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Dreams and Mirrors

Chapter Text

Seventeen ~





January 18, 1998







During the festivities Drusilla loved think about Angelus. His hands, his mouth, the blood on the collar of his silk shirts. (The new ones, the most valuable ones, the ones that Darla bought from her private stylist, because Angelus was her beloved son and the others’ pain was insignificant).


During the festivities – but Drusilla had forgotten the reason to celebrate. Once upon a time there was Judith and Judith was born in January and shared a birthday with another girl who was eidolon, distant yet always close ... During the festivities Drusilla used to lie among the damask pillows in the master bedroom hitting her pale skin with metal or wooden sticks, inflicting herself cuts and bruises that marked her body for days, while touching herself as daddy would have touched her.


Drusilla was Angelus’ favorite daughter, because she was sweet and submissive and enjoyed the pain.


But Drusilla was a grown up woman now. She had learned to manage her power and she had chosen a son to shape and tame easily, all on her own! And yet, in the eyes of every father a child remained forever a child and Drusilla would always be a little girl for Angelus-Father. The father who had left her alone only to return again.


Because fathers always return.









As the celebration day approached, Drusilla prepared good games for everyone. She had ordered to set up a huge table and chose the music for dancing. She had brought special gifts from all over the world and a package of silk and red velvet dresses to wear for the occasion.


Spike was still sick, in need of constant care. Drusilla indulged him, aware of the moody and capricious nature of her childe, who always found great consolation in her gentle touches.


Spike and Drusilla had lived in perfect harmony, in a paradise that the Slayer only wanted to break and compromise.


So the only acceptable solution was to kill her. Kill her and kill the Angelbeast who wore Angelus’ face, but did not know how to touch Drusilla to make her cry.


Death to him, death to them all.


Drusilla was tired of crying for her beloved family and for losing the peace she so painfully fought over.








The boxes with the pieces of the Judge were all set up in the main hall.


Spike had given orders not to open them for any reason and, at any rate, had frustrating a couple of particularly spiteful minions.


Everything was ready and everything would be perfect and Spike and Drusilla would have danced between the stars and the clouds and flowers ... THE FLOWERS, THE BLOODY FLOWERS! THE FLOWERS!


“These flowers ... are wrong. They’re all... wrong!” Drusilla yelled, injuring her hands in an attempt to tear apart the roses decorations that adorned the chairs.


These flowers were all wrong and they were whispering of a virginity that was about to being torn apart in pain – so much pain and blood – always by the same man, the same man who broke Judith ...


“I can’t abide them!” she shouted again, on the verge of tears.


Spike’s voice came to her ears like a comforting melody and Drusilla was able to calm down. There was so much that still needed to be done and she was capable of being good, of organizing things.


After all she had a party to prepare.