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doyleHey, don't look at me like that, I'm the first to acknowledge the downright weirdness of this.
Title: By the Roots of My Hair Some God Got Hold of Me
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Anya/Wesley/Dawn
Rating: R
Notes: Backup for the Unconventional Couples Ficathon. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
enfaith who wanted R-rated angst, no fluff. Title's from Sylvia Plath.
It's something about the voice, Dawn thinks. If she'd majored in psych instead of classics she might trace it back to Spike, this weakness of hers for men with British accents. She can't say no to them, whether it's Jack in college talking her into bed on the first date or an old friend of her sister's calling to say he needs her help. And even after he lays it all out, when she knows that he's planning on playing Orpheus and that Willow, Willow who brought back the dead and nearly ended the world, has told him it's insane, he says, "Dawn, please," and it sends sparks to the base of her spine. And next she's on a plane to LA, and then she's chanting from a book whose pages magically fill up as she reads from it, and then she feels the world open up beneath her. Them. And then she's here.
Dawn knows the rules. Don't eat pomegranate seeds. Don't look behind you unless you want to see Eurydice vanishing into the distance. Wes can repeat all he wants that this isn't hell, but Dawn thinks it's close enough to confuse the two.
This place has a different entrance policy, though. Hell dimensions are for demons. If you're religious - Dawn's not - hell is for the damned.
No demons here. No souls in eternal torment.
This is where gods go.
"It's all right," Wes tells her, and it's that damn accent, makes her believe what he's saying is honey when she knows it's bullshit. The cold blankness around them settles on her skin and seeps inside her. She grips tighter to Wesley's hand, but he's getting colder, too.
"I'm okay," she lies. "So how do we find her?"
Her being Fred, apparently the love of Wesley's life, and maybe it's a little late in the game to be wondering if helping a guy resurrect his dead girlfriend is really the best way to get him interested.
Wes says into the void, "I call on Illyria," and it looks he was right about word-magic having mucho power here, because when he speaks they're suddenly not alone. The darkness shifts and spins around them and Dawn realizes it's more than simply an absence of light. It's heavy and tangible, like black velvet, and when she gets used to the disorientation she can make out faces. Anubis, the jackal-head bigger and scarier than she remembers from mythology class. Something that might be a woman, squat and fat, but she's barely a shadow. There are lots like that.
"Little gods," Wes whispers at her ear, moving close in so they're huddled together in the centre of the storm. "Perhaps just a handful of worshippers, thousands of years ago. They were prayed to for fertility, good weather…"
Dawn cries out, grips him tighter. Glory fades back into darkness.
Wesley doesn't even ask what's wrong. She can make out his face, just barely. He's not looking at her. She's only sure he remembers she'd there because he's stroking her hand with his thumb, soft, slow motions.
"I can't see her," he says. Despair on Wesley is dark rather than pitiful; she doesn't doubt he cried his heart out when Fred died, but she bets he went out afterwards and killed something. Someone.
She doesn't want to look at the faces of the gods. She never met Illyria. If Wesley can't pick her out of a lineup, what good can she do? But closing her eyes makes her think of riding the ghost train when she was seven, eyes clamped shut and heart pounding, only this time if something touches her hair in the dark it'll be Glory, come to take her Key back.
She keeps her eyes open.
Wesley is still looking when she says, "Anya?"
Worshippers, Wesley said. She looked Anya's old name up in one of Giles's books once, when she was young enough to think the stuff about ripping out entrails was neat, like violence in cartoons. A patron saint of scorned women doesn't sound like the same thing as a goddess but maybe, maybe, maybe…
"Dawn!" Wesley shouts as she reaches out with her free hand. So he does know she's there.
Don't eat the seeds, don't look behind you, don't feed the animals, stay off the grass, don't touch the gods even if you played Game of Life and ate pizza with them, even if you wore a fugly dress to their wedding, even if you sometimes thought they were lame and weird, even if you cried by yourself in the back of a bus when they died.
She touches Anya's face. It's colder than freezing, cold like she imagines outer space is cold.
One touch and Anya's there, like it's a rerun of I Dream of Jeannie and she's appeared from the little bottle. Anya hated that show, said it showed irresponsible wish-granting.
"Dawn? Where are we? It's dark, and you're naked."
She hadn't noticed. Chokes "Anya," and flings her arms around her.
Of course, this means letting go of Wesley's hand.
There are rules that Wesley didn't tell her. She figures them out, listening to the gods whisper among themselves. It takes time to separate the voices, to learn the languages, but time is one thing she has.
Not everyone can get to this place. Just lost gods, or humans with a lot of black magic to throw around. Even then, they need a chaperone. Someone on the guest list.
The Key was worshipped, once.
"What happened to him?" she whispers.
Anya is still so cold, but Dawn can press against her tight enough that she doesn't notice any more. "Maybe he's fine," Anya says. "Maybe what's-her-name caught him as you let him go."
"What if she didn't?"
Anya says, "I don't know. I'm just lying to make you feel better."
Dawn strokes her back, drops her head to fit in the curve of Anya's shoulder.
Centuries pass.
Her skin cracks. The green light beneath is bright and warm, things she'd forgotten. Dawn laughs, dazzles herself spinning, but she remembers to keep hold of Anya. The times when she forgets, Anya pulls her back.
"Your name is Dawn," she says firmly. "You were an annoying teenager when I died. I liked you that way. Stop being a Key."
It takes so much effort to form words. "Name…"
Anya cups one hand to her face. "Your name is Dawn."
It's so bright. Blazing around them, like emerald stars.
Anya kisses her, and she's not cold.
Her name is Dawn.
And suddenly it's all very clear, like going through a tunnel and coming out the other side. She sees how to get Wesley back (Wesley, that's his name, she hadn't remembered it, or even that there'd been someone else with her, that there'd been a time when she wasn't here) and she sees how to get out of here (she knew all the time, didn't she? Magic and myth got them in, magic and myth will get them out.)
She turns into light, and when she pulls the pieces of herself back together she's a girl again, grasping Anya by one hand, Wesley by the other. Anya's been dead long enough that she never changes, just rubs at her eyes and says, "Oh, you came back. Good." Wesley's in worse shape, but she touches him everywhere, gives him back his skin and eyes and voice.
"Dawn," he says, voice nearly inaudible. She nearly tells him he doesn't have to speak, she can hear him just the same, but she's thinking: Dawn. I remember.
She covers his new skin with her hands and mouth, moving all over. There's a tightness in her skin as if her body is remembering that it is a body in foreverandever. Lifts her head and Anya's beside her, one hand on the small of her back, the other on Wesley's shoulder. Dawn kisses her, hand tangled in her hair. Moves so Anya's behind her, breasts warm against her back, pulls Wesley to her front. She wanted this from him once, when she was human. She made herself human-shaped and now it's back, that wanting, and he grinds into her as if it's been an eternity. It has, she remembers, and lets her head fall back onto Anya's shoulder. Laughing.
"I can get us home," she says. "All of us. Right back to the day me and Wes left." And she lets a little piece of herself go into the dark. Illyria is a bright blue speck against the black. Dawn teases away the aspect that was Fred. Sends her home. Call it a test run.
The gods are insignificant and silent.
She doesn't look back.
Title: By the Roots of My Hair Some God Got Hold of Me
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Anya/Wesley/Dawn
Rating: R
Notes: Backup for the Unconventional Couples Ficathon. Written for
enfaith who wanted R-rated angst, no fluff. Title's from Sylvia Plath.It's something about the voice, Dawn thinks. If she'd majored in psych instead of classics she might trace it back to Spike, this weakness of hers for men with British accents. She can't say no to them, whether it's Jack in college talking her into bed on the first date or an old friend of her sister's calling to say he needs her help. And even after he lays it all out, when she knows that he's planning on playing Orpheus and that Willow, Willow who brought back the dead and nearly ended the world, has told him it's insane, he says, "Dawn, please," and it sends sparks to the base of her spine. And next she's on a plane to LA, and then she's chanting from a book whose pages magically fill up as she reads from it, and then she feels the world open up beneath her. Them. And then she's here.
Dawn knows the rules. Don't eat pomegranate seeds. Don't look behind you unless you want to see Eurydice vanishing into the distance. Wes can repeat all he wants that this isn't hell, but Dawn thinks it's close enough to confuse the two.
This place has a different entrance policy, though. Hell dimensions are for demons. If you're religious - Dawn's not - hell is for the damned.
No demons here. No souls in eternal torment.
This is where gods go.
"It's all right," Wes tells her, and it's that damn accent, makes her believe what he's saying is honey when she knows it's bullshit. The cold blankness around them settles on her skin and seeps inside her. She grips tighter to Wesley's hand, but he's getting colder, too.
"I'm okay," she lies. "So how do we find her?"
Her being Fred, apparently the love of Wesley's life, and maybe it's a little late in the game to be wondering if helping a guy resurrect his dead girlfriend is really the best way to get him interested.
Wes says into the void, "I call on Illyria," and it looks he was right about word-magic having mucho power here, because when he speaks they're suddenly not alone. The darkness shifts and spins around them and Dawn realizes it's more than simply an absence of light. It's heavy and tangible, like black velvet, and when she gets used to the disorientation she can make out faces. Anubis, the jackal-head bigger and scarier than she remembers from mythology class. Something that might be a woman, squat and fat, but she's barely a shadow. There are lots like that.
"Little gods," Wes whispers at her ear, moving close in so they're huddled together in the centre of the storm. "Perhaps just a handful of worshippers, thousands of years ago. They were prayed to for fertility, good weather…"
Dawn cries out, grips him tighter. Glory fades back into darkness.
Wesley doesn't even ask what's wrong. She can make out his face, just barely. He's not looking at her. She's only sure he remembers she'd there because he's stroking her hand with his thumb, soft, slow motions.
"I can't see her," he says. Despair on Wesley is dark rather than pitiful; she doesn't doubt he cried his heart out when Fred died, but she bets he went out afterwards and killed something. Someone.
She doesn't want to look at the faces of the gods. She never met Illyria. If Wesley can't pick her out of a lineup, what good can she do? But closing her eyes makes her think of riding the ghost train when she was seven, eyes clamped shut and heart pounding, only this time if something touches her hair in the dark it'll be Glory, come to take her Key back.
She keeps her eyes open.
Wesley is still looking when she says, "Anya?"
Worshippers, Wesley said. She looked Anya's old name up in one of Giles's books once, when she was young enough to think the stuff about ripping out entrails was neat, like violence in cartoons. A patron saint of scorned women doesn't sound like the same thing as a goddess but maybe, maybe, maybe…
"Dawn!" Wesley shouts as she reaches out with her free hand. So he does know she's there.
Don't eat the seeds, don't look behind you, don't feed the animals, stay off the grass, don't touch the gods even if you played Game of Life and ate pizza with them, even if you wore a fugly dress to their wedding, even if you sometimes thought they were lame and weird, even if you cried by yourself in the back of a bus when they died.
She touches Anya's face. It's colder than freezing, cold like she imagines outer space is cold.
One touch and Anya's there, like it's a rerun of I Dream of Jeannie and she's appeared from the little bottle. Anya hated that show, said it showed irresponsible wish-granting.
"Dawn? Where are we? It's dark, and you're naked."
She hadn't noticed. Chokes "Anya," and flings her arms around her.
Of course, this means letting go of Wesley's hand.
There are rules that Wesley didn't tell her. She figures them out, listening to the gods whisper among themselves. It takes time to separate the voices, to learn the languages, but time is one thing she has.
Not everyone can get to this place. Just lost gods, or humans with a lot of black magic to throw around. Even then, they need a chaperone. Someone on the guest list.
The Key was worshipped, once.
"What happened to him?" she whispers.
Anya is still so cold, but Dawn can press against her tight enough that she doesn't notice any more. "Maybe he's fine," Anya says. "Maybe what's-her-name caught him as you let him go."
"What if she didn't?"
Anya says, "I don't know. I'm just lying to make you feel better."
Dawn strokes her back, drops her head to fit in the curve of Anya's shoulder.
Centuries pass.
Her skin cracks. The green light beneath is bright and warm, things she'd forgotten. Dawn laughs, dazzles herself spinning, but she remembers to keep hold of Anya. The times when she forgets, Anya pulls her back.
"Your name is Dawn," she says firmly. "You were an annoying teenager when I died. I liked you that way. Stop being a Key."
It takes so much effort to form words. "Name…"
Anya cups one hand to her face. "Your name is Dawn."
It's so bright. Blazing around them, like emerald stars.
Anya kisses her, and she's not cold.
Her name is Dawn.
And suddenly it's all very clear, like going through a tunnel and coming out the other side. She sees how to get Wesley back (Wesley, that's his name, she hadn't remembered it, or even that there'd been someone else with her, that there'd been a time when she wasn't here) and she sees how to get out of here (she knew all the time, didn't she? Magic and myth got them in, magic and myth will get them out.)
She turns into light, and when she pulls the pieces of herself back together she's a girl again, grasping Anya by one hand, Wesley by the other. Anya's been dead long enough that she never changes, just rubs at her eyes and says, "Oh, you came back. Good." Wesley's in worse shape, but she touches him everywhere, gives him back his skin and eyes and voice.
"Dawn," he says, voice nearly inaudible. She nearly tells him he doesn't have to speak, she can hear him just the same, but she's thinking: Dawn. I remember.
She covers his new skin with her hands and mouth, moving all over. There's a tightness in her skin as if her body is remembering that it is a body in foreverandever. Lifts her head and Anya's beside her, one hand on the small of her back, the other on Wesley's shoulder. Dawn kisses her, hand tangled in her hair. Moves so Anya's behind her, breasts warm against her back, pulls Wesley to her front. She wanted this from him once, when she was human. She made herself human-shaped and now it's back, that wanting, and he grinds into her as if it's been an eternity. It has, she remembers, and lets her head fall back onto Anya's shoulder. Laughing.
"I can get us home," she says. "All of us. Right back to the day me and Wes left." And she lets a little piece of herself go into the dark. Illyria is a bright blue speck against the black. Dawn teases away the aspect that was Fred. Sends her home. Call it a test run.
The gods are insignificant and silent.
She doesn't look back.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2004-04-05 04:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Posted by(no subject)
Posted by(no subject)
Posted by(no subject)
Posted byno subject
on 2004-04-05 05:44 pm (UTC)*guh*
wedawnya all the way, yo!
*cough* i'm ok now.
wheee! i have to go back and re-read now. *huggles you* thanks so,so so much for this!
(no subject)
Posted by(no subject)
Posted by(no subject)
Posted byno subject
on 2004-04-05 11:49 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2004-04-06 12:18 am (UTC)no subject
on 2004-04-09 09:55 pm (UTC)Despair on Wesley is dark rather than pitiful; she doesn't doubt he cried his heart out when Fred died, but she bets he went out afterwards and killed something. Someone.
So true.
no subject
on 2004-05-17 04:50 am (UTC)(no subject)
Posted byno subject
on 2004-05-17 07:01 am (UTC)