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Dreams and Mirrors

Chapter Text

 

 


Stop with Drusilla. See, Drusilla isn’t here anymore. And you know what is left?

Caligula, Albert Camus. First act.







“There once was a princess …”



Thus began all the stories told by her guardian: the adventures in the Middle East and those in the remote coasts of India, the duels among the snow-capped mountains of Siberia and the tales of love in Assisi and Jerusalem.


When the guardian sat down to tell the stories, before the fireplace or in the hot belly of a bedroom for girls, the Cecil sisters used to close their eyes and let her words lead them into wonderful worlds.


There were four Cecil sisters, bound together by a deep and innocent family love.


The eldest, Judith, dreamed more keenly than the others.













Judith had big clear eyes, shimmering like those of a cat. Long black hair she used to tie with a white ribbon. The sweetness of a little girl who grew up in a house of good men and women.



Every once in a while Judith used to walk in the gardens of her father’s summer house, among the majestic cypress trees and the blackberry bushes.


She wandered singing, touching the buds of roses, chasing her younger sisters who were fast as foxes in the hunting season. She repeated to herself the beautiful words of her guardian.


Once upon a time a princess. A girl.



Judith used to smile imagining all the wild dancing until dawn and the brave heroes on their white horses. Then she scolded herself. She recalled her mother’s recommendations, her lessons about sin and desire, and felt again a disgust for her difficult name, chosen by her father.


In the Bible Judith was the one who cut Holofernes’ head off. She didn’t have Mary’s sublime purity nor her docile submission to God. In the Bible Judith acted like a man, in a physical and violent way and for that Judith Cecil felt the need to pray harder.


She always needed to pray.


For her sisters, for her father’s whims and for her mother who always guided her.


For herself, who wanted to see and know and dance with a knight in a shining armor. With a princess. Like a princess.






“Judith run!”


Mary and Elizabeth were already away, laughing, looking for a hiding place. Judith lowered the blindfold covering her eyes and saw Anne grinning, beside the branches of an old pine tree.


The little girl forced herself not run immediately  towards her younger sister, who would have lost the game right away, but wait and count to ten and put the bandage in place.


She managed to get up to eight. The curiosity was stronger than any concern.


“I’m ready!” she gladly announced opening her eyes.


She looked around with great circumspection and took her first tentative steps in the blossoming garden.


The sisters must have been hidden at the edge of property. Judith couldn’t see their shadows or hear their footsteps. The perception of their remoteness was increasing every moment and with that grew the absurd fear that she might lose them forever.


Judith,” said a distant voice.


The girl looked in all directions, but could not find the mysterious caller. A sparrow landed for a moment between her fingers.


Judith smiled, before a flash of pain cutting off her breath. She leaned forward, with her knees up to touch the moist soil, and stared at the sparrow between her fingers. She was able to see the clear color of its plumage and bright light in its black eyes.


She sat down on a slippery stone and felt her head throbbing and her heart beat wildly, like on a day before a celebration. Her perception of space stretched and narrowed to the rhythm of her breathing and the view steamed up.



It was then that she saw him.


A man dressed in a black jacket, with long brown hair and wicked smile.


She rocked back and forth absorbing the view.


He was an angel - no, a devil - an angel, and he had come to take her away. On his chest an inflamed symbol was burning and he was clutching in his hands her dolls all blinded and broken. He spoke with a foreign accent.


In the fog of vision his words were mixed.


You see, Father? I made something of myself after all.


I can stay in town as long as you want me.


Oh God, Buffy, what happened?


It’s not the demon in me that needs killing, is the man.


“Oh stop ...” Judith gasped, suddenly exhausted.


She closed his eyes and took her head in her hands, commanding the vortex of voices inside it to keep quiet.


She saw the man and the blood, the pain. She wept for the losses she didn’t know yet and felt more lost and alone than ever.


Then she looked up and saw her. The blonde girl armed with a shining sword. She would see her for centuries, in her confused dreams and in the visions during the full moon.


Judith held out a hand to touch her, but she felt her vanish like mist on the horizon.


What remained, though, was her frown, the force with which she brandished the sword and the cross on her chest. She had no name, but she could only be called salvation and protection. And he was coming for her.


The throbbing in her temples intensified for a moment, accompanied by a knot in her stomach. Judith felt a hot gush between her legs and the liberation of the end of pain.


She opened her eyes and saw Anne a few steps away from her, staring at her intently.


“Are you alright?” she asked.


Judith nodded. Then smiled and ran to hug her sister.


The slippery stone was wet with her blood.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Text

~ One


January 18, 1857






The rain was falling among the branches of roses and cherry trees withered by the cold.


Judith was watching the drops crashing on the ground from her house door. She was breathing softly against the glass and drawing flowers on the damp surface, then watching them vanish in the quiet happiness of her secret game.


“Judith, come here, my dear,” her father commanded, as he sat on his favorite armchair.


With a gesture Judith erased the drawings on the glass and came to her father. She sat beside him on the floor, as she always did.


“Tomorrow is your birthday,” her father said. “Do you wish to have anything in particular?”


Judith shook her head remembering her mother’s words on gifts too expensive and her duty to be humble and unassuming. “What you feel appropriate, father. Even if it was only a violet.”


Mr. Cecil chuckled. “Your modesty does you credit, Judy, but tomorrow is your day and you have the right to ask for what you want most.”


Judith bit her lips. A thought crossed her mind, a child’s thought: the desire for a new doll; a princess of the woods or queen of the castle in a purple gown. A new playmate, white and gold.


“So, have you thought about that?”


Judith closed her eyes.


“A new dress, father. A dress for the Sunday mass,” she said.


“And you’ll have a new dress,” Mr. Cecil sanctioned, stroking her head.


Judith felt the urge to deny her own words, to beg her father to look at her and burst into tears without shame trusting in his care.


“Thank you, Father,” she only said.


She was going to turn seventeen the next day. She was a woman and such childish behavior would be more than inappropriate.


“You are the sweetest daughter, Judy dear,” her father murmured. 


Judith blushed. She wasn’t the sweetest daughter, she wasn’t like that at all. She was only able to compose herself and to respond properly, following her mother’s teachings.


She was a good liar.


“Do not say that, father. You flatter me without reason,”


“Oh, but that’s not true. You’re good, Judith. You are good and sweet more than any other girl at your age.”


This time Judith didn’t contradict her parent. She looked out of the room, to the garden, and saw the glow of a lightning exploding in the sky.


“Sometimes I think ...” she whispered very softly.


“What do you think, dear?”


“I think ...” she forced herself to continue. “I think I borrowed my birthday. I feel as if it wasn’t mine, as if it was a day devoted to a different girl, in a different time. I almost feel like a thief,” she confessed.


She looked up then, and turned her startled gaze to her father’s, who was staring at her in silence. She waited for his reprimand and was surprised when she heard his laugh.


“Father ...”


“What a nonsense, my dear!” He exclaimed, a flash of fun in his blue eyes. “You really have a great imagination! But imagination must be harnessed as anything else, especially for a young woman like you,” he added, with great wisdom. “Soon you’ll become a wife and a mother and you cannot live into your imaginary world anymore.”


Judith nodded.


“I know, father. You are right.”


“Good,” he replied. “And still, you’re my baby girl. I hardly feel guilty about letting you live in your dreams.”
There was a short silence. Another lighting shone in the sky. 


“Every day of the year is dedicated to a saint,” Judith said then. “We borrow a saint’s day.”


“Of course, my dear. That’s right. Tomorrow you will be watched over by the saint that allowed your birth.”


Judith nodded again.


She knew the story. She knew she should have been born in March, in the mild season with the blossoming of the first flowers, but she was forced by nature to come into the world in the cold winter.


“You seemed almost dead,” her father told her. “We had the certainty that you would not survive a single day, small and frail as you were. But God decided to save you and give you to us. You have to devote your life and every one of your works to God.”


“Yes, father,” she whispered.


The thought that God was watching over her, that He had allowed her birth, was always a source of comfort and joy for Judith, who got up, walked to the window and breathed on the glass, her soul quiet again.

Chapter Text



~ Two



January 15, 1860






There was a man in Judith’s life now. A man with the face of an angel and the soul of the most cruel devil. A man who chased her wherever she was, poisoned with his presence the happy and peaceful existence of the Cecil family. A man that Judith never stopped seeing in her dreams, in her visions.


The end of me, an instinct suggested to her. The end of all things.



And Judith cried. She wept before the altar of God in the monastery where she had sought refuge. She wept, remembering her father’s caresses and her mother’s stern face. She wept remembering her uncles, the beloved cousins and their dear puppies nailed and bled out on her doorstep. She wept and moaned for her cruel fate.


Is this my test? The penalty for my holiness? She asked to the mute crucifix, kneeling for hours, up to provoke wounds on her legs. Is this my bitter fate?


The salty tears streaming down his face and nothing seemed able to console her.


She could seem strong, however. She was able to convey a sense of peace and obedience that restrained her younger sisters’ anxieties.


She devoted her time to the flowers. In the cold mornings after the prayers, she took care of a rose bush particularly dear to Mother Superior and cultivated vegetables, medicinal plants and herbs for infusions.


She held the younger girls’ hands, educating them to prayer and quiet benevolence. She comforted their troubled spirits.


“Is this my greatness? Is this my peace?” Judith asked.


She was alone at last, in the Spartan room that her sisters had given her. She could pray and lay bare her deepest fears and anxieties.


“I’m not ready to face this test, holy Father,” she whispered at the crucifix. “I’m not strong. I am Your humble servant, but I’m not strong,” she sobbed, closing her eyes.


She remembered just an image, the consolation that she didn’t want to give herself: a girl armed with a sword, fighting for her life.


Her golden knight.


Judith blushed and tried to banish the thought. She felt unclean.


Yet the golden girl was the only thing that could give her the courage to face the new day, the only serene vision in a sea of tears and blood.


“Who are you?” Judith murmured in her prayers. “We will meet? Will you save me? Why wearing men’s clothes?”


Judith has heard of a legend of a young girl with superhuman strength, able to hunt monsters and kill vampires.  Nothing but a fairy tale, had assured her Mother Superior, as Judith’s heart almost lost a beat. The last seed of hope was destroyed for her.


“Please Lord, help me,” she asked again. “Help me and I will fast again. I’ll do good works and I’ll do everything - everything, my Lord - to be pure at your sight, to fight the unworthy visions that crowd my mind. I don’t want to be Satan’s daughter, I want to be yours, my God.”


There was a knock at her door.


Judith got up, fixed her dress and hair and cast away the tears from her face, imposing herself to be calm. She took a deep breath and headed for the door. She opened it.


“Judith, there are your sisters for you,” a nun said, revealing Elizabeth and Anne’s frightened faces.


“Sisters,” Judith whispered, inviting them to in enter her room, welcoming them into her arms. “My sisters!”


“Mary had forbidden us to reach you,” Elizabeth said, her eyes shining with tears. “She said it would be dangerous, that we shouldn’t have ...”


“But we could not leave you alone,” Annie added. “We couldn’t.”


Judith stroked her sister’ long brown hair and pulled her in a hug again. She cried tears of joy, surprise and relief.

Chapter Text

~ Three

 

 

May 22, 1860

 

 

 

Judith ran.

She ran for hours, on the dirty roads of her mind, between hidden alleys of thoughts and nightmares, in the forests of the night.

She ran to escape from the man with the wicked smile, forcing her muscles as far as she could and breathing regularly to avoid fainting. She tried to save her loved ones by any means, imploring for heartbreaking goodbyes and fleeing from the house that saw her birth and kept her memories of a lost childhood.

Then she surrendered, as the lamb near the blackberry patch. She stopped, considered the thorns for a moment and then she advanced through the weeds and the brambles.

She had been captured.

 

 

The first to fall was Annie. Annie or Elizabeth?

Elizabeth’s breasts had been torn by sharp fangs – that she remembered – and a large stain purple grew on her pretty ivory dress, like cranberry juice on a new tablecloth.

Annie didn’t cry. She pulled her older sister in an adamant embrace and set back until the edge of the choir, where the nuns were lying slaughtered. She tried to use a crucifix as a weapon, but it was all useless.

She didn’t cry, though. She fixed her gaze on Judith as she was bitten and sighed an incomprehensible prayer.

She didn’t cry.

Mother Superior’s alarm was useless, too late and almost a cruel joke of hope. Like Mary’s hair delivered to the monastery just after everything had been consumed.

 

 

A searing pain on the abdomen, the feeling of bursting.

Judith felt that kind of pain, when she was still wearing the white veil of Christ’s brides. While witnessing to the massacre perpetrated by her executioners she held herself in a corner of the church and embraced her swollen belly.

She cried then and held her arms so strongly until she cut off her own breath. Like in a childbirth she clamped her teeth and prayed for the pain to not kill the newborn, to not kill her.

Then she laughed, because there was no end to the pain and her tears were the same as when she was a child and got angry with his mother because she gave a new dress Mary. Futile pain. Useless, useless, useless, fun ...

Then the nausea.

Two bodies pressed against each other a few steps from her. Judith could hear the slap of flesh on flesh and the sound of wet kisses, the hum of laughter.

She wanted to throw up for she found that physicality so nauseating.

The dark spot on Elizabeth’s chest, Mother Superior’s heart ripped apart and the tongue of the beautiful blond monster inside her companion’s mouth …

Oh God, not this,” Judith muttered, who already had a different name and a different fate.

Then before her eyes there was the golden warrior, smiling shyly and holding her hands. Strongly.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Text

~ Four



 

June 1860





Judith screamed and screamed and screamed. She felt tense to her attackers’ touch and her body fought a war between yielding and the pain of resistance. 


She kicked Angelus and her punishment was a slap and a punch in the stomach. It was then that she crumpled to the ground, like a dead leaf, and granted her helpless body to the minions who were supposed to take care of her. She had been locked in the attic.






There were paintings in the attic, destroyed by mold and removed from their frames. Old paintings, which belonged to the previous house hosts, killed and buried in the garden.


Judith used to sit on the cold floor and look at them for hours, searching for new details.


Daddy hated her researches. He used to send fresh water and soap every day so Judith could have wash and not smell musty. When even the soap wasn’t enough the minions were passing a thin cloth dipped in perfume.


Daddy hated sloppiness, the little care that Judith would have reserved to her skinny and different body. Daddy wanted perfection from Judith.


There were paintings in the attic and a pink bed. Judith sniffed the sheets and slept on the floor, feet flat on its edges.


She also hid under the pink sheets, especially when she heard Daddy climbing the stairs – the steps were thirty-two, Judith counted them in her mind every time and sometimes peed under the bed that could not hide her.


Daddy used to climb thirty stairs and then wait in the hallway for a moment, slowly open the door and smile at Judith hidden between the covers. When he smelled the stench of urine he beat Judith on her back, arms and sex. Daddy hated pee.


If Judith had been good – and Judith was a good, good daughter – Daddy was sweet and granted her long strokes, delaying the intercourse on the pink bed.


Judith loved Daddy’s caresses, but hated the waiting. If the intercourse was inevitable Judith preferred to endure it in advance and have time to greet Daddy, who would be back the following day at the same hour.


Judith preferred to lie immediately with him and then return to devote herself to the observation of the paintings and her favorite games with a mouse that hide between the walls.


There was also a rat in the attic. Judith imagined him assisting baffled at Daddy’s caresses and running away when the bed was moving too much or the headboard was thumping against the wall.


Judith had called him Mr. Mouse and had bathed him into the basin of water that the minions gave her every sunset. Judith had told Mr. Mouse about Daddy, so it wouldn’t ever happen for the two to meet. (Daddy wouldn’t approve the presence of Mr. Mouse in the attic)


Judith loved Mr. Mouse and especially didn’t want to be alone.


She didn’t want to be alone in the attic that contained old paintings, a pink bed and mirrors that didn’t reflect her face. There were so many forgotten objects in the mold and Daddy wouldn’t stop climbing stairs and thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two ...


(Judith suffered every time. A dull ache that took her in the groin and all she could do was squirm until the pain became a strange feeling, like having a belly full of water)


Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two ... Judith couldn’t get out of the room anymore and couldn’t look at the sun. Only in the mirrors that didn’t reflect her face she saw golden shadows whispering just a name: Drusilla.

Chapter Text

~ Five





July 15, 1860





The summer had arrived. An exceptionally hot summer for London.


Judith celebrated it by changing her name; she was Drusilla now, Drusilla who was about to dance with a bloody prince and give a name to all the stars and ... Drusilla, who had sung for hours in the solitude of her moldy room, next to Mr. Mouse who was gnawing at the old rotten wood of the floor. 


Daddy and his woman – Mommy? –  had gone traveling and Drusilla was left in the house, along with the minions who tended her and clubbed her hands when she tried to open the windows or force holes in the ceiling.


She hadn’t understood Daddy’s ban. Drusilla had tried for days to see the sunlight. She only resigned when a minion threatened to take away Mr. Mouse, her only friend. 






Daddy’s absence lifted Drusilla’s spirit, who no longer had to worry about the thirty-two steps and could pee around the bed and sleep with her feet resting on the headboard.


Daddy’s absence also animated a deeper feeling, black as hatred and dense as love, that Drusilla began to feel for her executioner. If he was really her new Father, Drusilla must have to love him. Love him as a devoted daughter and a consumed lover. Love him to the limit of her senses, despite the thirty-two stairs and the prohibition on peeing and the inability to open gashes in the darkness of the house – and kill him, kill him and maybe dance around his body on flames.


Drusilla was, first and foremost, a good girl.


She would never ever have listened to the naughty suggestions from the girl in the mirror.








“Mr. Mouse, can you count the new opening flowers?”


Drusilla was sitting on her knees, looking at a country landscape all green and yellow, almost swallowed by the mold. Mr. Mouse gnawed a frame piece on the floor.


“You’re really naughty, Mr. Mouse! You do not know how to talk properly and you can’t count the new flowers. Look at them! There are twenty, red and yellow. They are the flowers of my first summer.”


Drusilla caught the mouse in a hug and smiled feeling his heat.


Then she heard the front door, the minions, the stairs ...


“Daddy is back!” she giggled, her soul filling with the new happiness that was growing inside her.


She immediately restrained the urge to pee under the bed. She pressed her sex against the beams and felt immediate relief. She laughed, as she hadn’t for weeks. Then she poured water into the porcelain tray and washed her arms and underarms. She studied the smell of the soap on her nails.


Daddy took an incalculable time to climb the thirty-two stairs, both very little and very long. Finally, he opened the door without knocking.


“You washed,” was the first thing he said. “You’re learning, see? Soon I will take you downstairs and you will meet Darla.”


Drusilla quivered with emotion but forced herself to remain still, like a good daughter.


“Is she my new mommy?” she asked. “Or my grandmother?”


Angelus chuckled; “You’re really crazy,” He said whilst approaching her. “I brought you a present.”


Teeth detached from a human jaw. Drusilla took them in her hands and laughed.


“See you tomorrow,” Angelus murmured. “I’m too tired now to greet you as I should.”


Drusilla nodded and almost accompanied Angelus at the door. She remained alone again- clean- with a gift.


There were four teeth, colored like ivory. Only one smelled of something good, something dark. Drusilla smelled it for long moments, then she turned to Mr. Mouse.


“You’re here!” She exclaimed. “Want to play a new game?”


She took the mouse in her arms and stroked him gently. She studied the dark brown of his fur and his vivid black eyes, before kissing his pink mouth.


Then she bit him furiously.


The blood of the mouse slipped on the floor and on Drusilla’s white robe as she drank in great gulps.

Chapter Text

~ Six




August 30, 1860





And thus began the hunting season, the sharp toothed one. From Judith’s sacrifice Drusilla was born, a creature of the night, and in the sacrifice Drusilla existed. In the blood of the innocent – men, women, and children – who lost themselves in her eyes before drawing their last breath. Out of the moldy attic, Angelus’s masterpiece was now conceded to her audience.





“Do you want to run for much longer, child?” Drusilla asked, dodging the brambles that were tearing her white dress.


It was the last night of August – or was it the night next to the last? She couldn’t remember – and Daddy had decided to take her hunting with him.


Daddy had become very good with Drusilla; he didn’t climb the thirty-two steps anymore and he allowed her to leave the damp attic and dance under star-filled skies. Moreover, many times he took her by the arm and dragged her outside, where the coach with Granny was ready to lead them to new adventures. 


They roamed the fields, Angelus and his family, searching for isolated houses to plunder and paint with blood.  They usually introduced themselves into the stranger’s homes from the service doors (Daddy was very good with the servant girls) but when the game demanded it they also knew how to simulate a family relationship or an emergency.


Drusilla had learned to be quiet in the shadows, or pretend to faint before the eyes of the new unsuspecting victims. Her favorite part of the game, however, was always the hunt.


“Wild bird … wild bird ...?” Drusilla crooned. “Your parents are already asleep, don’t make them worry.” She added, advancing in the dark forest.


She could smell her victim, the pungent scent of his fear, and could hear his rumbling stomach that revealed the boy’s every move.


He was the youngest son of the peasants who lived in the house Angelus and Darla had infiltrated. He had full cheeks and golden hair, just like those of an angel.


Also, he didn’t know how to hide at all.


“There you are!” Drusilla exclaimed, grabbing the boy who was trying to squeeze into a gutted pine trunk. His arms, soft, not to mention full of blood and sweetness, were too large to fit. “So white and tasty,” the vampire whispered, bringing her lips to his face.


The child trembled and gave off a sour stench of urine.


“I pee under the bed too,” Drusilla confessed gleefully.


It was in these moments that she used to imagine another girl, engaged in another hunt. Sometimes she saw her young, almost at the limit of her childhood, letting her long blonde hair run wild and sticking the pointy end into the body of her enemies; sometimes she could see her leonine mane and the seriousness of her face kissed by the sun. She could watch her dance between tombstones. Each time was a new revelation.


“You look like her, you know?” the vampire said, caressing her victim’s face – with his eyes already closed, how intuitive! – “Golden and soft and dark, like a flower. Want to hear your parent’s last words?” She asked, and then she heard Angelus calling her.


Drusilla sank her teeth into the boy’s meat and sucked quickly, in great gulps. Then she let go the dead body, fixed the white dress Daddy had given her, and went back inside the house.


Angelus and Darla had finished dinner. The leftovers were lying between the chairs of the dining room.


“We should find you a new name.” Angelus began, addressing Drusilla. Darla was lying on a corpse, a smile of pleasure softening her face. “What was the name that your dead sisters thought?”


Drusilla paid no attention to Daddy’s words as she wandered into the house. She leaned on the peasant’s cold bodies and counted their fingers. She carefully studied every detail of the furniture until he saw her; a china doll, all white and blonde. She took her into her arms and rocked to the sound of childhood rhymes that resounded inside her mind. She kissed her on the lips.


“You’ll be Drusilla,”  Angelus said. “Drusilla, like Caligula’s sister,” he added and laughed.


Drusilla smiled at him, because she already knew.


Her name and Miss Edith’s.

Chapter Text

~ Seven

 

 

 

September 13, 1860

 

 

 

Miss Edith smelled of sand. Drusilla reached this conclusion after long and exhausting investigations of the body of her new friend.

Miss Edith smelled of sand; they must have created her with shells and pieces of rock to give her that particular feature. With rays of sunlight, because Miss Edith smelled like the summer that the seer would never see again. (Or yes, maybe. In the arms of the King of Cups. In the fists of a girl from another era. Maybe. Still one more summer).

Miss Edith had one leg slightly longer than the other, tilted to the right, and had large gray eyes, decorated with dark lashes. Her hair was blonde, curled in delicious ringlets; it didn’t smell of anything. It was Miss Edith’s body that smelled. Her body and essence.

Edith ...  ed –

During her investigations, Drusilla had noticed a slight crack on the edge of the doll’s neck. This detail made her smile, because she saw in Miss Edith a companion and a creature of the night like her. (Ed - edi ... Daddy explained her what she had become, what a creature of the night was).

Also, Miss Edith wore a white and pink dress, beautiful like a real princess. Drusilla held her and dreamed.

Eidolon.

 

 

 

 

 

Another thing drew the insatiable curiosity of the new born vampire; Darla.

Grandmother, who entertained their rare guests and shared the bed with Daddy, for Drusilla was a source of constant surprises.

She admired her, prideful and perfectly controlled whilst tearing the vocal cords of her victims, alternating between pleased smiles to fatal bites. Drusilla studied her, red and white like roses, alongside Angelus, inseparable from him and able to dominate his most secret impulses just like an expert wife. She used to spy on her, in the lonely nights, when Daddy was banished from the bedroom and had to bring home delicious victims to make amends.

Darla the Vampire Mother had a voice as sweet as the song of the nightingales.

 

 

 

“Wait here, Miss Edith, wait for me.” Muttered Drusilla, arranging her best friend on the table in front of her untouched bed. “We are now in the girl’s room. We have to behave if we don’t want to be sent back to the attic, forgotten among the paintings,” she explained, fixing the ribbons on the pink dress. Edith’s dress was really beautiful. “Daddy has forbidden me to leave the room and talk to the minions, but I really want to ... in the next room there is Granny. I would like to look at her.” She confessed excitedly.

Secretly sneaking in Granny’s room excited her more than anything else, almost as much as hunting.

“Wait here, Miss Edith, and do not look!” Drusilla urged. “I’ll be back soon,” she murmured as she went into the adjoining room, which had a connecting door to Darla’s room.

The vampire opened the door very gently, without making any sound, and looked inside.

Darla was alone. Having dismissed the maids, she had decided to devote some time to herself, as she often did. She sat on the sofa and began to slowly wash her naked body with a cotton cloth. In the chair in front of her there was a basin of water and some perfumed essences.

She was beautiful as the visions in the holy books Drusilla used to browse when she was a child. She had long blonde hair and a elegant neckline.

Her back seemed carved by a sculptor, the curve of her buttocks accentuating the softness of her hips and thighs. Her hands were small, rosy fingers always clean and cured, and the breasts were as ripe as fruits ready to ...

“There are no saints like you, girl.”

As soon as she heard Granny’s voice Drusilla tipped forward and opened the door, bursting involuntary in the bedroom.

“Do you want to keep watching?” Darla asked, turning. The Grandchilde tapped her feet to the ground, unsure about what to do. “You only have to ask,” she added, showing a proud nudity.

She had a white and warm body. So tender.

“I know that look,” Darla said. “I know it,” she repeated with a smile. She put the damp cloth on the sofa and perfumed her neck and breasts with drops of flowers essence, before turning back to her Grandchilde. “There are no saints like you, little girl, and the convent would have rejected you sooner or later,” she murmured softly, a caress of thorns. “You were lucky we found you.”

Chapter Text

~ Eight

 

 

 

November 1870

 

 

 

And then the pain began.

Intense and blinding pain, spasms of her muscles. Drusilla was accustomed to the burning of The Cross against her naked skin, to the anguish she felt every time Angelus left her body after taking it and invading it, to Darla’s nails on her wrists when she was a bad girl, to the bites in the morning that left her weak, prey to ancient dreams and forgotten memories.

Drusilla knew no existence without pain. Yet a new suffering had brutally attacked her, a Sunday after a massacre in a hospice for young mothers. Drusilla shuddered, clawing with her fingers at the lean meat of the adolescent in her arms, a little girl with golden hair. Then tears had dampened her cheeks and she succumbed under the eyes of her incredulous companions.

The next day Drusilla felt a tear in the muscles of her legs and a sharp pain.

Angelus slapped her in an attempt to get her back to herself. Darla scrutinized the scene with a look of disapproval on her face.

Drusilla screamed and became tense in the arms of her new father – who was not at all her real father. How could she forget? How?How?How? – And then she cried until her voice became hoarse.

 

 

She was in an empty white room, the bed unmade and full of leather strings.

(Since when did they used leather strings for a bed?)

The girl was lying in a corner, trembling and frightened like a little sparrow. She had golden hair covering her face and broken nails soaked in blood.

(Her whole life was a lie. Even her sister, whom she loved so much, was nothing more than a mirage, a copy. An Eidolon - Eid - Edith - Anne).

Drusilla felt pain again, a more sweet and tender kind. A sisterly, motherly, and daughterly suffering (Eidolon) for a woman who was yet to come, for a girl who never felt the joy of the sun and who – like Drusilla – was destined to live with the night in her heart.

“It’s so dark where you are,” the vampire murmured – no longer a vampire, just a girl.

Buffy clutched her arms and tore her blonde hair and ...

“It’s all right,” Drusilla muttered. “You’re with me,” she said, pressing her lips against Buffy’s.

They would share the love of two men and the fight, the darkness, and no one would ever wound them again. Never, ever again ...

“Never again!” yelled Drusilla /Judith, crying. “Never again!” She repeated, while the white coats dragged her away.

Pills, pills, sharp stakes.

 

 

 

“I told you we could have done without a crazy girl in our house,” Darla said calmly.

Drusilla was lying her new parents’ bed, her dreaming expression tense.

“It’s my masterpiece after all,” Angelus replied.

“Yes, it is your masterpiece after all.” She agreed, raising an eyebrow.

She knew that men had a constant need of confirmation.

 

 

 

“Never again! Never again!” Drusilla /Judith screamed, in the cage created by the illusion. Was it hers or Golden Girl’s? She knew that there were other memories to explore and that she would have seen them.

She knew, without realizing that she did, that her life would cross the girl’s path countless times and that she would experience pleasure in pain.

Pleasure in pain. Drusilla couldn’t exist without it.

Chapter Text

~ Nine





November 1871





And thus began the pleasure.


Darla and Angelus had harnessed Drusilla’s unbridled imagination. They had given her objectives, prey to hunt and paths to follow into the night. Drusilla had become a real vampire under their auspices and their commands, the orders they whispered in the shadows. Their golden glances full of reproach guided her every choice.


The temporary discomfort, the painful cramps in her muscles and her throbbing temples and those dreams that seemed to want to get out of the cage of her mind and spread, spread in the air, invade everything, dominate even the skies...Even these dreams were controlled patiently by Angelus and Darla.


Drusilla had received a new education. Each time she cried would cost her a slap on the hands, every mental crisis a week of fasting. Drusilla learned to disguise the symptoms, to control the fears that assailed during the day, when she slept alone in the girl’s room.


She didn’t always managed to effectively use her prevention tactics. Granny in particular was a great observer, able to unmask even the more innocent lies and Drusilla’s mood swings. Her reprimands had been accepted as a symbol of unconditional love, the only love that Drusilla could have wanted.


Angelus was most attentive to aesthetics. He demanded great cleanliness from Drusilla and controlled her clothes every time they had to get out, just like a loving father.


He also led secret games with Drusilla, when they were alone in her room and the pink blankets were dyed red by blood.


Angelus opened up her long legs, caressed her, and pushed his fingers inside her to make her moan in relief and pain.


Drusilla had learned all his sire’s favorite games and could behave like a good girl most of the time. She sat naked, between dolls and cups of tea, hair styled in braids thick and pink ribbons on her wrists, then got up and let Daddy hurt her.


Daddy invented beautiful games.


The blonde girl, however, hadn’t stopped visiting Drusilla in her dreams.


Her presence was tenuous. From the dream in which she was tied and swallowed pills that the white coats handed her, there was no longer a vision so violent. The golden girl was waiting quietly.


Drusilla had learned to call her in times of distress or when Daddy didn’t want to play with her. Especially when Daddy didn’t want to play. Drusilla was alone in her room, her belly swollen and an incomprehensible dissatisfaction inside her body.


So she did how Daddy had taught her: she opened her legs and pinched her breasts.


Over time she had overgrown nails that the Sisters at the convent had cut as a sign of humility and punishment. Drusilla had grown sharp claws, blades able to cut the skin of her victims. With those same sharp claws she stroked herself and penetrated herself until she bled and cried in pain.


The pain was just another face of the pleasure and the face of pleasure was the golden girl.

Chapter Text

~ Ten







October 30, 1880






Yet loneliness played a huge role in Drusilla’s life.


Daddy and Granny were taken by the flames of their love and didn’t give Drusilla enough attention, nor called her at night to warm their bed. She almost wasn’t punished when she burst into tears in the middle of a banquet or when she peed while wearing new clothes.


Drusilla procured herself new crises to attract their attention, and yet her new parent’s neglect never ceased to make her melancholy.


Drusilla wanted to be a good daughter, before anything else, and she wanted to be seen and valued and loved. She wanted a neck to suck and a hand to hold among the streets of London.


And then he came, her King of Cups.


At first sight he seemed like any mortal. He wore anonymous clothes and consumed leather boots. He had golden curls and cheeks flushed with embarrassment. His face was obscured by the moon and useless pieces of metal and glass that made him see further (Or closer? Drusilla didn’t understand the mechanics very well). Yet his eyes were blue as a spring sky and his gaze knew how to sustain harsh tests of courage.


He had the heart of a lion and the soul of a poet.


Drusilla had gathered him in the street, one evening in late October. He had cried because a liar had denied him her heart and so he burned all his poems. Drusilla had heard him and she was surprised; what possible catastrophe could have reduced such man to tears?


So she kissed him with her immortal kiss, after asking him for permission. (Do you want to be like me? Do you want to travel the world and hold my hand and laugh when others don’t and dream of a girl from another era?)
The King of Cups nodded and offered his neck.


They would have done great things together, he and Drusilla.


They would have crossed Europe and Africa and Asia. They would have seen the new continents, motor boats, planes on the horizon. They would have killed hundreds of innocent victims and danced with their feet dirty with blood. They would have laughed and trembled and enjoyed every pleasure known to man and fought and won and lost.


They would have conquered the world.


But now Willy (for this was the name of the gentle stranger) was asleep in Drusilla’s bed, after she gave him a new life. He did not know the greatness of his power nor the depth of his desire. He could not eat or even fight against stronger vampires. Angelus didn’t know him yet.


But he belonged to Drusilla.


Finally hers, only hers.


And he would have waited ...


“Thank you for bringing him to me,”  the Golden Girl whispered in the fogged mirrors.


One day William would taste like ash, but Drusilla didn’t know this yet.









Chapter Text


~ Eleven




Golden Time






A century passed, between laughter and sunny days ever seen.


Drusilla and Spike strengthened their bond; they crossed inaccessible mountain ranges and toasted in the most wonderful palaces, just as Drusilla had expected.


Angelus and Darla grew apart instead.


There was a girl – everything always starts with a girl – and her blood donated a new soul to Angelus. Plagued by nightmares and pain, the vampire fled into the night, dirty hair and face wet with tears.


The flame that bound him to Granny was forever extinguished and Drusilla wept for the abandonment of her new father, who would never come back. (Or perhaps one day, to punish her again).


Spike was able to comfort her in the long nights of loneliness after the disappearance of her new parents: Drusilla was a woman now, she could take care of herself, and would have him next to her, for all eternity. There was nothing to worry about.


The sun had risen and set without her to see it. The blonde girl had stopped to kill her in her nightmares and Spike had flooded her with tenderness and care.


There were beautiful days, golden moments.


Drusilla had danced in a sky full of stars and all of Europe had opened its eyes to see her.


Beautiful days, indelible memories.


Then her disease returned. Drusilla was squeezed in a vice of steel, in the grip of an angry mob in Prague, and she was destroyed in body and in spirit.


‘Oh Spike, my Spike, take care of me’  ... she whispered before succumbing in the blood.


The golden age was over, the girl had returned.

Chapter Text

~ Twelve





April 3rd, 1996





The sun was high in the sky and it was spreading a golden and red light on the arid ground. It was possible to hear a distant sound, the sound of an ancient dance, of bare feet hitting the ground and warm blood dripping and flooding everything ...


Drusilla opened her eyes.








Spike was sleeping next to her, as always. An arm wrapped around her back, his naked body partially hidden by the sheets. His eyes were closed and full of dreams. His lips were smeared by a few drops of blood. Drusilla licked them and stared at her lover for a moment.


Spike was all energy. Like burning fire and a propeller always in motion, beautiful poetry of violence and passion. Drusilla felt him, adhering to the most extreme part of her and shaping something new, vital, and angry.


Naked Spike, inside out Drusilla.


Spike and his chest and his fingers and his sex. Spike who separated the crowd in Prague and slaughtered her attackers with his game face.


“Deer soul and belly.”  Drusilla whispered, not really knowing what she was saying.


She licked her mate’s bare arms, his chest (still warm from the meal), and his pink nipples.


Daddy taught her to be generous with her tongue, but she taught Spike much more. And they lived together in a perfect symbiosis that the disease wasn’t able to break.


Drusilla was weak now. She could no longer hunt alone and suffered from unexplained fainting spells.


The crowd in Prague had poisoned her, like an unstoppable ocean wave, so deep and high.


“... Thousand meters high. Like a mountain and a palace!” She muttered, rising from the bed she shared with her companion.


They crossed the ocean, traveled to Latin America and saw amazing things. Then they stopped in a village on the Mexican border where Spike had found an abandoned farmhouse. (Spike didn’t care for aesthetics. He was even prepared to sleep on the floor).


“Bad dog,” snarled Dru, approaching the sealed windows.


The sun had not set yet, but she could see the stars circling in the sky and dancing in the blue and burning abyss until the destruction. An eternal show, poetic and frightening, that always accompanied the travelers in the world.


“There are waves and blue filters and energy that moves and turns ... Turns … Turns …” she sang.


Suddenly a flash of pain hit her and Drusilla gasped and leaned forward, almost touching the ground with her knees. She stared into the dust beneath her and groaned. She felt her head throbbing and heart beating wildly…But she no longer had a heart. She was dead. Dead! Her vision blurred.


And she felt it.


She  was alone in front of the school … the Angelbeast was lurking in shadows and there was another man who tore her innocence on the edge of her youth.


Drusilla fell to the ground and wept for a pain she didn’t understand that wracked her heart and mind. She sobbed as though she was still a little girl, who feared to lose her younger sister forever more. As though she was still the little girl who lost her and then Daddy opened her legs and showed her that there was more pain and that it would never end ...


She asked the stars to forgive her. They were punishing her because she was dirty and bad. And so she put dust in her beautiful hair.


Then the tears turned into a laugh.

Chapter Text

~ Thirteen





September 12, 1997






At the end of the summer Drusilla’s disease had worsened. It had become almost impossible for her to go out alone or take care of her body and needs. The mysterious fainting spells had multiplied, surprising her in the most unpredictable circumstances. Her thoughts had become even more erratic and hectic than before, pushing her to screams and tears.


Sharing the bed with Spike had become a tiring experience, yet her childe didn’t stop kissing and cuddling her and welcoming her into his arms. He took care of Drusilla’s every need, from her meals to her physical appearance. Patiently he had learned to comb her hair and do her make-up according to her wishes, to make her as beautiful as Drusilla needed to be (Because sloppiness was the greatest sin). With generosity Spike continued to bring home new games and firmly silence or hit her when the screams were too loud (for Drusilla needed to be punished. She needed it.)


Drusilla had managed to repay only part of Spike’s care for her and that’s why she felt an indescribable joy.


Perhaps that was true love. The ability to feel each other more closely, to offer herself to him without fear of her weaknesses?


But the visions and dreams had become more intense. Drusilla had always experienced great difficulty in distinguishing what was real and what would become real, but the new disease narrowed the boundaries even further.


Drusilla was walking in the sun of the old country house, listening to the sisters tell tales of knights and princesses, clutching her rosary between her fingers without pain.







“It’s the price that must be paid to give a fitting tribute to our Lord.”


“It’s not a price, it’s a  gift.


“Judith, do you really want to spend the rest of your days in a convent? Never to try the joys of becoming a wife and a mother?”








The visions were as mixed as blood and wine. Mary’s voice was mingled with Father’s, with Elizabeth’s, with the Golden Girl’s, who didn’t want to fight and be chosen and kill Daddy and ...


“But I have to save the world. Again!”


The Golden Girl was a constant hum into the mix of voices, a background noise and a monotonous pounding.


The Golden Girl was responsible for Drusilla’s disease. She was in Prague, among the excited crowd that tried to tear Spike apart, she was in China, when the city was burning and the men ran terrified, and she was in the next town with Daddy who she was going to hurt.


“She will hurt Daddy and Spike. She’ll take my family and leave me alone! She’ll hurt them ... and me.”


The tears started again and even Spike couldn’t stop them.

Chapter Text

~ Fourteen





October 1st, 1997








The new room was spacious, dark, and beautiful. Drusilla could hear the virgin’s song spreading in the air from upstairs. The bed that Spike had transported from Mexico was soft, large, and comfortable.


They were in a new town, now. In the new town. They had traveled for days before discovering that the cure for Drusilla was much closer than they thought and they took the old abandoned factory that was the den of the local vampires. They began to smile again, after months of incessant suffering.


Drusilla had furnished the new room with two broken mirrors and carefully arranged her dolls in the shelf in front of the bed. Since Miss Edith had become a bad example for the others, she had to put her in detention for a few days, because Miss Edith – Eidolon, image, copy – was young and strong and wanted to fight and dance until the morning ...


“That’s what happens,” The vampire whispered, pressing her fingers against her temples. Behind her, a little broken girl who was sleeping now (but she was waiting to return to life. Ssshhh). 


“That’s what happens,” Dru repeated, in a more resolute tone. “The Golden Girl takes Miss Edith’s place and laughs of my pain and I cannot bear it! It’s all her fault if I’m sick.” 


The little broken girl could not reply. She was dead.


“I felt so bad,” Drusilla continued, rubbing her stomach gently. “I almost lost Spike’s love and his touch and I almost slid into the water and drowned. She simply did not care!” She cried, clapping her hands. 


“She did not care, crowded my mind and invaded all my thoughts. She promised to protect me from evil and make me strong, but she has made me even weaker and took Daddy ... the Angelbeast ... the liar ... ah!”


Drusilla knew it was important to protect family, even when it strayed and got lost or changed. She knew that Daddy had taught her to love – open your legs, laugh, suffer – and she knew that he would return to punish her rightfully.


The Golden Girl had whispered into her ear false promises and had shown different worlds; worlds in which Drusilla wasn’t Drusilla and she could spend her days praying in the quiet of the monastery or hunting in the streets of London, to fight the monsters that attacked innocent people.


The Golden Girl had shown death for her and her kind and Drusilla had almost rejoiced at that sight.


But Drusilla was a good daughter, first of all, and now she was also a good wife and a mother. Spike and Angel needed her, they needed her protection and sweetness, and if Daddy had taught her to love, the Golden Girl would have to teach her hatred and resentment.


Drusilla could have learned hate.


“What just ...”


The broken girl had awakened.


“Did you sleep well, my child?” Drusilla asked, turning to her with a smile. The girl was still tied to the ceiling, as Spike left her, but the strings were breaking and the gag on her mouth had been torn to pieces by her sharp canines.


A new strength flowed through her veins and a new mission awaited her.


“Dolly, I want you to go to the school. You must protect my Spike. The Slayer will be there and you will recognize her; she’s golden and purple and spreads energy like smoke. Bite her and make her weak. Bite her, do it for Mummy.”


Sheila nodded and freed herself from the ropes, then hurried to help Spike.

Chapter Text

 


~ Fifteen






November 12, 1997







Drusilla sighed, luxuriating in the shivers of pleasure running from her head to her toes. She took a breath, searching for her reflection in the broken mirror, and adjusted the white dress that made her look so beautiful.


Spike was preparing for the hunt. (A child had joined them in their new home; a child with a broken heart and a head full of spiders and pain and yellow acid and death; a naughty boy who had chosen to betray the Slayer in exchange for immortality. Spike had enjoyed hearing him explain the plan so much; his face was illuminated by a childlike joy that was so wonderful to watch ...)


Spike was preparing for the hunt, and he was going to bring Drusilla with him, because Drusilla was a good wife and sister and she deserved a delightful gift ahead of Christmas.


Drusilla had been waiting for months and years and decades. Patiently she had welcomed every dream, every vision, and without knowing, she had suffered the Chosen One’s pains before they even happened.


She learned to love and she learned to hate.


She learned to hate the savior who had never arrived, the white knight who had left her at the mercy of the monsters and, above all, the liar who told her about different worlds.


She learned to hate because maybe this was her destiny, the destiny of Drusilla and the golden girl who had a name now that Spike despised with fiery passion and invoked in the oblivion of his dreams. Spike ...


When we get there, everybody spread out. Two men on the door, first priority’s the Slayer, everything else is fair game, and let’s remember to share, people. Are you sure you’re up for this?” he asked, tender and full of strength as always.


Drusilla nodded.


“I want a treat. I need a treat.”


“And a special one you’ll have.” he promised her. “Lucius! Bring the car around.”







Drusilla had learned to hate, because she was a creature of the night now. Not to mention that the Slayer would have endangered her and Spike and that daddy she couldn’t stop loving and who would have returned to take her, because no one can escape his creator.


Drusilla had learned to hate because no one was better than her at that game and even Buffy would have realized that looking at her.







The club was swarming with broken hearted children, who offered themselves to their executioners and were now bleeding under Spike and his minions’ teeth.


Drusilla watched from afar the banquet, scared and excited.


The Slayer had to be trapped in the basement with them and Drusilla had waited for her and dreamed so much about her and desired her.


And thought she was taller.


“Huh.”


The Slayer, Buffy, was small and compact like a tiny little doll. Candle wax and skin tanned in the sun, she was wearing a black shirt and a crucifix made of fake silver that didn’t suit her. Someone had wounded her forehead.


“Huh ...”  Dru exhaled again, remaining still in the corner of the Bronze.


The Slayer, Buffy, was steps away from her and she was alive, real. Breathing and moving and fighting and suddenly holding Drusilla in her arms and pointing a threatening stake to her chest and ...


“Everybody stop!”  Spike ordered, pushing away his dinner.


Buffy’s arms were warm. Her whole body seemed to emanate an unbearable heat and her sweaty breasts were pressing against Drusilla’s back so strongly that she felt her heartbeat.


“Let them go!”


Drusilla’s panties were wet.


“Downstairs.”


And suddenly she was back in Spike’s arms, Spike’s loving arms that were shaken with anger and shame.


Disappointing, so disappointing...


“So? What about my reward?”


Drusilla looked in the child’s defiant eyes – terrified, so terrified – and saw only death.


Chapter Text


~ Sixteen





December 22, 1997







The wind was whistling and Christmas was around the corner, with its load of fluorescent lights and candles and festivities once so beautiful and hot-blooded children, succulent and flavorful.


Drusilla listened to the melody that invaded the air. Then she knocked on the door of her new shelter, revealing her face over the cloak. Two minions had rushed to open the door, terrified of provoking their mistress’s ire.


Drusilla was pleased.

 

 

 

 




After yet another defeat at the hands of the Slayer, the vampire had considered it prudent to temporarily change residence and bring Spike with her, because he could no longer move and required constant care that a mother – and a wife and a sister – as diligent as her needed to give.


Drusilla loved to look after Spike, loved to take care of his beautiful and thin body, biting his pale flesh like a Sunday banquet.


Moreover, it wasn’t all doom and gloom: poor Spike had been broken, true, but Drusilla had regained her own strength. She could go hunting now, chasing after her prey, engaging in fights with weaker vampires and riding them until they trembled. Finally, she could go out and take care of the supplies and walk around in the lonely streets.


Drusilla loved walking around in lonely streets.









“How are you feeling, my love?”


Spike was resting between the damask pillows and red sheets. His disfigured face was slowly returning to its natural beauty and his tired limbs found relief in the rest.


“My sweet, lethal boy…” Drusilla whispered, bending down to kiss his forehead.


She had brought a thermos full of warm blood to overcome all his needs. A healthy diet would definitely favor a speedy recovery.


“I’m still on this bed, Dru. That didn’t bloody change.”


“Oh, oh! Is someone being a naughty boy today?” she smiled, dancing in the dark room. Gracefully she undid her cloak and revealed her naked body under the black velvet.


“The stars are singing, Spike. And even the wind. They’re happy to have me back, connected with all things, strong and alive!”


“Good for you, love. I wish I had your optimism ...”


Drusilla pouted theatrically and sat down next to Spike in their king-sized bed.


“You’ll heal. You’ll heal and we’ll go hunting together and enjoy life together and share pleasure ...” she whispered, peering at her lover’s prick over the sheets. “We will share pleasure again.” She promised, kissing him, licking his swollen lips and his handsome angular face.


Spike let out a long groan.


“Dru …” he invoked, stroking her arms, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss.


She lay on him, kissing him with all the passion she could muster.


“My sweet, sweet poet ...” she gasped, guiding his hands on her. It had been so long and she had missed him so much. “Kiss me, Spike, and take me. Take me as only you can.” She pleaded, scratching and biting.


Spike leaned forward as far as he could and groped her buttocks furiously, forcing her against him. Then he gave up, harshly letting her to go.


“Bloody fucking hell! Bloody hell, Dru! Bloody bitch Slayer!”  He yelled, clutching and tearing apart the pillows.


Drusilla retreated. 


“Nothing happens, can’t you see?” He continued, his eyes filled with angry tears. “It just doesn’t get better! I can’t even ... I’m a bloody invalid!” He roared, continuing to curse for a few minutes.


Drusilla got out of bed, caressed her naked and lonely body that needed the touch of her lover so much, and drank from the thermos she had brought.


Then she went back to Spike and stroked his cheek. With a kiss she transmitted to him all the inner calm she was feeling.


“It’ll be okay, my love. You’ll be fine. You’ll heal, kill, and take me. And we’ll be happy as always. We’ll be happy in spite of the Slayer ...”


Small and compact like a tiny little doll. Candle wax and skin tanned in the sun and end …end of everything … end of – 


“You’re right. You’re right, princess.”


He smiled and leaned to kiss Drusilla, who scratched her left breast and offered it to his mouth.


“Now drink, my dear. Drink and get strong again ...” she gasped, as she felt him sucking energetically. “Drink and get strong. Come back to me ...”

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.

Chapter Text



Eighteenth  ~



January 19, 1998







She used to dream about her when she was young and had a different name.


Drusilla used to dream about Buffy, dressed in white like a virgin bride, quiet and beautiful between rose bushes and majestic trees. The Buffy of her early dreams already had a sword but she didn’t use it. She simply sat next to the rivers or the streams, close to the fountains that flowed in the Cecils’ summer estate, staying still for hours, watching the sky. She was a child and woman at the same time. She was absent from the world around her. She was all that Judith wanted to become.


Then Judith had changed, she lost innocence and light and became a hideous monster –  such a cruel monster, able to inflict the utmost pain and terror upon innocent women and children … children who could have lived instead of dying in her arms ... But even dream Buffy had changed.


Now she wielded a wooden stake and stared at Drusilla with cold eyes.


But that Buffy was as real as the fears that populated Drusilla’s imagination, as the shadows she saw wandering the living room in broad daylight, when Spike used to speak and his body seemed to move in a different dimension, much more liquid and vibrant.


The real Buffy – the stubborn and helpless girl who had chosen to give her heart to the Angelbeast – was rude and unpleasant.


She had hurt Spike and she had threatened Drusilla with a stake.


She was a bad, bad girl.


She didn’t even noticed that Drusilla’s body was pressing against her own and that they could remain like that forever, sisters and allies embraced.


Bad, bad girl! 


She wanted to save a world that spared men like Angelus, so loved and hated in equal measure.


(Now Drusilla loved and hated in equal measure and only absolute destruction could have saved her from the torment of her feelings).






Dream-Buffy came to visit Drusilla again.


She was wearing a white robe  – Drusilla’s robe – and she was moving very slowly, peering at the gifts and at the decorations for the birthday party.


“I’ll have to kill him, you know. My whole journey is about that ... There’s no other choice. I have to kill him. But I love him so much.”


“I love him too.”  Drusilla replied, her robe wet with blood and her cheeks with tears. “And I hate him! And I cannot kill him, because he made me and became my only creator. How can I kill him without destroying the entire universe?” 


Buffy approached her and nodded before kissing her lips.


Drusilla sighed, savoring the imaginary kiss as if it was her last.







“I’m not happy, pet. Angel and the Slayer are still alive. They know where we are, they know about the Judge ... we should be vacating.”


“Nonsense,” Dru replied to her beloved childe. “They’ll not disturb us here. My Angel is too smart to face the Judge again.”


Then she moved away from him, studying the emptiness of the room.


The air still smelt of Angel and the Slayer. In an attempt to ward off the assembling of the Judge they had fallen into the trap and Drusilla had watched them, so vulnerable and full of love. So young. Then she saw them run away and she embraced Spike.


Spike who was always with her, who loved her and would have destroyed the world for her, even if he really didn’t want to.


Spike that ... that ...


The searing pain hit her brain came with a trembling sensation, rising from her feet to her legs to her hands.


A pain oh-so familiar to Drusilla. 


“Dru! What is it? DRU!”


The pain of coming home, which made her laugh and laugh and laugh and …