: Isabelle PM
Series set 100 yrs after the Season five finale. This is part AU and futuristic. Spike has been alive for 100 hundred years after Buffy's death. Whistler comes to him to let him know that Buffy has been summoned to fight a new evil. Buffy/SpikeRated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Angst - Buffy S. & Spike - Chapters: 24 - Words: 108,866 - Reviews: 34 - Favs: 74 - Follows: 6 - Updated: 07-25-08 - Published: 07-22-08 - Status: Complete - id: 4416031
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Full of Life Now
-Disclaimers: Title belongs entirely to Gabriel Garcia Marquez--just borrowing it for the sake of the story. Buffy, Spike, Whistler and all the memories belong to Joss and his crew. All other characters are entirely mine.
-Special Thanks: To the following peoplee who have helped me with the beta at one time or another: Trish, Wendy, Nmissi, Jenn, Tarcy, Marcee and Hilary. I want to thank all of your wonderful reviews and feedback that are always supportive! Special thanks to Pat and Lynn who always get my spirits up when I feel the chapter was "alright". Thank you to all the wonderful people at One Good Day--you guys are wonderful! Tracy--for all the chats we've shared and for her undying to devotion to anything I write (Love you, pet!), for my family for listening to me rant for hours at end about the show and what I was planning to do. To SMG and JM for their amazing talent that inspired me to write this story, to Joss for his undying creativity and to all the Spike/Buffy shipper-redeptionistas that support the theory that anyone can be better is they're given a chance.
On the year of our Lord, 2121, the Great War broke out. Killing millions of people and making the world-dominating countries turn against each other.
You can walk along the streets and see nothing but blood and guts, pieces of what used to be humanity painting walls blood red.
Here before me these people are waiting for me to talk.
I can feel their eyes boring into my skin. They need reassurance they need a leader.
My mother and father raised me to be that object that the multitudes look for.
I stand before them, but standing is so hard without them beside me.
Last night I buried my parents.
I watched as they were the first two coffins to be lowered to the ground in over fifty years.
The government said it should be so.
They didn't understand why my father's body didn't turn to dust. It was there. So human.
So human while I held it.
I can still feel the tingling sensation in the tips of my fingers at the feel of my mother's cold skin.
I cried last night. I cried until I felt dried out, but I didn't have the strength to get myself up from the gutter.
I stand here, only twenty, like my mother was when she died the first time...more like the second time. My brown curly hair just dances in the wind and I feel them. I feel them surrounding me, like a blanket of protection that warmed me and comforted me.
I ball my firsts up and stare at these frightened faces that look to me for survival.
I wanted to scream that life was not fair, why couldn't I just marry Tate and leave this awful planet that reeks of dead human skin?
I once asked my mother how she dealt with being chosen. She said she didn't — she was forced to in a way.
That didn't help that much. But now thinking about it I wish I could hear her say it; I wish I could get mad at my father for being over-protective and calling me 'nibblet'. But I can't.
All I can see is their bodies lying on the open field. Along with the rest who have died for a cause in this world. Along with mutilated and castrated bodies that ferment with fungus that prey on the dead. There they lay.
Holding each other.
I didn't dare touch them for the longest time.
It was majestic.
Like a Michaelangelo sculpture they lay, made out of material only produced by nature. Their raw skin.
I just stared.
They had always told me that if I lost one of them I would lose them both, but I didn't grasp the reality of it until I saw them.
Like enlightenment that fills you and makes you whole.
I let out a small sob as my knees buckled and I fell to the floor.
I wanted to scream that how dare they leave me! How dare they leave me here alone, in this cold planet were men kill each other for petty power.
How dare they make decisions for me!
Now I am staring at their bodies, and for the first time I notice that they're smiling.
I wanted to wipe the smile form their face. I wanted to see it in pain.
But then I think about those rare moments when we were so happy. On my tenth birthday my dad dressed like the tin man and we all laughed when the players and I had no idea what that was.
Then there was the time when I first learned how to drive and I totally trashed Dad's new convertible, but they were so happy I was alive that it didn't matter.
The time Mom got me hamsters but she let the female and the male together and they had forty babies. Dad said he would eat them and we were all horrified.
And the time I threw my first punch and the time I first saw how my Father and Mother fought — like a dance in motion. The first time I remember them kissing...
They were so in love.
The way they could be silent yet arguing and the times they talked about people that had been dead for 100 years.
The way only he understood her and the way he made her laugh although she was reluctant to admit it.
The way she sat with him through cheap TV or cried when she watched the movies made about them.
The Halloween they won best contest for 'fairy tale costume' of the year. Little did the judges know that they had the real thing.
The way they flowed to motion when trouble was brewing.
The way Mom argued that I shouldn't be let in on the action and the way my Father understood that I needed it.
I sat there, looking at their very dead bodies remembering the good and bad times, the times that made us a family.
I sat and I cried.
I cried for them, I cried for me.
After I was done crying I stood up.
And I became wiser.
People say that I have my mother's strength and my father's charm. Perhaps it's true, but now I can feel this power coursing through my veins.
Power like elixir that gives me life.
So I stand before this army of peasants, beggars, and common people. People with no hope but to save their families. Fighting a war we will probably lose, grieving for loss too large to bear.
We are hungry and outnumbered.
And I remember my Father's words from one of his many bedtime stories. "Don't you get tired of fights you know you're going to win?"
Yes, Daddy, I do.
I know they are watching over me; I can feel their eyes on me and I want to make them proud.
I raise my fist in the air.
The all looked at me as though I am a hero, as if I am going to give them the answers.
"You all know me. You all know what I am."
I am a genetic reconstruction of what was left of my parent's love.
"I am not one of you."
Vampire blood curses through my veins, slayer's blood curses through my veins.
"But yet you follow me. You follow me 'cause you know I'll lead."
I am no leader.
"I am asking you today to think of tomorrow."
If there is a tomorrow.
Those that are not dead.
"And the peace we will someday have."
My Father taught me never to lie — because he couldn't lie for shit.
"I do not promise you freedom."
We, as humans, will never have that.
"I do not promise you gold."
All of our money went to the 'cause'.
"I do not promise that you will survive."
My parents didn't.
"The only thing I can promise you."
The only thing I have.
"If that you fight. You fight like heroes. You fight against the tyrant that chokes us and destroys us."
"Fight like there's no tomorrow and today is your day to die!"
We probably all will.
"But you die fighting for that in which you believe."
I know they did.
"Like my parents."
I saw some looks of pity as tears ran down my cheeks.
"Some will call their story tragic. Some will condemn their memory to books of fancies like a Greek tragedy."
I am crying.
"But I say its rot."
My mother should be turning in her grave for my vocabulary.
"I have seen tragedy."
Too much in my short life.
"I have seen stories that scream for mercy and pity."
My arms are shaking and I have no idea how I am standing.
"Believe me when I say this is not so."
I somehow start to believe my own words.
"Their story is the story of each one of us."
I have stopped crying and I feel I am being lifted.
"People. Just people, living in a world full of horrors and pain."
I have no idea were this energy is coming from.
"Just trying to make the best out of what life gives us."
And here I am practicing the same.
"So I ask you to do the same."
I see some faces that believe and that's fine cause it only takes one.
I raise my gun.
"Fight today like there's no tomorrow!"
I hear cheers.
"Fight today and win your freedom!"
I turn and we charge.
We are tired, bloody, and hungry.
This is the story of humanity. But what I know is certain. Life will find a way. It has to, like it always has.
So we charge and fight.
I do not know if we'll survive. I do not know if I'll survive.
The only thing that keeps me going is this strength inside of me from which I don't know its origins, from which I don't know it's source.
All I know is that it's welcomed.
And we fight.
We fight like there's no tomorrow.
Humanity will find a way.
Many will die, many will live. The memories of all those warriors before us, like Mom and Dad, that have fought the good fight, that have lived to tell the tale, and have died a hero's death.
For them we fight, for them...and the many more to come.
Please let me know if you enjoyed the story, if you enjoyed it in the past or anything like that