Banner by kathyh
Banner by Chapter 5: Dance into the Light.
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“No!” Buffy covered her mouth in horror and ran towards Spike.

Illyria marched into the circle and waved a hand over Liam's prostrate body. The air around Buffy and Spike shimmered as she wrapped them within the confines of a force field. Outside its walls, time froze.

“Are you ready?” Spike handed Buffy Liam's sword.

She gazed at the blade, doubt flashing across her face.

“You can do this, Slayer.”

Buffy glanced at the smouldering fire. “The fire can’t go out.”

“That’s right, love, it can’t.”

Spike ripped Ambrogio’s sword from his hand and nodded to Illyria. Time wound back to the point where the two kings faced one another. Spike snatched the oak crown from the Immortal’s head, and tossed it to Buffy. He scooped the fallen holly crown with the tip of his blade and stood waiting in the center of the ring. “It won’t. If you dance - with me.”

“I thought we came to fight.” Buffy moved towards him, her sword raised in salute, the weapon inches from her face, the hilt pointing at the ground, the tip towards the sky.

“Dancing. Fighting.” Spike returned her salute. “It’s who we are.”

They took their places; the other dancers pointed their staffs at them, ringing them in as they resumed their silent dance, sweeping Liam and Ambrogio into its intricate pattern.

As they fought, Buffy and Spike moved in harmony to the silent rhythm, the langourous cadence of the dance directing them in graceful sweeps, mirroring one another in the midst of the whirling maelstrom of the other dancers. They danced closer, changing pace, following the beat of Buffy’s blood pulsing through her veins, a beat as deep as the ocean, as powerful and unstoppable as the tide, the heat from her body wafting her familiar scent, filling the night air with winter jasmine. They fended off the other dancers with outstretched hands; blades swooping, carving through the darkness, long arcs slicing the moonlight as they twirled; shaping the story with their weapons, etching archaic patterns in slivers of silver in the sky. Slow stride matched slow stride, block and slash, cross and thrust, each stopping on its mark, perfectly controlled.

A musician took up the bodhrán and sounded an accompanying pattern, the Uilleann piper joining him, taking his lead from the energy generated by the dueling couple. The fire blazed into life, lighting the sky with a rosy glow, driving back the dark.

“I could dance like this all night,” Buffy shouted.

“That’s what we’ll do then,” replied Spike. “We’ll dance the night away.”

He shifted his weight to the balls of the feet and lifted the sword hilt, his elbow curved defensively outwards. Holding the blade parallel to the ground and crossing his left foot behind his right, he turned, pivoting on heel and toe; the upswept blade scythed down and round in a sweeping arc, following the course his body took as he spun.

The other dancers threw down their staffs and watched as the battle of the Holly King and Oak King moved towards its climax.

Buffy blocked the thrust, deflecting Spike's sword with her own, forcing him back against the standing stone. Their swords clashed, blade edge to blade edge, their bodies close together, upstretched arms touching. She lifted her face to his and kissed him, drawing him closer still.

“Welcome back Summers,” said Spike huskily, breaking the kiss. “Now do it.”

"I have slain my brother! Rekindled is The Fire's spark,” cried Buffy, striking the felling blow. "The Oak is King of the Forest once again!"

"The Winter King is vanquished. All hail the Summer." The Summer Queen stepped forward and took Liam’s arm. “Come, my Lord Summer. Lead us to the feast.”

Spike dropped to his knees in the shadow of the stones, as the new day's light glowed on the horizon. Buffy held her sword high, saluting the sun in triumph, the first rays catching her hair, blazing in a golden halo around her head.

As he watched her greet the sunrise, The Immortal spoke briefly to the leader of the Zampognari, handed him a heavy purse and directed the troupe into the portal.

“You do not return with them?” asked Illyria.

“Rome holds no more delights for me. Just as this world no longer does for you.” Ambrogio stared into the icy depths of her eyes. “But there is a place for us,” he said enigmatically, stepping towards Buffy.

“My work here is done,” he said, kissing her lightly on the cheek. “Take care, cara mia.”

From the shadow of the dolmen, Spike growled a warning. "She's not your cara anything."

“A truce," said The Immortal handing him a twig of mistletoe. "One favoured by the Immortals to whom I must return." He turned to Illyria. “Old One, you would be honoured among us should you chose to accompany me there.”

She nodded her assent, taking her place by his side beneath the portal.

“And Angel?” Buffy asked, as she watched Liam carousing with his friends.

“He lives.” Ambrogio stretched out an arm into the portal’s depths and grasped a delicate female hand. “Though not for long in this time.” He smiled at the woman who emerged from the dark. “There, beloved, you will find one worthy of your ministrations. Go now, we shall meet again ‘ere long.”

“Darla,” Spike chuckled quietly to himself and watched her follow Liam and his friends celebrating in the light of the Yule fire. “The wheel turns full circle.” He pocketed the sprig of mistletoe and stepped into the portal. “You comin’?” he called to Buffy.”

“Where to?” she asked, following him.

“Good point.” Spike murmured. “Hope this thing’s set to autopilot.”
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Acknowledgements

Inspiration for The Dark Dance – from Terry Pratchett’s Wintersmith.

Words used in the ritual adapted from from the Wiccan Pagan Times and poetry found on Aine Minogue